I am not proud of the pleasure that I am taking at someone else's pain today. I hope that by writing this, maybe I can stop taking so much pleasure. Don't bet on it, though. But I am trying. I don't think that there is any good to be had from growing your pain in a special place.
I don't see the logic in those people who remember every slight that has ever happened to them, every snub, every injustice. I was married to an idiot who came from a long line of them. His father could recite every snub, every hurt, every person who ever did him harm. His Father has a mistress to whom he gave his son's comic books. Yes, this happened about 1956. But in 2000, he was still harping on it, still nursing that grudge over a man that had died in 1969. Let.it.go.
He also complained about a nephew that would come over and scope out the gifts from some relative. In 1980, mind you. Of course, he was nice to his face, which he saw twice a year, but the rest of the time, not so much. Don't get me started on the niece who is a practicing hypochondriac. Apparently she got the trait from her Mother and has since passed it on. Nothing says happy Holidays like spending them with the people you hear bad mouthed for 363 days of the year.
Ask me if I miss that slice of crazy from my life, go ahead.
But before I took my little trip down thank-God-I never-have-to eat-another-bad-meal-land, I was thinking about the pleasure I am clearly taking that I shouldn't be. I'll ask my Priest for advice this Saturday and hope I can stop. Hope you are having a great week, keep calling your elected officials about Operation Fast and Furious and those who are dead thanks to B.O. You can thank me later.
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