I might be wrong. About everything. Or anything.
I might be wrong about god, foreign policy, and Dave Barry. I might be wrong about me.
I’ve been wrong before. It stinks. I hate it. Not so much because it damages my ego, though there’s some of that. I hate being wrong because it usually means I’m not doing everything I can to be as happy as I can be. It sometimes means those around me aren’t as happy as they can be, either.
And if I’m wrong, please do me a favor. Tell me. Nicely, please, but tell me.
When you tell me, I kindly ask that you focus on how and why I am wrong. Give me reasons explaining why I am wrong. Feelings aren’t very convincing in most cases. But logic, evidence, and rational thought are.
I’m willing to change, by the way. To borrow a line from my favorite author, I don’t want to be wrong for a moment longer than I have to be.
I want to be right. Do you?