You Hate Me
It’s just that I feel like you only keep me around so you have something to stare at to practice setting things on fire with your mind. And when I speak, you look at me like I’ve just stabbed your grandmother. In fact, even when I do nothing at all, your default expression seems to suggest that I have just committed some embarrassing, slightly distasteful social faux pas that you feel uncomfortable calling attention to, but can’t hide your natural disgust for. And no, before you suggest that, this is not just the default sneer of superiority you use to express your disdain for the unworthy world around you. Look, I hate a lot of things, and I hate them hard. But this surpasses the polite horror I have trouble hiding when a (former) friend sends me something in Comic Sans, that twitchy muscle I get under my eye when people wear leggings as pants, even my pure, justified and holy wrath when the soda machine runs out of Cherry Coke.
It’s the blind rage in your eyes when I give the merest indication of my continued existence by, say, breathing. You look like you are about to charge into battle like a Viking berserker, or possibly tear the heads off of several innocent, undeserving fluffy things; such is your intense pain when I lack the common decency to simply dissipate into nothingness while your back is turned.
So I’m leaving, because if I don’t, you will almost definitely kill me in my sleep.
-Written by LittleMeg
