I don't watch television, but I am glad the Surreality Show of the last year is finally over.
Watching the horrors unfold, sometimes from the middle of the action and sometimes from a safer distance, I was constantly appalled by the insanity of it all. It was Kafkaesque to the nth degree, with lots of Orwellian overtones.
At least, at last, justice triumphed in the end. But not really, because there's no repairing the damage done to psyches, there's no uncrying the tears. You can't wipe away the memories or disappear the fear. It was blunt force trauma to JP and LL, and all who cared for them. It still, as it should, infuriates me every time I think about it. How much worse for them? Plenty.
I have a strong streak of the fatalist in me. Call it karma or what you will, I think life's highs and lows tend to roughly balance each other out, and I think the evils that we do come back to bite us in the butt. Were I the malignant nincompoop who started this ball of misery rolling, I would not be sleeping well. I would be lying awake and sweating and wondering when the sword will fall, when I'll be turned into a cockroach.
A malignant nincompoop of a cockroach.