Everything I touch seems destined to turn into something mean and farcical.

The line expresses a bleak, self-accusing sense that one’s efforts—artistic, moral, or practical—are fated to collapse into pettiness (“mean”) and absurdity (“farcical”). It captures a distinctly Ibsenite mood: the fear that ideals curdle when tested by social reality, and that the self’s intentions are compromised by vanity, hypocrisy, or circumstance. Read dramatically, it can function as a moment of crisis in which a character recognizes a pattern of unintended consequences and the comic-tragic gap between aspiration and outcome. The phrasing also suggests determinism (“destined”), implying not just bad luck but an inescapable flaw in the speaker’s agency or in the world’s moral structure.