Just say, "Fuck it."

Have you ever held something in your hand that seemed very important, and suddenly felt that the best thing to do at that moment was to destroy it?

Last September or so, I received a thick off-white envelope stuffed with a survey on my career post-graduation. Dutifully filling out the form, I lamented that I'd had several good leads on journalism work but remained unemployed. Then I put it in the mail. At the University of Georgia, someone would tabulate my results and help direct some future journalism school graduate towards a region where work can be found.

My good deed was done for, like, my whole life. Or so I thought.

Yesterday an off-white envelope, again stuffed with the same survey of my post-graduate career, came for me in the mail. There was also a note explaining that my response to the first survey hadn't been received, and if at all possible, I should fill out the questionnaire and submit it to the University of Georgia by post the very next day.

For the last few months, incompetence has hung in the air around me. I had what seemed like a solid job offer from the Idaho State Journal covering the state legislature, only to hear back from my would-be editor that there was no funding available for my position. I very nearly wasn't paid for a feature article I wrote for Business Insider because an invoice for my work was lost in the shuffle and never made it to the payroll office.

You would think that someone else's incompetence would feel like getting a flat tire, and the only appropriate response would be to replace the flat and go on your merry way. Instead it feels like being unfulfilled. Everything is going swimmingly until some little post-related accident or miscommunication chips away at the wholesomeness of whatever it is you're going.

The survey felt almost totemic in my hand: I couldn't give up on the University of Georgia now. My information was desperately needed to help ensure other journalism graduates received training that would serve them in the field, etc.! And that's when the feeling hit me. The right thing to do was to just say, "Fuck it."

To say I tore up that survey would be an understatement. These three stapled sheets of paper were all that stood between me and a clear conscience: Forensic scientists could spend years putting that document back together.

As I've gotten older I've gotten better at discriminating between high priority tasks like paying off my student loans, and low priority tasks like filling out questionnaires. Sometimes, though, stress has caused the line between those things to blur. When I received that survey yesterday I felt like I had a responsibility to follow through. I didn't.