Shambolic.

chaotic, disorganized, or mismanaged.

True story: When I was in my early twenties, I spoke at universities around the Country. My niche was environmentalism and storytelling. I was young, easily excitable, and had worked out a one-hour speech about “Following your passion.” 

I delivered this speech to dozens of universities. I knew it backwards and forwards. My speaking agent was happy, and gigs were coming in. But then I got bored. The University of Wisconsin-Oshkosh, booked me, and two weeks before the speech, I decided to throw the whole thing out and start from scratch. I wanted to deliver something more nuanced, elegant, and mature. 

I worked out a few new stories and jotted them down in my notebook. I practiced in front of the mirror, then got on a plane to Oshkosh, the warm winds of overconfidence blowing me across the Country. 

The speech was at 5 p.m. I had been booked for 1 hour with a 15-minute question period afterward. That day I worked out, meditated, filled my gratitude journal, and strolled into campus, arriving well before the speech. 

I waited in the green room as students filed in. The head of the student environmental group that booked me walked on stage. They offered a glowing introduction, and fervently shook my hand as I took the mic. 

I looked down at my maze of shambolic notes, and all at once, it occurred to me that I was fucked. 

The speech went something like this: I would start a story, forget the ending, then launch into a new story. Halfway through the new story, I’d remember a detail from the first story, pause, then start from the top. It was watching a shitty parody of Memento. 

At one point, I vaguely remember going on a tangent about how my parents were divorced. How that had anything to do with my message of environmentalism shall remain a mystery.

I stopped. I had finished all of my stories. I had no more material. I looked at my watch, and I had been speaking for 23 minutes. 

“Any questions?” I asked, attempting to hide my terror behind a winning California smile.

No one raised their hand. Someone coughed.

As I walked off stage, I avoided eye contact with the head of the student group. I walked straight to a bar in downtown Oshkosh and ordered a Jack on the rocks.

Later that night, I stumbled down the sidewalk, my hair also shambolic by this point. It was a cold, clear night, and I was alone.

A lifted pickup truck drove by, and as they did, someone rolled down the window and threw a half-eaten burrito at my face. 

Now I prepare my speeches. 

This is a Friday newsletter. Each week I pick a new word I’m trying to learn, then use it in a short story. Suggest a word in the comments. See ya next week wordos!