βI am sorry that I wasnβt present enough.
I canβt always control my bowel movement. Especially after ingesting apple.
But I will try and do better. And I will be more diligent with my check-ins and whereabouts when the days are not regular. Iβm so sorry for eating my uncle.β
Yes, you read that right. Sorry for eating my uncle. Thank you, spellcheck, for serving up the single greatest (and worst) apology Iβve ever accidentally written.
And no, before anyone calls the authorities, my uncle is alive and well. What I meant to type was something far less horrifying β but thatβs the danger of leaning too hard on autocorrect. A small slip, and suddenly youβve confessed to cannibalism instead of poor digestion.
The mistake stuck with me, though. Because thereβs something about apologies that often do feel this absurd. Youβre trying to express something vulnerable β βI wasnβt present enough,β βIβll try harder,β βIβm sorry I hurt youβ β and then it lands wrong. Either because your words miss the mark, or the person hearing them twists them into something else. What you meant to be tender ends up sounding tragic, or ridiculous, or both.
But maybe thatβs the point. Apologies arenβt supposed to be perfect. Theyβre supposed to be human. Messy. Sometimes embarrassing. They remind us that even when we mean well, our words can wobble out sideways.
So no, I didnβt eat my uncle. But I did learn something from the typo: itβs better to risk sounding ridiculous than to stay silent. Better to stumble through βIβm sorryβ than to never say it at all.
And if a cannibal confession slips in now and then? Well, at least it makes the story unforgettable.
Footnote:
If anyoneβs looking for a band name, Cannibal Confession is now taken. Genre: post-post hardcore. The kind of group that screams apologies into a mic while the drummer breaks three sticks per song and the bassist looks like he hasnβt eaten an apple since β09.
Merch idea: T-shirts that just say βSorry Uncleβ in gothic font.
