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All Signs Point to Hate

All signs point to hate.

And can I be reasonably blamed? I cannot be reasonably blamed. How can you discriminate against a food because of its color? Color has no bearing on taste.

But what I don’t say is that really, it does. Lettuce tastes green and so does spinach and so does a granny smith apple. Even Cascade soap tastes green, and it’s not even supposed to be ingested.

Ingested. You ingested Cascade soap? you ask me and there is another reason I hate you. How I am prone to unintentional thought-speaking when you’re around. And how your sarcastic smile feels like a punch in the stomach, only softer, maybe more like a tingle...

And now look. I have to come up with a reason for ingesting soap or you’ll nominate me for that stupid show you watch so much, Strange Obsessions...? Strange Habits...? Ugh! Strange Addictions.

And you always let yourself in the door at the most awkward moments. The one scandalous scene of the entire movie. Me frozen in horror, my hairbrush super-glued to my mouth, stereo mid-blare. 'Oh oh, starry eyed... oh oh starry eyed...'

How can someone as stupid, as disagreeable, as hateable as you love gazing up at the stars? How can someone with a smile so broken drive out as far as Sienna Point to see something so whole? Something with entirety? How can you always point out pictures, vital constellations, the Milky Way? With a finger that doesn’t shake as you point at the heavens, with a hand that signs language with such fluid grace?

All signs point to hate.

There’s a get together soon. This isn’t your get together. You can’t open the door to me and let me in with your arms spread wide in WELCOME just like that mat I’m standing on. That’s you. You are that WELCOME mat I walk all over, scrape my feet on, stomp mud into. And like that pathetic little rug, you shouldn’t protest. But you do. Oh, you do.

And the arguing. Can’t you ever agree? On the birthday song not the ABC’s. I don’t CARE what you kindergarten teacher said, I say the ABC’s are too long, and if you’re washing your hands at the proper temperature, by next time won’t you sing with me you will have dried plums for fingers.

Oh, and now I’m not sanitary because when I used the three seconds rule I let my fingers casually brush the floor and only washed my hands for a happy birthday. The trouble I’ll have to go to, to prove my status as a sanitary American. Next time we go to the mall I’ll have to bring hand sanitizer, and not only that but I’ll have to spend a fortune on the specially scented kind, warm vanilla sugar, because I can’t stand the smell of cleaning alcohol and that’s not even to mention the gas I’ll have to pay for to get to Bath and Body Works.

For what? So I can see you again and you can touch me and set my entire body on fire and not even try to rescue me from the feeling? Especially when there’s no water in the room, oh, those are the most horrific moments, because what’s going to save me from going up in flames?

All signs point to hate.

I hate you I hate you why am I even your friend? But no, I’m not your friend, you’re MY friend because you’re the one always walking in my house without calling or asking or knocking!

And you’re the one always calling ME in the middle of the night with an oh but you have to read this it’s a CLASSIC and have you finished Bones? Why haven’t you finished I told you I wanted to discuss it!

It’s like you couldn’t care less how I’m a pacifist and I hate violent shows. It’s like you couldn’t care less how I hate passionate lovers in movies on account of my firm belief that one should keep oneself to oneself.

Especially when it comes to going places. Just because you’re the boy and I’m the girl doesn’t mean that you have to pay for the coffee. Anyway you’re always ordering the wrong thing because you just buy me what you get and make me drink it because ‘you’re not paying the bill so you don’t get to pick the drink’ even though I already told you I’ve GOT IT.

All signs point to hate.

I hate you I hate you I hate you. I hate the way it’s always summer with you when I like winter best. I hate the way you’re always punching me in the stomach with your looks and wreaking havoc with your eyes. I hate your pride and stupid prejudice against the three second rule and the birthday song and green foods. Jane Austen would hate you so much, and if Jane Austen can hate you then I can too.

I hate the way you always bring out the child in me even though I do read classics, I do! Oscar Wildes, and Mary Shelly, and Emily Bronte, and of course Jane because she’s the only author I’ve read that you don’t like.

I hate how whenever I see your mouth I always get reminded of my least favorite, tender, kissy-kissy, let’s not keep ourselves to ourselves moment of the Pride and Prejudice film. Your mouth that, like every other boy’s mouth, mine has never touched.

Sometimes I wonder and I hate you more, especially under the stars at Sienna Point, after that long drive. You drive me all the way there and don’t even ask for gas money.

And how you slip your wallet in your back pocket and take my hand even though mine lays stiff in yours while a bolt of lightening comes down on my head even though it’s not even raining. I hate that.

I hate you when you sit down without even asking me first do I mind getting my white jeans grass stained on the freshly mowed lawn. And when I shiver you say ‘imagine the heavens are a quilt and the stars are the pattern’. I hate that my muscles still at your soothing voice.

The same voice that washes over me all the ride home while your hand grips mine. It is a horrible experience, like I’m a potential terrorist being water boarded for information because I can’t breathe. I may as well get sent to the electric chair for all the lightning that keeps striking me. Did I forget to take off my earrings? Because they’re metal and you told me once that metal is a conductor.... But probably it isn’t true! You told me there was no death penalty in Mexico too but look what happened to Jimmy Blevins! John Grady said there was no death penalty just like you did but look how that ended up!

And shut up I don’t care if it’s fiction, Cormac McCarthy would never lie in All the Pretty Horses. He wouldn’t! I KNOW so.

But when I jerk my hand out of yours as soon as we pull up in front of my house for some reason you feel the need to walk me all the way up my driveway and then you’re gazing at me again like you gazed at the stars and oh! just kill me now.

I hate you I hate you I hate you I... never thought kissing would be like this. I feel like I’m dying and I can’t breathe, but I like it and that makes me hate you more.

And then without a goodnight you leave. You leave me strangling on the porch with no air to breathe because it’s all left with you.

And as if there’s not already enough roaring in my ears, an advertising plane flies by like a fool in the middle of the night! But still I can read it... “follow the sign to Austin Texas’. No thanks. I’ll follow one sign and I can guarantee where I end up isn’t going to be Austin Texas.

Because when all signs point to hate, the only destination I’ll end up at is you.




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This article has 2 comments. Post your own!

alexandra158 said...
Aug. 18, 2011 at 7:16 pm:
I absolutely love this! Seems you got busy this summer!!! I can't even explain to you the goosebumps i got from this short story!!! I love the ending. You always seem to have good strong powerful lines to end with!
 
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billgamesh11 said...
Aug. 4, 2011 at 1:11 pm:
Great Job! I really loved the ending line! You always know how to end your articles with the perfect ending lines!!! Even though I don't want them to end, you end them with a line that knocks everyone's socks off!!! Keep writing!!! Please!!!:):):);)
 
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