I hate in-between-medication time.

I hate when you take non-drowsy stuff all day for a cold and then 2 hours before you want to go to bed, it all wears off. And you want to take something -- you need to take something -- because you like to breathe but if you take non-drowsy OTC medicine then you'll be up 2-4 hours later than you want and if you take the nighttime stuff, you're out like a light at 7 p.m.

Good night.

I hate when CVS loses my prescription ...

... and then acts like it's my fault.

I hate: a litany.

I hate never having time to clean my apartment.

I hate ten-hour work days.

I hate my haircut.

I hate my hairdresser.

I hate eating oatmeal for dinner because I have nothing else to eat.

I hate Marlboros.

I hate waking up before the alarm.

Today was supposed to be a later-than-usual start with me, because my flight doesn't leave until noon. So I set my alarm for 7 a.m., thinking that gave me plenty of time for sleep and packing and getting to the airport.

And then my body woke me up at 1:30. Which began a wee-early-morning-hours trend. First it was a nightmare about missing my flight. Then it was a nightmare about losing someone important. Then it was a dream involving cornflakes that was, at the time, disturbing for some reason. Then there was a nightmare that Southwest lost my luggage. Then continued dreams about things going wrong at work until finally, at 5:30 a.m., I gave up.

All those lost hours of sleep. Sigh.

I hate packing.

I fly to Vegas tomorrow for a couple days and the trip has been planned for six months. I could have started packing weeks ago! At the very least, I could have done some laundry. Or pulled my suitcase out from under the bed.

Instead I have 12 hours until the cab comes to pick me up, and I have to spent 40 minutes of it running and 8 of it sleeping, and three of it doing work I didn't have a chance to finish last week. Which means no time for laundry or ironing or getting my suit pants hemmed. But I did find plenty of time this weekend to hang out at Asylum and sit on the curb and smoke and wander up and down 14th Street for five hours because the weather was so fucking gorgeous and download tons of new music and drink five rum and diet cokes, three 25-cent beers, two bottles of wine and five cups of coffee.

I hate being dehydrated, too.

I hate dreaming about tofu.

I like tofu. I like to cook it. I like to eat it. I don't mind buying it.

But I really don't like dreaming about huge, wobbly, skyscraper-high towers of gleaming white tofu. It's just too unsettling of an image for my 5:00 a.m. wake-up call. Particularly when the towers of tofu are so tall, you're afraid they will fall over and suffocate you in bean curd.

I hate half-empty bottles of wine.

Because then you go home from work and stare at them. And stare and stare. And want to drink. And drink and drink. Hmm mmmm.

I hate dust.

In the interest of posting something, I am posting about how I hate dust. I hate looking at dust. I hate cleaning dust. I hate feeling dust. I'm not even allergic to the damn stuff. I hate how I let the dust in my apartment represent everything I have ever procrastinated about in life.

Now I challenge you to find a person who does not hate dust.

I hate getting emails like this.

Look, I'm SO SORRY, Natalie, that my life isn't full of HATE right now. Instead of letting me just ENJOY THAT, YOU, my friend, are DETERMINED to make me all angsty and aggravated just so you'll have a way to PROCRASTINATE.

You're lucky it's Friday, MISSY, otherwise I wouldn't take time out of my busy schedule of playing TextTwist to appease you.

PS. I have a headache. You caught me at a good time.

PPS. I'll try to get real shitty tonight so I'll have something to regret / hate about myself in the morning? K?!




(Also, I don't really hate you. I love the comments! :P)

I hate moving.

My feet hurt.

My back hurts.

My hands hurt.

My biceps hurt.

My throat hurts.

I can't find my bottle opener.


Next time, I'm going to pay to have someone else move my shit and let their bodies deal with the aftermath.

I hate mice.

I hate when I'm relaxing on my couch, watching a movie, and I spot a mouse making its way from the living room to the kitchen.

I really hate when I scream and run out of the apartment, locking myself out.

And I really really hate when I get the front desk to let me back in, and I'm sitting on my couch, and I see the mouse squeeze under the kitchen door and mosey its way back through the living room to the vent.

The building's "engineer" is on his way. But I stood outside in the dark and the heat, listening to my dad describe different types of mouse traps for half an hour, and the guy is still not here. My dad convinced me it was safe to come back up to my apartment, but I've turned on all the lights and propped my feet up.

Do you know how difficult it is to scream when you've lost your voice?

I hate being 25 (temporarily).

I'm not one of those people who can't stand the idea of getting older. I'm only 25, so that's easy to say to say now, but I'm typically not one to moan about birthdays.

That said, I have never wanted to be a kid more than I did last night when Kelly and I wandered around the 12-block fake Diagon Alley that was set up in Alexandria last night for the release of the last Harry Potter book.

So in other words, I hate being lame.

I hate coughing.

I think I've got the black lung, Pop.


Ugh.

I hate realizing I'm sick right when my plane lands.

Because I lost most of my hearing for a solid 48 hours. And then I got a temperature. And then I starting coughing. And wheezing. And sleeping. And working throughout it all, because I am lame.

