A couple of weeks ago a blogger named me his Dick of the Week.
Today, I feel like the Dick of the Century.
A couple of months ago I blogged about defriending a friend on Facebook. I gave my myriad reasons and, without using the person’s name in the post, explained this and that, this and that. To be honest, I thought little of the post at the time. The friend and I had exchanged some barbs through the years via Facebook, and—again, at the time—I thought what I was writing here sort of fit into that realm.
I am the Dick of the Century.
First off, I just re-read the post (now deleted), and I was wrong. I went waaaaaay too far, left zero wiggle room from lightheartedness. Just a dickish, dickish post with no redeeming value. Furthermore, shortly after I wrote it my wife literally said to me, “You should take that down.” I ignored her, without even re-reading my words. Had I, I would have followed her advice.
To say I am sorry is a huge understatement. I am disgusted with myself, and heartbroken for the person I insulted. A few minutes ago I finished teaching my morning journalism class at Manhattanville College. One of the key components of the course is this idea of grasping the power of words; of measuing each sentence, and being certain what you write is the idea you want expressed.
Here, I failed miserably.
With respect to the person I offended, I won’t use names. But I apologize profusely (times 1000,000), and fear I irreconcilably damaged some relationships.
I need to grow up.
PS: This does not warrant ANY “I appreciate you taking responsibility …” comments. I was so wrong here, there is no right.