I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel — Maya Angelou
One of the many truths for me is I never forget how a person or a group of people made me feel about myself.
Obviously, those who have supported me, given me their friendship and accept me unconditionally, will always have a place in my life and my heart. Like-minded folks can be easy to find if you follow your instincts and do your own thing.
To those who have shamed me for not having enough lady-like manners, to those who didn’t know how to interact with me and decided to bully me, to those who regarded me as not being pretty enough or good enough to be seen publicly with them, to those who have thought I would be the docile one in the relationship, to those who thought I was good enough to fuck but not good enough to enter into a relationship with — FUCK YOU.
I still remember how all you fuckers made me feel, made me doubt my self-worth as a human being trying to fit in with society. I don’t care if you’ve become pillars of society or something else, you’re still dog shit in my books. And I have lots of pages in those books, people. Lots of pages.
Now, someone might suggest I should try forgiving them or give them another chance to show that they’re good people. My response: I’d rather give them a one-way ticket to their own personal hell.
In the department of romantic relationships (or maybe any kind of relationship, for that matter), why the hell should I figuratively set myself on fire just to make someone else happy? No one has ever done that for me, so why should I do it for them? Besides, that’s not how relationships are supposed to work anyway.
I don’t even know why I’m writing about this. It was probably something I needed to get off my chest. Well, it’s off my chest, for now.
Aside from that mini-rant, I am getting closer to sending my manuscript off to my editor. After next weekend, she will receive it. I have a couple of things on the go with regards to the book. Just lining up the ducks in a row.
I’m also finding myself a little restless. I know, how is that even possible? I have a ton of books I’d like to start reading but I find myself reading ‘other stuff.’ Not elaborating what I’m reading at the moment. I really should decide on a book and start reading. But then there are movies on Netflix I want to watch. Again, I don’t know where to start. I’m gonna have to go with whatever mood I’m in at that moment.
So, I have these options ready to be plucked and what do I do? Go back to refreshing the Spanish I’ve already learned and try to move a little further along with that. And if that didn’t keep me busy, I decide to learn Romanian. I know some French, I know some Spanish… why not throw in Romanian while I’m at it. I might be at my language learning capacity for now.
Don’t ask me why I want to learn Romanian. I haven’t figured out the true purpose of this desire yet. Although it could be for a future writing project that hasn’t yet fully revealed itself to me. There’s a tiny shiny nugget somewhere in my head.
I can feel it glowing.