My former friend had a publishing coup that brought him great fulfillment and delight this summer. I saw it on Facebook. One old friend had congratulated him and he had remarked that he had KNOWN that she would be as happy as he was for him.
Everything is about him.
Were he not blinded by narcissistic, exhibitionist ego, he would have known the joy I felt for him, despite our negative status, when I read the column that had been published. But I'm sure it never crossed his mind enough to be rejected. It just didn't cross his mind. I am dead to him now.
But I do not hate, I hurt. And I felt such joy at reading that article and was so happy for him and he'll neither know nor care.
If I could hate the people who have stomped on my neck, I would not have depression today.
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