Trapped by Your Past, or, Grow The Fuck Up

One of the common themes I’ve seen from a portion of Kiwis gloating about the All Blacks being ejected from the Rugby World Cup earlier than most people expected goes something along the lines of,

“When I was at school there were the thugby idiots who were bullying arseholes and I’m happy when the All Blacks lose because it upsets people like that.”

Now, I know this particular scenario because I, too, suffered from arseholes at high school. But within a year of leaving high school I realised a few things.

One was that nasty, spiteful, vicious people congregate find an excuse to be horrid to one another for all manner of reasons. If I was a girl who’d gone to an all-girls’ school, I’d have a whole bunch of stories of bullying that would have nothing to do with rugby.

But that’s a minor things compared to the most important point: I like rugby; I liked it at primary school when I played (very, very badly). When I allowed a bunch of arseholes to convince me that rather geeky kids who like Blackadder (not Todd) and math and suchlike had no place caring about rugby, who did I harm by reacting against the worst elements of rugby culture? Them? No, they were happy. They had driven the other away from something they liked. Rugby? Hardly, it’s plenty popular.

No, I harmed myself. I allowed what I liked, what I disliked, what I did and didn’t do to be defined by a bunch of people who were horrible to me for no good reason, and who I hated in turn. I was imprisoned by a bunch of people who barely knew who I was. That’s weak. It’s pathetic.

If you’re twenty years out of high school and you still feel the need to post to the interweb about how happy you are because you imagine some random collection of jerks being upset you ought to feel ashamed. Not because you’re taking pleasure in other peoples’ suffering. But because you’re a sad git who is still being controlled by them and you need to grow the fuck up.