Inside ‘honesty syndrome’

I suffer from something I like to call “honesty syndrome.”

One of the traits of the disorder is that I force the illusion of humility. When I do something that I perceive to be good or noble, I then feel the immediate need to undercut whatever positive impacts there might be, regardless of whether those impacts are intentional or merely consequential. However, honesty syndrome only allows me to forestall bragging, rather than admitting that I am actually a narcissistic piece of shit.

To my discredit, I hide behind my work, which is usually garbage. I openly illustrate my gross incompetence to the campus every week; presenting ideas which are boring, terrible, and/or unfunny. I know I’m stating the obvious, but please indulge my self-deprecating rant for a little bit longer. It won’t be worth it, and you can rest assured that this article is only going to get worse.

I’ve been writing for four years, and I still have no clue what I’m doing. I should have learned something by now, but I’m far too dense to get the point. Not only am I stupid; I’m powerfully stupid. 

I’m obligated to point out that there are far better writers on this campus, but for some reason they won’t climb out from the woodwork and be published. So I guess I can count, “recruiting readable-columnists,” among my laundry list of failures. Hold your applause; I assure you that this is still a continuing tragedy.

In the absence of more talented, skilled and creative people, you, dear reader; you are rewarded with me. They say “fake it till you make it,” and I’m just one pissant in a long line of lackluster imposters.

Every week I have this grand delusion that I, for once in my career, won’t suck at my job. I waste countless hours thinking about how not to fail, only to demonstrate exactly what failure looks like. The expression is, “find what you’re good at, and stick with it,” a phrase which gives me the strength to make failure a habit, week-after-week. I wish I could laugh this all off as a public service; “Here’s what NOT to do.”

But who am I trying to fool? No one.

On my desk is a gift from my dear friend, Hannah Clark. It’s a stress-cube with the words “Spike Jordan: Bearer of Necessary Truths,” printed on the side. I keep it there to remind myself; even if I’m the worst writer in the history of the English language, at least I can still speak truthfully.

I’m able to admit what I see is wrong with myself and the world around me. I’m convinced my honesty probably pisses some people off. They don’t say anything though, a silence which I internalize as the public accepting my idiocy, rather than taking exception to it.

But I still hope that there is someone who’s more confident and competent; some bright individual who will waltz into the newsroom and steal the chair right out from under me. While I fall on my ass often,  it’s such a continuing disappointment to turn around and find that my seat remains empty.

So I guess this is my point: I believe you can write better than me, and you should.

Now you know, what’s stopping you?

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