Below The Fold

That’s not to say there are certain days I hate (which there are—Tuesdays, in particular), it is to say that on some days, I simply hate.
It’s a bit of a bother, really. I don’t want to hate. Love is a way better emotion. Like. Lust. Even a general apathy doesn’t make my chest constrict and my head pound and my jaw clench and my eyes itch and my teeth hurt like the hate does.
But it comes.
The best I’ve been able to do with it is to make sure to hate for a reason, which is really just rationalization anyway, but it fits on a bumper sticker and would look cool in faded block print on an old T-shirt.
.— I hate for a reason.—
But really, hate is hate, and the reason isn’t important as much as the end result is. I hate more this year than I have in many previous years dating back to my late adolescence, when I walked around in a red haze of hate-filled angst, cursing everyone and everything—my family, other random people, the guy behind the counter at Conoco, stop signs, clouds, the line at Walgreen’s… I hated as an art form. A lifestyle. A way of being. I hated like Carl Lewis ran. I hated like John Elway threw. I hated like a champion.
But I’m a much kinder person now.
I only hate some days.
Please don’t make me get all hate-y today.