My responsibilities for today: Dishes, vacuuming, and tidying the living room.
I've done almost all the dishes (not enough to run it yet), and I'm doing pre-vacuuming tidying by picking up the cat-toy socks that never get played with anymore, untying them, and converting them to useful rags, courtesy of the happy scissors.
Must reach a saturation point on scissors, evidently -- they keep going missing. Therefore, a couple dollar-store packages of kid-scissors will be located.
Already folded the blankets that make the couch liveable.
There's the idea that when someone does something terrible to you, that you are obligated, if you ever want to get anywhere in your life, to forgive them and move on.
But when you don't forgive them, can't forgive them...
It's bad enough that they've done something that's made you miserable and furious. It's bad enough that you had to suffer through the pain it all entailed, and live with it, while they got off relatively easily.
But on top of that, you know, somewhere deep down, that everyone around you, everyone who hasn't gone through the same bullshit, is wondering why you can't just forgive them and move on with your life. Maybe if you loved yourself more, you would be able to find the strength within yourself to forgive the rat bastard? It's what's expected. It's what's done. It's what other people have done in the same circumstances. It's vile and unthinkable, is what it is, and they're expecting you to forgive this ratassed monkeyfucker for existing, and coming in contact with your life? I think not!
Yet the expectation is there. Forgive them, and move on. You won't be whole until/unless you do. And then there's the guilt. Is there something wrong with me, that I can't forgive this person, even though they are an asshole loser? The guilt becomes more damaging than the anger.
Sometimes an unfelt forgiveness is extracted. They kneel at your feet, begging forgiveness; you are pressured into saying, "I forgive you," just so they'll leave you alone. But you don't. You haven't. You can't. It's impossible.
If you don't forgive them, don't forgive them. It may take a lifetime to feel like you might forgive them. But until you do actually feel no rage, no anger, no resentment, no deep-lasting hurt... you haven't forgiven them, and to say you have, or feel you should, would be a dangerous lie, an evil self-deception.
*Now* I go grocery shopping. Yay, me!
Dishes are mostly in dishwasher. Entire house is vacuumed. Living room is way tidy.
Those were all my chores for the day.
What *do* you get when you put together one five-pound roll of hamburger that needs to be used before it goes bad, one hungry Lunatic, and a nice day off?
A huge pan of meatloaf, that's what.
In case this actually turns out all right, here are the components:
5 lbs ground beef (rather too much fat on the fat/meat ratio, but hey)
3 packets onion soup/dip mix
1 pound or so of mixed frozen veggies
2 handfuls rolled oats
These were all mixed together, and now it's doing happy things in the oven at 350° F; it should be ready in half an hour. Mmmm. ...Or maybe somewhat longer, thanks to it taking up a whole cake pan...
My good old high school best friend That Idiot Shawn (now known as Fuzzy) broke my heart once, or twice, or a dozen times. I stuttered for years as a direct result of events that were deliberately caused by him and deliberately shared with me by him.
Finally, though, I have forgiven him.
But not before some very tasty revenge.
It so happened that he was getting married, and I was invited to the wedding. I attended, wearing my most formal outfit (the fact that it was all black was incidental). As his bride walked down the aisle and past me, I tossed off a covert gesture behind the pew.
His little brother noticed, and giggled, and told me that Mrs. Fuzzy had obviously seen it, because of the glare she'd given me. The memory kept me warm for several years.
Fuzzy and I are chatting online, and the topic of embarrassing/worst sex stories in the forum he frequents comes up. He invites me to go, take a look, and contribute. I do so. I share my worst sex story, which happens to feature him and his wife, and ends with my lovely gesture of "Fuck You!" at her, just before she took her vows.
Fuzzy was dumbfounded. I have never heard him quite so incoherent before. It was priceless.
Ahh, sweet revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge.