I hate it when people misspell "y'all."

Seriously, this is literally in my top ten hates.

Kelly, I'm looking at you.

I hate watching videos online.

Do you have a friend that always goes:

"OMG! You have to see this video I found on youtube, it's like totally crazy, it's like this singing dancing musical and then it gets racist and there's a cat dancing but it's really hysterical and oh man, it'll just take me a second to find it, trust me, it was on the site last night and oh my gosh they totally make fun of Bush and Hasselhoff is like totes singing and it's HYSTERICAL!"

I sincerely HATE that friend.

I hate headaches.

I hate headaches, especially when aspirin and peace and quiet are far away. I never want to be the type of person who goes "oooooh, I have a migrane!" and dramatically rubs their temple whilst looking pathetic.

But lo! The hater becomes the hated.

In the words of Britney:
"Karma's a bitch ya'll."

I hate falling asleep in my clothes.

Last night I fell asleep in my clothes. And consequently woke up at 5:00 with my plaid shirt twisted awkwardly around my torso, one sock on, and a headband digging into my skull.

Suffice to say, it was not pleasant, and also rather disconcerting.

I hate Taco Bell.

I hate Taco Bell. During my break at work today I decided to go to Taco Bell because I've had a shitty week and I was so hungry that I was getting mean.

I got back to work and started eating my chalupas, only to find that Taco Bell decided to only make one of my two chalupas vegetarian.

I'm not flipping out because of my ideals or because of the poor animals but because I hate puking. Seriously. I mean, I know, who likes puking, right? But I really really hate it. When I drink, I have what I call a "puking point," where even when I'm inebriated, I know where to stop so that I won't give up the contents of my stomach.

If Taco Bell makes me puke, well,

I'll be upset.

I hate laundry.

I hate when laundry piles up and you can't bring yourself to actually wash any clothes.

Right now I have two separate piles of laundry plus a pile of ironing. Normally I don't mind ironing but this week feels so long already, I just have no energy.

I hate MySpace privacy settings.

How the hell am I supposed to stalk high school classmates and JUDGE them if their MySpace profiles are all private? There's absolutely no way I'm going to add them.

I'm sure they're all fat and have illegitimate children and I can't even find out.

I hate roaches.

Specifically, I hate the roach that played peekaboo with me from the top of my kitchen cabinets at 5 a.m.

Yes, I saw you! And then I got up on a chair and the counter and saw that you live in a three-inch hole in the wall that was obscured by the cabinets.

There will be no more games as of Thursday. Thursday is your death day. On Thursday the exterminator comes and then they will plug up your hole and I'll never have to sleep in fear again.

I hate Chicago weather.

Look, Chicago. I don't mind if you want some snow, but I'd like a bit of a transition period from wearing a light jacket on Wednesday to wearing a PARKA on Thursday. If you're going to be an asshole, I'm going to start referring to you as "Chi-town."

It hurts me more than it hurts you.

I hate my hair.

My hair has become such an uncontrolable mess that every morning someone at work asks me if I've done something new with it. "No," I reply. "I just washed it." Or, "It's slept on." Or, "The two-block walk from the bus stop to our office was really windy."

Oh, if only I didn't have issues with A. Haircuts, B. Calling to make a haircut appointment, C. Calling strangers on the phone, and D. Paying more than fifteen dollars for a haircut. I wouldn't have these problems if I could afford therapy.

I hate my sleep issues.

I never had trouble sleeping until I had to start waking up at 5 a.m. every morning to get to work on time. First I suffered. I took long, fitful, unsatisfying naps in the afternoons. I abandoned all schoolwork. I downgraded my runs from six days a week to three. I drank a lot of coffee.

Then I learned about melatonin. Oh melatonin! You were my favorite dietary supplement. Better than B12! You put me to sleep in less than half an hour most of the time. So why did you stop working?

The next step up with Ambien. And with my runs only inching back up to four times a week, I really can't afford any night eating issues.

I hate drama.

I hate when you're actually looking forward to four whole days off work, something you haven't experienced since you began working back in March (I know people go much longer than that, but when your last four days off were to go up the East Coast and see your favorite band four nights in a row, working nonstop seems a little, I don't know, tired in comparison) and then shit happens and you decide, hey, maybe it'd be better to just work through Thanksgiving! If your office was open, that is! Ha! Ha ha!

I don't want to go home. Sorry Kel.

Wednesday afternoon through Saturday afternoon = destined to be hell.

Only my thesis can save me now.

I hate my phone.

Why does my phone die at odd times and make weird noises that vary from ring to ring?

I know, I know, it probably didn't help that someone dropped it in beer on Halloween and that I didn't fish it out for a good 10 minutes(I was laughing too hard at the time, natch) . It probably also didn't help that it fell out of my pocket and into a rainy gutter when someone was giving me a piggy back ride down Old South High last weekend. Still, I don't think that it needs to sound like Liza Minelli dying whenever it decides to ring.

I hate not knowing what's going on.

I hate being confused. Especially when it's about something in my life, and something that I can't really control. I had the most frustrating/confusing/encouraging/relentless/awkward/comforting/obnoxious lunch in the world before I drove two hours all by myself. Which is a bad idea considering that I have an extremely overactive imagination.


The only comforting thing is that whenever I feel like this, I can just think of myself with my arms thrown up in the air with a twisted face, similar to the pose that I adopt when getting mad whilst driving. If you can't picture that, try a generic "wtf" pose.

It always works for me.

It's funny, just try it.

I hate my stupidity.

I know that I'm no good by myself at home. I play on the Internet for eight hours at a time. I defrost three english muffins and call it lunch. I don't do laundry. I don't clean. I don't get dressed. Sometimes I don't even brush my teeth. It's shameful.

