There is beauty in hatred. Like to hear it? Here it go:
When I was around two or so, my brother, a year older than me (which would make him three, dummy), hit me. It wasn't the first time he'd done so (nor would it be the last; far from it), but for some reason that hitpunch held meaning. I'm not sure how hard I got *snicker* cocked, but what I do remember is that my my mother was shocked, because soon afterward I asked my bro (real name: Geoffrey) to play LEGO or some shit. There's a photo of us siblings straddling scooters a few minutes afterward, me kissing my brother (Jason) on the cheek like a little Gandhi.
Point is, I'm very forgiving. To. A. Certain. Extent.
This is a true story about animosity. But it's mostly about redemption.
(My ex-wife is such a whore. Spoilers.)