Let's celebrate

Construct monuments. Make them our faces. Cut us in granite at the moment the penny dropped. And underneath, carve: 'WE ARE THE PRESIDENTS OF THE UNITED FUCK UPS OF EVERYTHING.'

Commission artisans to memorialise our tiny accidents in chrome and alabaster, lest we forget. 'This is where she neglected to hold her daughter's hand at the top of the steps', and later 'This is where he made his life into a lie.'

Close the roads. Make (June 17th) a day of remembrance, then let it slip by unmarked as a lover's birthday.
Let's have a family party where fuck ups are piñatas but we don't smash them, we carry them, shoulder high birds of paradise.

Choose an anthem, let the first line be: Into a bench, hack: On your bedroom wall, hang: In school assembly, teach your kids to chant: Put in a antique locket woven from your grandma's hair: Tattoo your forehead in jaunty comic sans:

Document all this, send for the museum service, ask for tips in statue-maintenance. Organise a pilgrimage of disasters and when the message spreads and thousands gather, unashamed
to touch the stone hems of our great mistakes, we'll know the human race has finally accepted that we are messy, structurally inept and states of grace are dreams that hold us static.

In thirty foot bronze letters, hung over the crowd we'll hang our welcome message 'Thanks to those of you who taught us most by fucking up the worst.'

And when the knots come loose, and the letters like guillotines, putt the statues' heads into the crowd, we'll applaud it. Because the carnage kind of proves our point.