I left my apartment for the first time today at 5:45 p.m. I feel much better after spending two hours in an overheated coffee shop drinking overpriced coffee and generally being productive on my laptop for the first time in a week.

I hate post-weekend blog catch up.

And I don't mean Sunday night posts about weekend activities. I'm talking about actually reading all the blogs on my blogroll after two and a half days of ignoring them. There are about ten blogs that I look forward to reading. Then there are about 100 that only occasionally post entertaining thoughts, but I feel compelled to read them no matter how many irritating pictures of someone's revamped squash casserole there are. So first I read the ten I really want to read, then I start clicking through the remaining blogs, chugging through them actually, until finally, three hours later, I'm staring at the words "Guardian Technology Blog" and "200 posts." That's when I put down the laptop and walk away.

With all the time I spend reading blogs, I could have an actual hobby.

I hate smelly fratboy nerds.

I went to see The Decemberists on Saturday, which was a pretty good show (despite Colin Meloy's chattiness and the percussion section's enactment of the final battle scene in The Hobbit in the middle of the audience). What wasn't so great, however, was that we were standing next to two very greasy and smelly members of Sigma Delta Tau. Well, there was at least one SDT brother who was wearing a sweatshirt featuring his letters and something about waking up in a bar. His cohort was Some Dude who was wearing Harry Potter glasses and a black hoodie with "Come on baby, light my fire" printed across the back.

What brought these two together? Maybe they were old high school buddies whose only common interest was folky indie pop? I'd imagine the Harry Potter fan listens to Sufjan Stevens while masturbating to internet porn, and Frat Dog puts on some Iron and Wine to set the mood before he date-rapes Sigma Chi's sweetheart.

I hate copycats.

Sorry, dudes. I had to do it.

(Original TWH post here.)

I hate people and their stupid opinions.

Overheard outside Logan Square Auditorium, in line for the Joanna Newsom show.

Some Dude: "Have you heard her new album?"

Some Girl: "No, I haven't. Is it any good?"

Some Dude: "It's different. I mean, it's very... 'proggy.'"

"PROGGY?" I think you don't realize, Dumb Shit, that "prog" is already an adjective. Shave off your ironic mustache and stop spouting out baseless opinions and I might not want to punch you in the balls.

I hate being pathetic.

See last post.

I hate waiting.

I hate waiting for people to come home from Hawaii.




Sigh.

I hate getting sleepy at 8 p.m.

Was it the four rum and cokes? The obscenely early wakeup call? The three hours of gossip?

If I go to bed now, will I wake up 12 times the way I did last night?

I hate that iTunes doesn't have Spell Check.

What's more embarrassing than having the soundtrack to Sweeney Todd pop up in your weekly top artists on Last.fm?



Spelling it incorrectly.

I hate bugs: update.

Right after I posted and googled " 'bug' AND 'apartment' AND 'kill' " the beast -- or at least, a beast appeared on the ceiling. I leapt into action and vacuumed that sucker up. Now I'm left contemplating calling an exterminator tomorrow and whatever friends and family that asshole left in my apartment. I've already windexed the whole kitchen and turned my heat off because wikipedia says cockroaches thrive in warmer temperatures.

I can't stop eyeing the vacuum -- as if the stupid bug is going to come flying out of the machine and spurt a thousand baby cockroaches out into my apartment.

I'm never going to sleep tonight. And it's already freezing in here.

I hate bugs.

I was peacefully reading in bed when I looked up and noticed a gigantic flying-type bug on the ceiling above me. I jumped up, grabbed the vacuum, and tried to suck it up, but it scuttled down the wall behind the bed. I blindly waved the vacuum attachment around under the bed, but I'm sure I didn't get it.

I'm not even willing to consider that it might have been a cockroach.

Sweet Jesus. What do I do?!

I hate those Snickers ads.

I don't really enjoy Snickers (I hate nuts), but even if I did, I wouldn't be able to enjoy them because of the DUMBEST AD CAMPAIGN EVER.

Anything ending in "-ectomy" cannot be appetizing.

I hate this picture.

Let's face it: Will Oldham is not a particularly attractive man. But this picture is just TOO MUCH CREEPY.

If American Apparel sold Evil, this is what the advertisement would look like:

I hate burning my tongue.

Goddamn soup! I've been sucking on ice cubes for 45 minutes, but there's no relief.

My body is falling apart.

I hate the fake Starbucks.

Dear Girl Working at the Barnes and Noble Cafe,

If I'm going to pay $1.75 plus tax for a blueberry muffin, I expect it to be a good muffin.

Also, when I order a Grande Caramel Frapp (because I'm so onto your lingo at this point) with a shot of espresso, don't warn me that it may be "liquidy" because of the espresso. I'm not paying four dollars for your disclaimers.

Love,
Tyler.

I hate when a cold becomes sickness.

Yesterday I felt pretty good! I was eating salad and oatmeal and I went running, for god's sake. The cold was a not-so-distant memory, but it was assuredly not present. Then I had a sushi date, who offered me more zicam, which I took not because I needed it, but as an extra precaution. See how safe and healthy I am?

Today I am sick. Fevery chills. Throat on fire. Bad night of sleep (could be blamed on sugar content of York Peppermint Patties and red wine combo, but whatever, let's blame it on the the sickness.

Now I'm starting to wonder if taking tomorrow off isn't really so ridiculous after all. I could use a day to sleep and eat soup and drink tea and moan about how awful I feel to my mom over the phone -- a person I have not spoken to in, oh, two weeks, but who really fits the criteria for someone I want to talk to now. Sympathetic, kind, willing to send me OTC medications and leftover Halloween candy in the mail because I am so poor, Mom, so so poor!