The things that I hate

I took an improv class once.

On our very first day we had to stand up in front of everyone and rattle of a list of things we loved. The seated students were meant to cheer, loudly, in hearty approbation of the presenting student's list of loves. An accountant stood up and informed the class excitedly that she loved her border collie, and the class became giddy. A social worker awkwardly revealed that he loved beer. The other students roared, and bolstered, the man shared that he loved TV dinners, and the Toronto Maple Leafs, and AC/DC, and weddings, and snowboarding, redheads, Mountain Dew, fuzzy slippers and martinis. The other students went nuts.

I found the exercise difficult. I would have preferred instead to be asked to recite a list of things I hated instead. I wouldn't consider myself a hater necessarily, it's just that those feelings are just more accessible to me. If my mind had a desk, the things that I hate would sit in the top drawer.

"My feelings," I would start. "I hate my feelings and the voices in my head. The voices that insist and prattle and fill my veins with doubt. I also hate sharp cheddar and the taste of envelope glue. I hate obligation and thus I hate the fabric of most social interactions. I hate that my default mode is a combination of guilt and passive-aggression and fear. I hate grippy socks, and fingerless gloves, and I hate when people talk about cars or sports or music that I have not heard of. I hate my shriveled attention span and the cold, oh, how I hate the fucking cold. I hate the ocean and I hate the sound of the oboe. I hate snowboarding, and redheads, Mountain Dew, fuzzy slippers and martinis.

"I hate my proclivity to buy books that I will not read, and I hate when people walk four abreast on sidewalks and then slow to a crawl for seemingly no reason. I hate the practice of dentistry.

"I hate my most interesting acquaintances for they are the most selfish and demanding, but I hate the rest of my acquaintances also. I hate having to consider and empathize and sympathize and acknowledge other minds, and feeling this way, I hate my own selfishness, my thoughts, my hypocrisy, and thus, myself.

"Oh, and though I haven't quite made up my mind on the subject, I am sure I hate the cosmos too."

And at this point the class would look at each other bemused, and Ted, our instructor would surely lead us in another game of zip, zap, zop.

To the three women that have dumped me

I

We met in that period of high school where I "Didn't Give A Fuck" and wore t-shirts emblazoned with animals and openly sneered at my classmates and used words like "artifice." You were a platinum blonde firecracker with a similar chin to Jenna Jameson. When you called me out for being casually racist, I thought you were OK. When you dedicated Dancing Queen to me at a bowling alley, I had to ask you out. We went on one (group, movie) date and sat across from each other at lunch for a week. Then you dumped me, by proxy. My cellphone rang, and your proxy said merely, "Hi Harvey, are you sitting down?" in her dulcet South African accent. She explained that you thought that I put you on a pedestal and that you would never be good enough for me. I'm baffled to this day. We made out in a bathroom months later at a house party. Then you became a lesbian. Then you moved to Salt Lake City and got a bunch of piercings. I don't think about you.

II

My first and only epistolary romance. If you don't think a calendar year of well-paced e-mails loaded with PoMo jive and self-congratulatory pop culture references is sufficient to make two hipsters fall in love, you're wrong. (But in a way, you're also right.) Each salvo felt like a secure stitch in an ever-unfurling fabric. I felt like our correspondence was Pulitzer-worthy; hindsight reveals it was not. I erred when I decided to meet you in real life. We met and had sex, and two weeks after that you told me you Wanted To Be Friends. Though I have not lived through an earthquake, I distinctly remember sitting in your living room and feeling the earth move beneath my feet. I smiled and lied that "the feeling was mutual." I am finally over you, but I still think about you sometimes.

III

My last duchess. Our dalliance was brief and potent like the impact of a syringe. You laugh at all my jokes; especially the casually racist ones. Your eyes are perfect, and I fell for them immediately. Then one day you opened your lips and ground started to move. I didn't brace myself, nor did I reach out for a handhold, or breathe into a paper bag until it all blew over. Like a man with two bite marks in his chest, I ran; down the stairs of your apartment, and into a black cab, and away from your intoxicating laughter. I never stopped thinking about you.

Words I hate

I think we should be friends.

As in, "I like you and all Harvey, and it's clear that we have some chemistry, and I'm obviously attracted to you on some level since we have progressed this far, but in spite of all this, I feel like yanking the ripcord on this freefall into possible happiness. And rather than tell you the truth: that I think you're not as attractive a man as I could possibly acquire if I tried a little harder, or that it takes you too long to get me to orgasm, or that it's really just too far of a bike ride to get to your place (and uphill no less), I shall opt to deliver a meaningless falsehood, viz., that I don't want a relationship (a statement that has never been true for anyone, anywhere) and that we should really just be friends. And obviously, I know this course of action is as effective a catalyst for friendship as jamming a railroad spike into someone's brain is for iron deficiency, but when I smile with my small perfect teeth and match my light brown eyes with your dark sad ones, I shall mouth the words "I wish it didn't have to be this way," and say those words too, feeling all the while that I have been rescued from the oppressive weight of the pernicious rock that is you."

