There are very few times

Where I would choose to be proven wrong.  They come few and far between.  I'll admit it, I like being right.  It rarely happens, and usually it happens on one of the few occasions where I'd prefer to have been proven wrong.

I don't handle disappointment very well.

I just hate having been a poor judge of character.  All along, I thought, for some strange reason, that all my fears would be for naught and that everything would be okay.  That people would end up proving themselves to me.

I might be getting used to disappointment, despite it all.

My Mawmaw's funeral is on Saturday.  I've managed to get off work, and I'll be heading that way with my family tomorrow morning.

I really wish I'd been wrong.  I wish...I wish for a lot of things, but as wise men might tell you, wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which gets filled first.

I'll give you a hint, it's not the wish hand.

Which, actually is a nice segue into a related thought.  I find myself getting shat on more and more often as of late.  Which, quite frankly, sucks.  There's a shit stick, one end is clean and for holding and the other end is covered in shit.  I'm stuck between layers of shit on the shitty end of that stick, and it's getting beat into more shit.

Do you see where I might be going with this?  I'm starting to.

And the biggest problem is I'll never confront anyone about my getting shat on by them because by the time I think up a relevant, cutting remark to make them see what they're doing to me, the situation is long past, and my point is moot.

And here I thought I was making progress...HA! I crack myself up.

Until Next Time, dear readers
Me...