There’s this one fork in my house I always avoid. I didn’t eat once purely because it was the only clean utensil. I hate how thin it is. How obnoxious to exist completely unique outside of its counterparts. Horrible for eating and awful to be around. I hate when people have nothing to add to the conversation so they comment on how cold the room is or how tired they are. We are all tired. Always. I hate having to listen to people of the lighter skin tone talk about their hair and how frizzy it gets when it rains or it’s humid outside. An apple has to be completely crisped and un-bruised for me to eat it. I hate myself when I actually complete a homework assignment and then misplace it right before it’s due. It is beyond bothersome to get marked down because I left it in my car. I hate myself when I make a joke and it’s badly received by the surrounding populous. I can’t deal with noises or people who think it’s funny when my misophonia acts up. I despise people who think Billie Eilish is the pinnacle of good music and think Beyonce is overrated.
Yet, I love melted cheese in pasta. I love people who get references or jokes that might need explaining to the average non-comedian. I adore eyes that shine when the sun hits them. I love the energy on Friday afternoons, when so much seems possible. I love driving down a long, smooth road listening to my favorite song. I love throwing whoa’s in the air and people actually catching them. Honey roasted peanuts, apple-wood-smoked barbecue boneless wings, soft biscuits. My heart soars when people tell me they’re listening in a crowd of lost conversation.
I hate more stuff than I like and I will never change.