I don't care for these words in this order. Please don't say them to me.

Air Horn

I purchased an air horn. It's for the local assholes that leave the bars at the foot of my street every Saturday night. As they would tramp mallemaroking below my apartment, screaming epithets and singing Mr. Big songs at the top of their lungs. I'd blast a sharp warning from my balcony like a noctural, noise-hating Eva Peron.

Presumably the motherfuckers would raise their chins to scan the darkness for the source of the ear-piercing honk. That, of course, is when I would position my Mauser M-98 star-barreled rifle accordingly and unleash into the foreheads of one or more of these inebriated assholes.

But I don't own a sniper rifle. And truth be told, I don't have the guts to blast high-decibel cans of aerosol into the night sky, even as a semi-potent gesture of aggression. (Hell, even as an impotent gesture of passive-aggression.) I can only fantasize about enacting a sudden and bloody end to a soused warbling of "To Be With You".

I shall stick with the air horn. Unfired and waiting. I'm tired.

I don't love cabinets

Carter Kitchens, 1985

Albert: Jerry, it's not about the money. Really. It's just...
Jerry: What is it, Albert?
Albert: It's just that...
Jerry: Just say it! It's just what?
Albert: It's just that: I don't love cabinets.
Jerry: What are you talking about. You're our best cabinet salesperson. We need you, Al.
Albert: Jerry, I've been here a long time, right?
Jerry: Eleven years! Twelve in March.
Albert: Yeah, and over the years I thought that something might change, that they would grow on me and I could learn to love 'em. But they didn't and I don't. At all. I really don't like cabinets.
Jerry: Don't say that. You realise you're our top rep, right? You might even be the best cabinet salesman in all of Baltimore. You have a gift; don't throw it a away.
Albert: A gift?
Jerry: A gift.
Albert: A gift for selling cabinets?
Jerry: A gift for selling cabinets.
Albert: I don't know Jerry. I think I need to get out of the cabinet game. Branch out.
Jerry: Branch out? From cabinets?
Albert: Yeah, branch out. Away from cabinets.
Jerry: You want to branch out away from cabinets. Is that what you're telling me?
Albert: Christ, Jerry. Yes.
Jerry: How can you say that? You! Who have sold more than, well, I don't even know how many cabinets you've sold here—
Albert: About thirty-seven hundred.
Jerry: Over thirty-seven hundred cabinets! You've sold—
Albert: About thirty-seven hundred. I don't know if it's over.
Jerry: So it's thirty-six hundred and something?
Albert: I don't know exactly.
Jerry: So it could be over thirty-seven hundred.
Albert: Sure, I'll allow that it could be over. But just as equally, it could be under thirty-seven hundred cabinets. I'm not sure exactly. That's why I said "about."
Jerry: Listen, Al. Will you allow a desperate man the outcome of a coin toss and let me say "over thirty-seven hundred"?
Albert: (sighs) Sure, Jerry.
Jerry: So you've sold over thirty-seven hundred cabinets in this store. To honest and hardworking Americans—
Albert: How do you know they're honest and hardworking?
Jerry: Al, please.
Albert: I'm sorry, Jerry. Keep going.
Jerry: Honest and hardworking Americans, whose lives you've improved immeasurably. And you want to give it all up? You of all people should know how important cabinets are to a kitchen.
Albert: They're pretty important, I suppose.
Jerry: Pretty important. Pretty important? The most important, Albert. The most important thing in a kitchen.
Albert: More than a stove?
Jerry: A thousand times more.
Albert: How about the sink? I mean, isn't that pretty crucial?
Jerry: Even more than that. Where are you going to put your pots and pans? And your plates? And your food?
Albert: I never thought of it like that.
Jerry: Come on, let's sell some cabinets.
Albert: (shaking head) Oh, Jerry. You got me again. I don't know what got into me.

How to compose yourself after a sexual assault

1. Take a deep breath and hold it in for ten seconds.
2. Find a tub of chocolate ice cream.
3. Take a shower with your clothes on.

A completely whispered dissertation on the milk to cereal ratio

Son? Michael? Psst. Michael. Michael. Michael! Hey, good, you're up. Good morning! What? I think it's 6:30. It's a bit early I know, but I wanted to catch you before school today.

Saturday? Already? I guess Daddy just lost track of the days. That happens sometimes when grownups are "funemployed." No, no. That's just a joke, son. It just makes it seem more... fun. Your mother doesn't get it either. But since you're up, I just wanted to talk to you about something important. It's been on my mind for a while, and I've been putting it off, but anyway -- I hope we can talk about this now. You know how you like to eat cereal each morning? Well, I wanted to talk to you about that. About how to eat cereal.

