My Bad.

I blame myself and you should too . . . blame me, that is.*

This was my fault

After several months of careful consideration, I've come to the conclusion that everything is, in fact, my fault. I'm sure this discovery comes as no surprise (and perhaps somewhat of a relief) to the legions of blame-shifters and buck-passers everywhere who for years have been stridently asserting that nothing is their fault, ever.

From minor individual goofs, to major catastrophes worldwide, I am now stepping up with pride to accept full responsibility for everything that goes awry on our planet. Soon the shrill battle cry of accountability-shirkers everywhere will no longer be, "It's not my fault," but rather, "It's Steve's fault."

Misjudged a curb and twisted your ankle? My fault. I should have embarked on a global letter-writing campaign years ago demanding that city leaders mandate all curbs be set to a uniform height, constantly maintained, marked with reflective paint, and manned by guards reminding you to watch your step. I neglected to do that, and I'm very sorry. It wasn't because you weren't paying attention to your surroundings that you're hobbling around in a walking cast, it's because I was slacking off on my duties.

Probably a bad idea

Global economic meltdown? Yeah. That's my fault too. I was probably misguidedly trying to save my money for inevitable rocky economic times rather than being a good consumer and rushing out to buy every shiny new piece of whatever in a desperate and futile attempt to fill that terrible empty hole in my soul with material possessions. Or is it the other way around? No matter. Regardless the cause, it's my fault. And I'm fine with that. That's just how I roll.

I'm even going to take the fall for the weather.

Considering it's the the first week of November, the mid-morning weather was remarkably pleasant today for this part of the world. Blue sky, sun, mild temperatures. While at work I overheard a young couple saying that they were going to take advantage of how nice it was and drive to the park to enjoy a picnic. I remember thinking, "Gosh, that does sound enjoyable. I wish I was going to do that."

In less than an hour the wind picked up and the sky darkened with rolling clouds. The temperature fell rapidly. Snow began to fall, and within moments it was like that scene in the movie "Legend" where Lily touches the Unicorn and as a consequence plunges the world into darkness and winter.

I'm sorry I ruined your picnic

It wasn't my intent to wish a blizzard on those hapless picnickers, and I certainly don't remember touching a Unicorn, but the blame is mine regardless. It was my fault they didn't check the forecast, which predicted snow in the afternoon. I should have warned them. The guilt gnaws at me.

I swim in blame. I wrap responsibility around myself like a cloak of furry anguish. I am the sin-eater, the scapegoat, the whipping boy. Lost jobs, lost loves, forgotten responsibilities, dead car batteries and slip-and-fall accidents. I willingly bear the brunt of every nuance of misadventure.

Perhaps things could have been different if my parents had hugged me more often or if my grandfather hadn't had such an apparent genetic affinity toward bourbon, but as it is I am the willing resting place for the moving finger of fault.

Act now though, dodgers of personal accountability, as my blame chambers are filling up quickly. Throw it all onto me before it's too late and I turn into a virtual trampoline of accusation, bouncing responsibility like a deranged parrot onto shoulders more deserving than my own.

(*At the urging of my attorney it is incumbent upon me to note that he indicates there are subtle differences that could be argued in a court of law between "Blame" and "Liability" and any charges brought against the so-called defendant [hereby known as "Steve"] and the plaintiff [hereby known as "Whoever"] would be immediately dismissed amidst loud jeers of derision.)