I hate drunk posting.

Reminds me of my LiveJournal days. Oh, college.

I hate rhetorical questions.

My question: WHY do people allow this shit to happen?

I hate Guitar Guitar Revolution.

I've never played Guitar Hero 2, but I did watch people play it once. I was really drunk, and watching the "chords" scroll up on the screen made me throw up.

I really have no desire to relive that, so I wish every dude I know would just let this Guitar Hero obsession go.

I still hate a lot.

I'm going to have to keep posting because I think Tyler has officially entered the wonderful world of Oz (with the poppies) while I lay around in bed for days at a time, feeling depressed, reading bad Joyce Carol Oates novels, and eating Tic Tacs for lunch.

- I still hate breaking up. Why is this not getting one iota better?
- I hate ironing. You iron. Then you wear it. Then you have to iron it again! Why does it take so much more effort to iron something than to wear it? Why is ironing so unfair?
- I hate cigarettes. I say this as a person who has never officially been addicted but has smoked 16 of them, none of them alcohol-related, in the past week. And I may go stand in the 10 degree weather in a minute and smoke another one.
- I hate that I bought a couch a month ago and it still hasn't been delivered. Havertys of Fairfax? When I bought a couch from you, I didn't expect great design or quality or even a deal. But I did expect a couch. Because I bought a fucking couch. So where is my goddamn couch?
- I hate feeling like I've been run over by a car for 16 hours a day. I'm fine for the eight hours I'm at work and completely engaged. But the second I walk out the door of my office, I just want to lay down on the street and sleep forever. But instead I go home and I sit in my ugly gold chair (because I don't have a couch) and I lean back and pretend that it's possible that I could sleep even for a couple hours with the help of my so-not-working-these-days sleep aides. Benadryl and melatonin: What happened to you? I thought you were my friends.
- I hate my bangs. They're too thin and overgrown.

At least I have a hair appointment on Wednesday. Then maybe I'll stock up on some Nyquil and drunk dial Havertys.

I hate...a lot.

Among the things I've hated this week:

- Breaking up. It always sucks.
- Changing my myspace profile relationship status. That was almost worse than breaking up. Almost.
- Roaches. Specifically the one that was chilling out on the wall when I got out of my shower on Monday morning.
- The cold. I like the cold, but it makes it difficult to want to walk the four miles home from work, something I usually enjoy.
- The exterminator. For not showing up today. Thanks, dude.
- Bean sprouts. Why do you just not taste good unless you're prepared in a restaurant?
- My car insurance. It was due this week. It basically stole an entire paycheck.
- Dehydration.
- Having absolutely zero plans for the weekend. Oh except work. Ha, wonderful work.

I hate pain.

I hate when I burn my mouth on otherwise delicious food.

Amy's Roasted Veggies in a Pita? I heart you. Even with your piping hot caramelized onions.

I hate angst.

I hate when all the melatonin in the world will not help me fall back asleep.

I hate seagulls.

Why the hell do you sound like a trumpet? What are you doing right in front of my apartment in Washington, DC, where the seagulls hover but never land? Why are you so goddamn loud? It's 8:50 a.m. on a Saturday. Fly away!

I hate it when my McDonald's closes.

Last Friday I walked to McDonald's on my lunch break, only to discover that the doors were locked. I figured that they were taking an extra day off to celebrate Martin Luther King Day (it's kind of the Chicago Black History McDonald's), and I didn't really think about it again until yesterday my co-worker mentioned it was closed because of health code violations.

So now it's open again, and I'm stuck with a problem: Do I go back to that McDonald's? I mean, I knew it was gross - it was a McDonald's - but out of sight, out of mind, right?

Look, McDonald's: You don't tell me about your health code violations and I won't complain about how YOU ALWAYS FUCKING PUT CHEESE ON MY HAMBURGER EVEN THOUGH I SPECIFICALLY TELL YOU NOT TO.

I hate stupid lyrics on Myspace.

I really hate people who put song lyrics in the "About Me" section of their myspace profiles. It's like saying, I'm not sure how to describe myself, but Bon Jovi, who has never met me, does an awesome job of it. Or maybe it's the Postal Service.

Did you know Bon Jovi has a cousin who makes speaker systems for cars? It's true. His name is Tony Bongiovi.

I hate the trials of my life.

The diet Pepsi is in the trunk of my car. The car is down three flights of stairs and a fifty-yard walk in the cold. Woe is me.

I hate new years resolutions.

Personally, I don't make them. Unfortunately, I suffer when other people do.

So I had been editing my thesis* for the past five hours, breaking only for super-imperative phone calls about how much Babel sucked and a frozen burrito, and I decided that if I really planned on making the six pages' worth of "light revisions"** my advisor recommended for my 62-page document of doom, I better take a real break. So I went to the gym with the intention of running my carpal tunnel off to Le Tigre, but nooooo ... all eight machines are in use at 7 p.m. on a Saturday. Wtf?



* Code for "reading blogs"
** Code for "massive overhaul." Joke's on Megan.

I hate ruined holiday weekends.

I hate when a perfectly good three-day weekend turns into a marathon thesis-editing session.

Which is exactly why I chose to go out last night and wake up at noon today. You know. So I'm well rested and shit.

Two drafts, six days, and four drives out to Virginia left to go.

I hate Burt's Bees.

For years people have been telling me how Burt's Bees is The Shit and when I finally spend more than two dollars on a tiny little tube at Walgreen's for it, I discover that my lips are STILL chapped and the wax is receding very, very quickly.

I hate thieves with balls.

I hate when I go down to my apartment building's laundry room and see a girl in sweatpants going through my clothing in the dryer. Then you approach her and say, "I think those are my clothes," and she reponds, "I was just making sure there was nothing of mine in there." I hate that too.

Because wtf does it mean?!

Were you stealing my clothes? Did you think I was stealing your clothes? Something tells me the latter isn't likely. Please back away from the dryer.

It's a good thing I air dry most of my clothes. Although, you know, my gym socks are pretty damn sexy. To say nothing of my hand towels. Hot!

I hate Jeb Bush.

Ladies and Gentlemen, our obsession with the Blackberry has gone TOO FAR.

I hate coming back to work.

I spent all day yesterday thinking, "Yeah! 2007 is going to ROCK SO HARD, y'all!" There was so much optimism floating around in my head, it was almost hard for me to believe that I started this blog. "Hating things? That's so 2006."

And then the alarm went off at six this morning, and I realized that I did have to go to work because I would lose my holiday pay if I called-in. And now I remember why I hate my life.

My mother has the day off because of Gerald Ford's death. I told her she better spend the day mourning her ass off.