Voodoo hoodoo

How many people have voodoo dolls with your face on them? I reckon there’s at least four out there of me. They belong to people I’ve crossed over the years – usually inadvertently in some professional capacity – and they’re NEVER GOING TO FORGET IT. It’s what fascinated me with the Maddie Pulver case. That was one enormous voodoo doll the guy had for Maddie’s dad. And I’m dying to know why. Because my own voodoo-like intentions towards others, while initially violent, are fleeting. I’m crap at nursing grudges long-term. Ultimately, I don’t wish unhappiness and misery on anyone badly enough – life is too short (for them and me). I prefer karma. I reckon karma always gets wrong-doers in the end. And I’m no hippy (Husband would even suggest I’m the antonym for hippy). It’s that whole “do unto others …” thing. Put out what you want to come back. Turn the other cheek etc. All very well to say, not as easy to do. Hate is an addictive emotion, it gets your adrenaline pumping. Plotting revenge gives your life purpose and meaning. It makes your heart race. But it doesn’t bring happiness, just bitterness (and a tendency to bore people with your hard-luck story). I’ve seen it consume too many people. I’m trying to remember that as a big, new voodoo doll starts taking shape in my imagination. I’m better than that, I am. So I’m taking a deep breath, letting it go … and waiting for the bad karma to slam them face first into the concrete instead. Hope it really hurts. No I don’t. Yes I do. Being zen is really hard … maybe I’m not cut out for it. Trying again … take a deep breath, let it go …

TONIGHT’S MENU: Lamb steaks with hummus, rocket and grilled eggplant (Husband and I), leftover moroccan cigars (the Sprogs)