Mr. Hindsight, Bastard Extraordinaire

Ah, hindsight. What a dickhead, right? Personified, he’d be the guy that says “I told you so,” whilst guffawing at how absolutely idiotic you were for not taking cue or clue from all the instinct and logic you supposedly posses. He’s the guy that smiles wryly when you sob “I knew this would happen!”, as though he could’ve told you but just didn’t bother so he could experiment with how suicidally fucked-over you might get. He’s also the guy that buys you drink after drink until you’re so totally comatose you have to be delivered to hospital to have your intestines pumped, then stands by your bed telling you how stupid you were for getting into this situation. He’s a smug, snide bastard of cuntish proportion.

He’s also a liar.

Someone made the comment to me, the other day; about how the good memories of a relationship can become utterly painful to think about, after you’ve had your heart minced slowly apart by the person that gave them to you. If you’ve had your heart minced apart by someone that gave you special memories, then perhaps you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, well, you know – sod off.

So what’s going on here? Why is that memory of her...

giving you the most perfect present – the one you didn’t even know you wanted until you saw it and realised she knew your soul better than you did; before giving you the best fucking blow-job that the entire civilised & uncivilised worlds have ever bestowed,

... now such a painful thing to think about? What fucked it up? What in the name of Christendom is preventing you from enjoying that memory again? Is the human condition so unbelievably contradictory and illogical that you are fucked up with an inherency that is total and infinite?

Yes, yes it is. But that’s not why. It’s not even her fault. Sure, she took your soul and carved the little symbols of the Necronomicon into it with a red-hot, blunt bread-knife, but that’s a totally separate incident to her buying you that present or hugging you that way or speaking, always, in a poetry you understood. Why are you mingling the evil memories with the good ones? Why? WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THAT?

Enter, Mr. Hindsight. Swinging a cane made from the thousand truths you hide from, doffing a hat made of mirrors, and grinning like a cunt. He’s the one that meshes the memories of good and bad. He’s the one that doesn’t let you think “we shared moments that were perfect”, instead making you think “we shared some moments that were perfect, and then she fucked it all up! How didn’t I see it coming!? She never loved me, and I fell for it – everything we ever did, ever said was a lie, with the break-up always on the horizon”. He taints the good memories with the bad, and not the other way around. And then he makes you think you’re stupid. And you bow humble at his cloven feet.

Not that all of us bow. Some have tamed his sharp eyesight and commentary. Some have stopped him meddling in memories and thoughts that don’t concern him. But not all of us. And when it comes to catastrophic heartbreak, he comes hurtling out of nowhere to aid your confusion and help you understand. Because when we’re fucked over, we automatically turn to him for help. Unfortunately, all the while, he’s just fucking us up even more.

Good memories are memories of things that were good at the time – so dwell on them as such, and without considering the massive fuckeries that happened after they happened.

If hindsight tries to come into play, try belting him in the fucking jugular. It won't stop him, but he really is a cunt.