I know you know how to eat cereal, Michael, but there's a right way and a wrong way. And I'm your father. I have to make sure you know how to do it the right way, OK? Now, for different kinds of cereal there will be different optimal amounts, but no matter what kind of cereal you're eating there will be an amount that is too much or too little. And it's important that you stay within these boundaries.

Michael, please try to pay attention.

Well, this may seem boring but there's a lot to it. We're talking about a delicate balance here. There isn't any other meal that combines starch and dairy products in such an intimate way. I don't want you to take this lightly. But don't be embarrassed about it either. You can always come to me with questions. Do you have any questions now?

Are you sure? You can ask me anything.

No? OK, well, I guess a good place to start would be to go through different kinds of cereal. Flakes are the most common, and there are also shapes, weaves, muesli or grain-based cereals, sugar cereals and then everything else, like bran buds, kasha, and other stuff you probably don't like anyway. But you might want to eat these kinds someday, so it's good to be prepared. Anyway, it almost goes without saying that you should pour the cereal first—

OK, OK, you know this, but I just wanted to make sure. I'm your father, Michael. So, you pour the cereal into the bowl, but not all the way to the top. Do you know why?

That's right! You need to leave room for the milk. You're a smart kid, you know that? You get that from me. Your impatience and temper, that's your mom's doing. But let's not get into that now. Anyway, when you're pouring your milk you're probably wondering, how much room do I leave? And how much milk do you add? Those are kind of tough questions, and I understand if you aren't sure about this. To be honest, when I was your age I had no clue. Really.

Michael, please don't go back to sleep. This next part is important. You see, you have to think about what kind of cereal you poured and it's absorption rate of milk.

Well, "absorption" means how fast the cereal sucks up the milk. Like a sponge. Kind of like your mom is sucking up the money I've worked 30 years for while—

No, no, nevermind. Some cereals, like flakes, absorb milk really fast while others, like those little Os, are much slower. And you've got to think about that before you add the milk.

Just a second. We're not done, yet. Are you like this in school, Michael? You really have to pay attention. I mean, sure you might think you know all about cereal -- I'm sure I certainly did at your age -- but there are other things to consider. Like transportability. You don't want to fill your bowl with so much milk that it is difficult to take to wherever you are having breakfast. You'll spill everywhere. This is why I always make my bowl in the exact spot I consume it. There's no chance of spillage.

What the Hell does she know? You mother has no— I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I mean, yes, I occasionally spill a few flakes in the living room when I am having cereal. But that happens to everyone. Daddy's under a lot of stress these days.

Because some people think it's easy to just find a new job just-like-that, so Daddy spends most of his days as an errand-boy for a temperamental shrew who things being a dermatologist makes her some kind of life-saving--

I'm sorry, I'm getting off topic. This next part is a little tricky, so pay attention. So consider that every cereal has it's maximum absorption level. That's the most amount of milk that will be absorbed by the cereal. So before you even start pouring the milk, you're going to want to think about how much milk you want leftover in the bowl and whether or not you are prepared to drink it. And I don't want you slurping it up with your spoon either. You will have to lift the bowl with both hands, and drink it down.

Because that's the polite thing to do. Breakfast isn't a free-for-all, son. There are rules and there is a right way of going about things. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Some cereals, especially those sugar cereals you like so much, will impart flavour and particles to the leftover milk. Are you prepared for that? Personally, I can't stand the flavour milk takes on—

I'm just teaching our son about cereal.

I know perfectly well what time it is—

Because I think it's important.

Well, he's my son too, so I think—

I was going to do that later. I don't need to answer—

Let's pick this up later, son.

On self-loathing

Is there really any other kind? I mean there's non-self-loathing but I believe that's called "hatred" (or "standard operating procedure" for the hardcore Musselmans among us). Truly, the most accurate target of loathing is oneself. For example:

Loathing the honeyed cakes, I Ionged for bread. - Cowley.

Now, I don't know who this Cowley cat is but really? That's a bit strong.  How can you loathe a honeyed cake? Or any kind of cake, really? I could understand: detesting, abhorring, rejecting, even hating a cake, but loathing is a step too far. Loathing is that deep, pristine sense of hatred that we can only feel for something we know as intimately as ourselves, viz., ourselves. We can only loathe that which we know inside and out; in fact, I would argue that loathing is the very phenomenon of knowing the essence of something completely. To understand something is to hate it. (You learn this in first year English Literature; this isn't news.)

And to those of you in the crowd that insist that you love yourselves (and not merely in an Onanistic way), I can only shake my head and squint my eyes in the powerful beam of your glistening denial. No one loathes him- or herself more than the person who claims to self-love. Besides, the type of person who loves herself (because men don't self-love unless lubrication is involved) probably enjoys the humor of Cathy Guisewite, which intellectually speaking is the equivalent of spray-painting Q.E.D. over everything I just said. Emotionally speaking, its the same as sobbing between mouthfuls of a red-velvet cake.

Self-love? Please. Self-hate! Self-loathe. It feels so right coming off the tongue and makes all the sense in the world. Honeyed cakes be damned.