The world is filled with a lot of hate. It’s safe to say I am responsible for about 10% of the hate. I’m very hateful. When someone says “hate is too strong a word” I hate them. I hate them so much. I try not to be so hateful. It’s really hard. It makes me hate myself. Hate!
Something about haters that I have been wondering. Are there people out there who hate me? There has to be. I can’t imagine there not being someone who secretly hates me. It’s impossible. I hate people for such stupid reasons that there must be someone who hates me for a stupid reason too. This is my search. My search for the person who hates me most.
(You can’t see it, but I’m pretty sure her hat says “Mooselicker stinks”)
First I must think about who I hate most and why I hate them. I hate this one guy I see a lot. He’s so handsome and confident. It really pisses me off. Well-put-together individuals always strike up hatred in me. Anyone who seems to be happy with their place in life gets my blood boiling. He’s in shape, suave, probably knows more than one language (is it racist to assume all non-white people are bilingual?), has good posture, is probably twice my age yet has nicer hair, and doesn’t look terrible while wearing sweaters. What the hell! Where was I when lives were being selected? I want to be this guy. I never will be though. At least I make more money than he does. But that doesn’t bother him. Fuck this guy!
At one point I hated a friend for how he drank water. The way he twisted the lid. The slurping sound he made. How the bottle always popped afterward. He seemed so refreshed after drinking his water. I would have only saved him from drowning because it would be too painful for me to listen to him take all that water into his lungs. I bring this up because I can’t be this completely critical of little things about others. Someone else must be picking up on things like this about me. And it must make them hate me.
What are some little things about me that someone could hate? I almost always roll up my sleeves. That’s got to piss someone off. I do it for a very specific reason too. My forearms are way too skinny. My wrists are incredibly tiny. I’ve fisted women and they didn’t notice. With these suckers my true calling has to be giving prostate exams. I have the same problem with my calves. They’re too damn thin compared to the rest of my body. At least I know I could never get my forearms or shins stuck between two rocks. Most children’s books are thicker at the spine than these two parts of my body. Perhaps this is why 127 Hours didn’t impress me. That and how can you feel bad for a young guy who had a chance at a cave pond threesome but instead chose to climb rocks instead?
(Would have been a much better film if James Franco spent less time growing a Dirty Sanchez and more time violating hikers)
A retarded midget once came up to me and said “What’s the deal with you? You never talk to anyone.” I guess that means my quietness annoys people. I’m never really loud in any situation. I don’t like being the center of attention. Well, in a modest way, yes I do. I’d rather a bunch of girls get together at a slumber party and talk about how cute I am than to actually be out somewhere with this girls having to entertain them. I used to always have this one strange fantasy where all of the popular girls in school would get together. They’d play a game called “Would You Fuck” then toss out names of boys in their class. A mean girl would throw out my name and all of the girls would laugh. Then one girl said she would. The other girls would think about it and then they’d agree. I’d become popular overnight without knowing it. Of course that never happened. Most popular girls knew me as “the kid who was good at math and would help them if they asked.” Then I started to suck at math and was simple known as “the kid with pictures of dogs on a lot of his shirts.” Why the fuck did I have so many shirts with dogs on them? That never got me anywhere.
(If a shirt doesn’t have sleeves that doesn’t automatically make it a muscle shirt)
Basically, all I’m trying to say is that there are probably 200 people out there who I secretly hate. I despise them. They would die and the first thing I would think is a mean joke about them. I know, it’s wrong. But I have come to the conclusion that there is someone out there who has a secret hatred of myself. It could be for a million different reasons. What I know for sure is that my name or presence itself makes some people cringe. It’s not even anything I did. Existing itself makes them hate me.
Do you hate something about me? Do you hate something tiny about someone else? What do you do that other people really hate?
“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.” – Basketball players who give bad advice