The depths of my mother's genius is astonishing. The level to which she underhandedly manipulates those around her is stunning. The only reason she calls me intelligent is because I'm the first person to see through it, to challenge her covertly volunteered desires, to expressly deny her that power, and even then I'm in for some shock when the truth about certain circumstances comes forward. I maintain the illusion that I am a force to be reckoned with even when I'm a fucking disaster thanks to her. [That sentence works whichever way you choose to interpret it.] Vulnerability is an invitation for manipulation; alternatively, one's weakness is someone else's source of power. Is it true you spend the rest of your life making sense of your first 18 years? I could move forward, but every time I try I only end up moving in circles. There is no such thing as progress.
I gristle when someone like John take advantage of someone like Samantha for his own enjoyment, not because he's achieving anything from it. Truly talented manipulators manage to be so without leaving a trace, and I'll reward that with respect, at least. I never liked him, and the various accounts of his doings the past several months have only supported that snap judgment. He surrounds himself with weak people so he can be sloppy. It's nothing to do with me, aside from Female Solidarity and all that, but he will get what's coming to him. What a douche.
The secret? Make it somebody else's idea.
I'm trying to be a good person.