i hate everything: volume 2

I hate little upper arm skin bumps. Why do I never see "Stars: They're Just Like Us! They have those little upper arm skin bumps too!"

I hate myself when I hate the sound of Chicken's voice. But sometimes when he whines I think he's trying to incite a mass suicide.

I hate paying a dentist to hurt me. "You'd like to scrape my gums with a shiny metal hook for an hour? I'd like to pay you $200 for that! No, no, thank YOU."

I hate fruit flies. If my hate of fruit flies were hillbillies, I'd be Wal-Mart. If my hate of fruit flies were stiff gin cocktails, I'd be a WASP Thanksgiving.

I hate FarmVille.

I hate Candy Crush.

I hate you for inviting me to play FarmVille and Candy Crush.

I hate how I sound Canadian when I talk to Chicken. "Oooooh! Look at what you've got there! You found a turtle, didja?" Fun fact: it's quite hard to type in a Canadian accent.

I hate the head-hairs that get caught and tickle the back of your arm. I know you're there, you long tickly bastard.

I hate having a conversation with a person who only tells stories like they are mirrors held up at just the right angle to show her at her very best. I don't love my friends for who they are at their best. Best is boring. Friends show friends their soft, flawed, petty, silly underbellies.

I hate when the bed frame squeaks just from me sitting on the mattress. Seriously? That just hurts my feelings.

I hate when I complain about the way Ryan does me a favor or helps me out. "Ryan went to the store before going to bed last night so I could have a bagel for breakfast in the morning but he didn't get cream cheese. GOLL." Or "When Ryan reads to Chicken every night and puts him to bed, he always leaves the books on the floor. RUDE!"

I hate how every blog post I write has some reference to baby shit in it. But honestly, I don't really see any way around it. If I'm telling the epic tale of my life, there's just going to be a lot of baby shit involved. It's gratuitous. It's like the baby shit version of Game of Thrones.

I hate dusting.

I hate how it's so obvious when I don't dust. Motherfucking dark wood bookshelves just can't keep their mouths shut.

I hate when I'm in a bad mood and Ryan asks what he can do to help and I snap at him just because he made the mistake of being alive and in my sight line, and he looks at me with a mixture of hurt and pity, and then he closes the door behind him very softly and goes into the kitchen to do the dishes. Cue crushing guilt in 3... 2...

I hate crooked pictures on the wall.

I hate dry feet, the way you feel tiny threads catching on your dry skin when you get between your sheets. 

But some lotion should clear just right up. Everything else... Well, we will just take those as they come. With a stiff gin cocktail.