Warning: the following post contains large amounts of hate

I googled Liz the other day; found her husband;s work bio instead and learned that they’re back in Cali now with two kids, a boy and a girl. I did the math and they left in 03 (right after their perfect wedding), he finished school in 05 and, according to another ex coworker who kept in touch with them, they were debating getting a dog at that time so that they could practice being parents (dumb. I know). So this would mean back-to-back babies for them and possibly a miserable, multiple-shitty-diapered, mini van driving, super jumbo baby bag toting, bored as hell Liz. Parenting - being sweet and tender, was not her personality at all. The website bio congratulated her husband on the birth of his daughter so I'm guessing the baby is a new addition and the oldest is no older than 4, if that. Through the internet chain I went, and discovered that she is no longer working (probably a stay at home mom and wife) and “looking to reconnect”. Then I remembered a stupid comment that she made before they left. She said that black people (her husband is black) couldn’t use regular black-colored curling irons and had to use the gold colored ones because our hair is too coarse. ...Um, what? That dumb ass comment was probably the only smile-inducing moment I’d ever spent with her. I hated Liz. I’ve never hated anyone in my life but I hated her with a passion. She was the epitome of an evil, vile, ugly bitch, and she did it just for the hell of it ('cept the ugly part, of course.). She needed no real provocation aside from thinking I was inferior to her. Sometimes I wish I could go back and relive a few moments differently. I’m sure she and I would’ve come to blows had I been the person I am now. The fact that she made such a ridiculous statement in front of half the office and was embarrassed by it, especially by the fact that I was the one to correct her, felt so good. So marvelous! And now, knowing that she can’t be that alpha bitch that she fancied herself as being when we worked together because she’s a stay at home mom and only has toddlers to compete with, warms me up inside. I hope she’s miserable, crying with postpartum depression, losing her identity in exchange for a chef, maid, and nanny with sagging, hopeless, tiny boobs. I hope her hair is even stringier than I remember it and her forehead bigger and splotchier. I hated that bitch and I hope she knew it.
On the bright side, I learned to spot her type a mile away and know how to handle them these days.