My Meatballs Tell Me I'm An Epic Failure

I don't know why I thought I could take on the Legendary Grandma Wehner recipe for meatballs. I obviously over-estimated my domestic skills at the age of twenty. Now with the atrocity of my failure, it is utterly clear that I am a struggling college kid who knows what she wants to be, but has absolutely no clue how to become it. As I look into my pot of freakish meat-mush,I see myself. And I suck. At least at cooking--though it is hard not to let that obscure mix of random ingredients (that I added in a panic after terribly miss-reading the cookbook) go deeper into my introspection and attribute my failure to every aspect of my life. I just wasted several pounds of ingredients (for which I rode my bike to purchase) and shamed my Grandmother and all my female ancestors of whose domesticness I will never live up to. I am left with two less hours in my valuable evening, and no dinner for the next three days--but this goes much further than starvation. I will never get a husband at this rate...I will probably die off and leave the rest of humanity to the more intelligent alpha females who are clever enough to follow recipes and attract a mate.