Satisfied?

Time to write in italics. That signifies I'm moody, right?

Where the fuck is that sense of satisfaction?
Twice today. Carnally and mentally. Everything that should have given reprieve, release - where is it? Who the fuck stole it from me? At what point in this metamorphisis did I lose the ability to gloat? To cackle, to crow and to wallow? To glory in success, in the thrill of being right, in the release, in the breaking of the drought, the turning of the tide, the light in their eyes fading to grim understanding and under it all the knowledge that you wrought this, you and you alone, and that you did from the start and you knew from the very beginning that everything would play out the way you expected it to and now that you've taken what you want from their foolish eyes and their confusion and the cavorting of their bodies you can leave them in the dust.

So where the fuck is it?
You were wrong. I was right. That should be the end of it. I should be able to rub your nose in the mess you've made. Say 'Hah. You were wrong. This is what you get for doubting me. This is what you deserve.' And then I should be able to spin on my heel and walk away. Instead, I feel sick. Sick to my very stomach that you had to go through this. Sick to my core that something like this could come along and I would expect to feel satisfaction from it. Sick, instead of pleased. I would have been pleased a month ago. Why am I not pleased.

You stole it from me.
I don't think I'll ever forgive you for giving me dimensions.