Rotten Apples

We all have our talents.

One thing I have always been good at is being a doormat. Not the best thing to be but someone’s gotta do it, right? I can stand up and fight for a cause, but only if it’s not just MY cause. If I come across a rude cashier, I slump off grumbling and whine about it later. If they’re rude to the next people in line, though, watch out!

I have repeatedly gotten myself in trouble with the naive belief that everyone everywhere has some good in them, and it’s possible to find it and nurture it to help that lost soul become a stronger, better person. I was willing to drop everything to help someone, even if they had already – repeatedly – engaged in a jig on my head/heart/whatever tender flesh may have been available. I thought everyone could be rehabilitated. Now, though, I am not so sure.

It’s sad to meet someone who is all messed up because they are unbalanced, maybe they had a traumatic childhood (who didn’t to some extent), maybe they just didn’t get enough hugs, maybe they need their dosage tweaked, whatever. Maybe they’re just plain mean, ugly and dumb. Regardless they deserve a little pity, don’t they? I readily admit to being a bit of a nutter, but not to the extent I could use it convincingly as a defense. I know right from wrong, and while at times I may feel the urge to cross that line I still have that mechanism that makes the average person stop short of burying the screwdriver in the eye of the condescending prick at the hardware store who thinks it might be a good idea to wait for your husband before you make a decision because after all, who is going to be doing the work (likely me, fartface). I have my moments, we all do, but that's what they are, moments, not a lifetime. But maybe for some of these poeple nothing helps. Because thy don't want to be fixed, or don't acknowledge there is really any problem to be fixed, or just don't believe they CAN be fixed (if it worked for Tinkerbell, it must be true)...Maybe in that case broken just means broken.

But then there’s that other class of whackos. The ones who are either completely unable to discern right from wrong, or who could simply care less because there is no conscience there muttering in their ears that maybe it’s not such a good idea. Because they don’t really feel much of anything, but the really smart ones figured out that best way to hide isn’t to, it’s to be out there, right in front of the world, anticipate the expected emotion, then emulate. And we probably pass someone like this every day and never notice. And maybe someday you actually make eye contact with a psychopath. And they acknowledge you. And then they smile. A cold, hard smile that never quite makes it to their eyes. And you find yourself taking extra care to make sure the doors are locked up tight. You watch the shadows, for movement, strain your ears to identify every little sound because you know they know you know.


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