I hate nasty foods.

Ok, I will admit it: I am not a good cook. I can make pasta, salad, macaroni, various forms of stir fry, pasta and pretty much anything that comes out of a box(seriously, I'm super good at following directions, I have a dog-like obedience at times).

And I'm ok with my limited abilities, really, I am. My mom did not cook for me growing up (minus the occasional macaroni and cake - wait, do you see a pattern?) so she either took me and gutenmegan out to eat, let my dad make us dinner (too many hot dogs blown up in the microwave have a direct correlation to why I am a vegetarian), or let us eat whatever we wanted.

So until I came to college, it wasn't really an issue. I never even thought about it. But suddenly, potlucks are always everywhere and I feel somewhat forced to try garbanzo bean dip or vegan riblets when I would really much rather be eating a sandwich. No offense dudes, I'm just not an adventurous eater and the fact that you spent 8 hours making this dish just makes me feel even more guilty for not enjoying it.

And I'm not trying to say I don't appreciate the efforts of good cooks. I'm obviously a great fan of the restaurant experience, and I dig having others make food for me.

Regardless, I take great offense to people that assume not being able to cook is a massive character flaw on my part and will result in any of the following:
1) "You'll never get married! Boys only like girls who cook!" (I'm quaking in my sneaks)
2) Never being fully healthy (I think I probably have other things to worry about concerning my health besides my dependence on boxed foodstuffs)
3) "Cooking is like soooo social, who doesn't love having dinner parties and showing off your favorite dish!" (It's called a restaurant, I'll even pay. Seriously. Look into it. And when it comes to showing off my favorite dish, well, um, would you care to sample my wit?)

I hate it when people purposely set clocks ahead.

Let's face it, it never works! You always end up standing there for a full minute, screwing up your forehead while you do the math to figure out what time it really is, debating whether this clock is 5, 10, 0r 20 minutes ahead and how late you'll be if you stay put for a few more minutes.

This is why the idea never works. You always know the clock is incorrect, so you don't get "a move on"(as my mom would say) like you should.

You're not fooling anyone with your faux punctuality! Get used to being late!

I hate the following things about the Oscars:

1. James Taylor's eyebrows.

2. An Inconvenient Truth won an award for BEST ORIGINAL SONG.

3. Jack Nicholson's bald head.

4. Michael Mann's film-school editing of "American images."

5. Little Miss Sunshine won best original screenplay.

6. Peter O'Toole's reaction shots. We get it - he's really old and doesn't get the jokes anymore. Leave him alone!

7. Seriously. Melissa Etheridge.

8. The idea that this year's Oscar's were "green" despite the cans and cans of hairspray that went into Beyonce's hair.

Although, I shouldn't complain considering my winnings in the Oscar pool. Seventeen correct picks!

I hate the smell of macaroni and cheese.

For some reason, I've developed a pregnant woman's sense of smell lately. So I know my neighbor has eaten macaroni and cheese for dinner at least three nights in the past week. And I'm repulsed.


My question is this: Who eats avocado on their macaroni and cheese? I know this picture is from a site called classymeals.com, but seriously. Do the flavors even go together?

And since I would bet you $100 you're not grossed out by that picture, I present you with this:


Now I hope you have the same nightmares I do about cheese.

I hate weather.com.

"Wintery mix," my ass, weather.com. There's a solid three inches on the ground and the snow is showing no signs of slowing.

I hate dreams.

On Friday night, I dreamt that I woke up and there were waves of little ants coming out of the walls and running across my bed. With a few beetles thrown in. So I jumped up and grabbed the vacuum, spent what felt like hours vacuuming them up.

I don't normally remember my dreams so vividly, so I decided to look it up.

Vacuum
To see a vacuum in your dream, suggests feelings of emptiness. You may be experiencing a void in your life. Alternatively, you may need to clean up your act and your attitude.

To dream that you are vacuuming, signifies a loss of control.

Ants
To see ants in your dream, signifies your general dissatisfaction in your daily life. You are feeling neglected and insignificant. Petty things will annoy you throughout the following day. You will learn that cooperation will be the only way to achieve your desires.

And for good measure:

Bug
To see a bug in your dream, suggests that you are worried about something. It is symbolic of your anxieties and/or fears. What is literally bugging you? Consider also the popular phrase "bitten by the bug" to imply your strong emotional ties or involvement to some activity/interest/hobby. Alternatively, the bug may be representative of your sexual thoughts.

Something tells me it's going to be a bad week.

I hate drunk dialing.

But at least I had the sense to hang up before anyone answered.

Unfamiliar bar, unfamiliar people, getting very familiar with an entire bottle of wine ...

I hate that people rely on the internet for EVERYTHING.

I'm an Internet person. It helps me get good grades in school and learn about books and news and music and other things I love.

I spend a lot of time reading blogs. I like to Google. I like to Google image even more. Wikipedia and I get along even better and sometimes I spend embarrassing amounts of time engaged with my favorite pal.

Regardless of all of that, sometimes I just want to talk to a real live person when I'm having issues with say, my bank account, or my computer, or the Post Office. So when websites don't readily provide a phone number for me to talk to a real live person, well, I get fussy and write blog entries about it.

I hate your ballsy fashion choices.

I hate it when temps think they've been here long enough (two months) that they think it's perfectly fine to wear jeans on a Monday.

I hate spilling coffee.

I hate spilling coffee on my pajama pants. My parents are coming to visit today and it's the first time they've seen my apartment since they helped me move in six months ago. I've been running around all morning, cleaning and vacuuming and trying to make it look like I've been regularly polishing my hideous inherited 1930s furniture so my mother doesn't freak out. I stopped for a little neck-resting break (the pain, it lingers ... and it's now spread to my back) and promptly spilled half a cup of coffee all over my pajama pants and the floor.

Sigh.

I hate pain.

Last night I went to my first dance party in ages. The theme of the dance party was "crap music." I danced to Whitney Houston's "I Want to Dance with Somebody." I drank. I shook my hair. I crashed into some people. I spilled water all over myself. I think I scared my friends a little. It was the best couple hours I've had since moving to DC six months ago.

It's about 20 hours later and my body hurts so much I can't move. My legs hurt. My neck is killing me. It feels like someone stabbed me with a hot poker near my left collarbone. And my ear looks kind of...burnt. No idea why.

I felt fine all morning, but as soon as I got home, I laid down on my bed and haven't moved since. I'm in a lot of pain. No more dance parties for a while.

I hate ice.

If it weren't for you, I'd be getting ready for the Apples in Stereo and Casper and the Cookies show right now!

I hate that 32 degrees is WARM.

Shit, Chicago. I'd move to Miami if I didn't hate Florida.

I hate smoking.

I smoked eight cigarettes yesterday and I feel like shit today.

I'd sort of kind of quit. I think it's time to do that again.

I hate my old blog. And I hate deleting it.

I finally deleted my other blog, the one I haven't posted in for more than two years. I kept deleting it and then reactivating it, scared that I'd lose three years of writing.

But then I told someone about it, not someone who necessarily would have cared to read it or would have even bothered to find it (although with the help of my name, a Google search, and a certain Sinister mailing list, it would not have taken a Google-savvy person long to find it), but I suddenly grew very self-conscious.

Because what you wrote when you were 19 and drunk no longer seems very funny when you're just shy of 25. It makes you feel stupid. And embarrassed. And man, was I passive aggressive!

I hate this word.

witticisms

I hate the word. Among other things.