Tuesday, April 8, 2014

I Don't Like

I'm not a pessimist, I promise. That being said, on any given day there are at least a few things that put me on-edge. I don't like dwelling on those things, but at the same time...

I don't like people that insist upon standing on my heels when forming a line. Like, I get that we need to be organized, but I don't need to see the outline of your entire body or your flyaway hairs in my peripheral vision.

I don't like how the second I put on a decent coat of nail polish, I immediately feel a strong desire to pick it all off and scrape at my nail beds. I just end up with a waste of time and chipped off flakes of varnish all over the floor.

I don't like anonymous hatred. Y'know, those 140 character ambiguous rants that actually aren't that ambiguous after all. Subtweeting, anon inquiries, and Formspring-hate are a coward's method of problem-solving, and while I have anxiety, I don't let cowardice overcome what I choose to broadcast. You wouldn't let someone you don't like stay in your house rent-free, but when you spread hate anonymously that's basically what you're doing; you're letting the thought of them persist while they get to continue living life without consequence. I don't like people that think they're clever enough to judge another person under a layer of anonymity. Because guess what? We all get the memo: we know what you're talking about and we know you're too afraid to sign your own name alongside the bitter things you have to say. Plus it's just mean, y'know? Anyway...

I don't like having to ask my parents for money. It means I've dipped into my savings because I just "had to have" something--leaving me with only enough cash to fill up my gas tank two or three more times. I don't like admitting to my mom that I fucked up my bank account, because I want her to go to sleep not having to worry about me.

Speaking of parents, I don't like the expectation of life-long loyalty to lineage with no exceptions. There truly are a select few parents that are hideous individuals, yet their kids are expected to accept these faults as an all-powerful excuse, just because of genetics. I don't like that society and Western culture have taught me to lodge a wad of guilt into my own throat every time I ignore my father's calls or refuse to return an "I love you" when all I'm trying to do is spare my own heart from shattering.

I don't like eating alone. Even when I bring a book with me to the dining hall to make up for the fact that my friends are all too busy to eat with me, I imagine everyone staring at me and shaking their heads out of secondhand embarrassment. Obviously no one cares much--if at all--but the logical part of my brain that knows how ridiculous I'm being just can't seem to get the memo across to my insecurities.

But most of all, and perhaps ironic enough to make you realize my generally cheerful disposition: I hate complainers. I truly do. If you're the type of person to comment on the only cloud in an otherwise perfect blue sky, I have no time nor patience for you. I want to only surround myself with people that are most comfortable laughing, those that unapologetically sing and dance to Top 40 music, and those that would rather shrug it off when they trip on the stairs. If I could, I would dismiss all the naysayers and the haters. If you're with me, let's go find our next adventure. Bring your sense of humor and a pair of sunglasses.

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