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My favorite class this semester was “Ruptured Attachments: Betrayals and Forgiveness in Relationships.” It was incredibly informative, and I loved it all the way up until the very end, when we got assigned our group project. I’ve already ranted about how the project got screwed up, but I came to find out that it was done more out of ignorance than anything else.
I did not talk about social loafing, though. We had a full-fledged loafer. He did enough smooth talking to make it sound like he was going to do work, but never did. He wrote less than a paragraph of the entire 12 page paper, found no resources, and was supposed to do the first half of the final presentation but never showed up.
I want to wring his neck. Our project was on how betrayal effects group cohesion, and we’ve learned numerous times in class that rumination and revenge actually make a person feel crappier than before. The irony does not escape me.
I’ve literally done everything I can to influence the teacher into giving him a failing grade. If I ever see him again, I’d probably punch him square in the face. It’s not for deterrent effects, its not to remove him from my social group, and I probably won’t see him ever again now that I’m graduating. Its not for any logical purpose. It’s because I’m exhausted, have repeatedly been treated like crap, and want to make him suffer. The end.
My room mate’s mother and father are in our apartment while she is in the hospital. They came in town last night and have spent more time here than there with her. They’ve been back here for the past three hours, drinking boxed wine and invading my privacy without shame.
Her mother doesn’t understand why it is not okay to come into Max and my room without asking our permission. Yes there is a washer and dryer in here, but it is our private room. You don’t set up camp without asking us, or without us even being home. And then you don’t lie about it to my face.
Furthermore, it is a pretty dumb idea to try and lecture me. She could ask anyone who knows me, and they would tell her that I am the queen of guilt. I know all the tricks of the trade, and have turned my heart as cold as ice to make it immune.
As a side note: Just because you’re saying “I’m sorry but…” in between every accusatory phrase does not mean you’ve apologized. And if you think you’re trying to be a mother figure and have a fight with me, my mother and I have more Socratic Arguments than we do fights.