Things I Hate

What do I hate? Rhetorical questions. They're gay. And M's post. Screw the hyphen that comes before the M, 'cause know what I hate? Punctuation that doesn't belong. Like that hyphen. He's M. Enough said. Just took a nap. Do you care? Nope. I hate people that tell you what they just did. But guess what. I hate naps too. And I took one. And dreamt of sweet things. And then ATE sweet things. Is that post-modern? Don't give a shit. Think harder about it. It is.

I don't usually write like this 'cause I'm too busy being adorable and impressing the ladies. But that gets you nowhere, 'cause it's gay. We now take a moment to interrupt this terrible stream of consciousness to discuss that I am not homophobic. Lately, I've been saying things are "gay" pretty frequently, and I sometimes feel a little bad about it. Because personally, I have some sexual tendencies that fall outside the norm, and I'm not sure how I'd feel about people saying "that test gets turned on by penis-like clitorises." That could hurt, man. Maybe. Not sure if it'd hurt or not. But regardless, I'm not a hurter. I don't do the hurting thing. Except in the bedroom. Make me a martyr, bitch. That doesn't make sense 'cause I said I don't like doing when I do the hurting. Nothing to do with my sexual partner(s). Whatever. Post-modern.

Anyway, the reason I say that the douchebag who walked way too slowly to class was gay is because "gay," frankly, is a funny word. If I tell someone that the bitch-slut in my rhetoric class wouldn't shut up about her boyfriend and that it's "gaaaaaay" then that's funny for a variety of reasons (emphasis on the long "a" necessary, I'm not being a vagina like the eighteen-year-old girls who elongate the last letter of every word they type in a text, even if it's a consonant, which is gay). Part of it's ironic, sure. Pretty damn clever calling an act of overt heterosexuality gay. And then it's just a funny combination of letters. Kinda like cyanide. Or lactate. Or faggot.

Seriously though, I lived with two gay guys for six months. Loved every minute of it, would consider them two of my closest friends. And I would estimate that four out of every eleven girls that have a conversation with me wonder about my sexuality. And that's okay, 'cause gay is in these days. Just look at all the action Kurt gets on Glee. Nearly got the Jew-y chick. I like Jews, and I like chicks. So no drawbacks.

I hate bad blog post endings. So I'm not ending this now.

I hate people that walk too slowly. You already knew that. Pay the fuck attention.

I hate the hand dryers in the bathroom. Just give me my freaking paper towels. They've been around long enough and we still have enough trees. And you want to know what I really hate? No? Fine. Not telling you.

It's wet hands. My lovely, soft, angel-wing clitoral stimulation machines don't deserve the discomfort. This is my blog bitch, I'm telling you what I want you to hear. If you don't like it, go away. No no no, wait. Don't go away. We need the views, and I want to be internet famous.

'Cause I hate internet famous people. Ooh congratulations bastard, you won the lottery and millions of people have seen your video. Guess what. It's no better than any of the other ba-rillion people's stuff on YouTube. You just got lucky and society decided it was good. But it's not. And you know what else sucks? You only win the lottery once. May as well not sign up for Powerball anymore, 'cause you're never gonna win it. 'Cause your fifteen minutes of fame are over. Gone. Done. That sucks. If something with million-to-one odds happen to me, I hope I get some sick monetary gain out of it. Or true love.

I hate that I use so many adverbs. I'm really going to stop now.

Stopping now. I hate that joke.

Post-modern.