At least I wasn't sick in Chicago last weekend.

I hate street performers.

They're quite nice in Once, but when they sit outside the fence of a music festival and play the theme song from The Addams Family on their saxophone repeatedly for an hour, it's not so cute. Especially when you're sitting all the way in the back of the park on blankets (because standing all day in the sun with a few other thousand people just to get "close" to the New Pornographers is for idiots) and the obnoxious saxophone is overpowering the music coming from the stage.

I hate waiting for my couch.

If you've spent any amount of time with me in the past seven months, you'd know that I bought a couch in December. And in March, when it was supposed to be delivered ... well, it wasn't. Thank you, Furniture Store I Will Not Name, for taking my money, failing to deliver the product I paid for, and treating me like shit every time I called to ask where my fucking couch was. I canceled the order.

I ordered another couch. A prettier couch. A more expensive couch. A modern-looking couch. A couch that will probably clash with all my inherited ancient furniture. And it should be here by the end of next week, which is awesome, because, you know, I'll be in Chicago at the end of next week. Not in D.C. With my couch. My beloved couch. With a foldout bed, for those of you who care for those sorts of things, a foldout bed!

Couch, when you get here, I will love you forever. And so will Kelly. Believe me, so will Kelly.

I hate when I run out of food.

I hate when there's no food in my apartment. So far today I've had almonds, cherries, an english muffin and an apple.

I think I'm going to have to have red wine for dinner. Because this is all that's left on the counter:

I hate it when Megan posts about me.

I hate it when Megan posts about me and the embarrassing situations that I often find myself in two days in a row!

It's not my fault! I promise!

It was HER friends that bought me so many drinks that I got loud/obnoxious/screamy drunk and then decided to take a nap outside of the Black Cat at 2:30 a.m.

It was HER that encouraged me to buy the "cute shoes" that lead to my downfall and her subsequent photography session documenting my pain.

I hate Kelly's shoes.

All day long Kelly whined about her shoes. Then as we were walking down the hallway to my apartment after work, Kelly goes, "My shoes are suddenly slippery."

It was a bloodbath.


Megan was sad, too. Kelly's serious injuries meant we were forced to abandon our plans of a nacho-and-sangria dinner at Alero down the street. Defrosted cheesecake for dinner again.

I hate hurting my neck.

I hate when I dance so hard, I injure myself.

This morning I can't rotate my head.

I'm not sure if that's more or less distressing that the bruise Kelly is sporting on her eyelid. Yes, that's right. Her eyelid.

I hate vomit.

I hate when Kelly vomits in the bathroom trash can. But it was sweet of her to move it by the door. Because that way, I don't have to see it. Just smell it.

I hate Zach Braff and Spring Awakening. (Double whammy!)

I like musical theatre just fine, thank you, but I hate Spring Awakening. Maybe I'm just more mature than I was ten years ago and I'd rather listen to the soundtrack to Company rather than Rent. And possibly, I hate shows that are geared toward TEENAGERS because they're about TEENAGERS singing music that TEENAGERS like. Duncan Shiek? Fuck you.

Also, the juxtaposition of Spring Awakening and Zach Braff makes me want to die.



PS. Way to mispronounce "controversial," buddy.

I hate Sundays.

I woke up today determined to do something, but I really wanted to do something on a very low-energy level. So I went to the movies, where I saw Once and thought about boys and generally made myself miserable for no reason. Then I decided to walk around Whole Foods, where I can't afford to buy anything, so I just salivated over the hothouse fruit for a while. After the fake grocery shopping, I decided to check out the Container Store across the street. I've always thought the Container Store was a euphemism for something much more interesting. I thought it was like a pared down Pottery Barn or something, and I need placemats! I was wrong though. It's just containers. All kinds of containers. So I got bored and really tired and took the subway to a real grocery store where I bought pineapple and oatmeal.

I've walked up and down a dozen escalators today and it's hot and I'm supposed to go to a show tonight, but ehhh. Maybe I'd rather smoke cigarettes and read my book up on the roof all night.

I hate my neighbor.

No, really, I'm kidding. I love listening to him play video games for eight hours while I lay in bed, hungover with burning lungs and no air conditioning on.

I hate ironing and listening to sad music.

That's what I've got right now.

A list of hate, part two.

I hate running into my enemies at expensive open bar events, even if I can laugh that I did not pay fifty-five dollars for a ticket. But still, do not want enemy time.

I hate getting unsolicited text messages that just open flood gates for emotions I'm not prepared to deal with, especially after lots of free booze at said open bar.

I hate coming to the realization that I'm not a very good person, and that I don't treat people the way they should be treated.

I hate not being able to take compliments on my attractiveness, although I should really place blame on what was, I suppose, a twenty-year-long awkward stage which, apparently, I just broke out of.

I hate having five-hour-long drunk dreams about an ex, only to wake up with swollen eyes and a whole ton of confusion.

I hate being awake to see the sun come up, because the last time that happened was eight months ago, and I was feeling much nicer things about the person I've having such conflicted feelings toward now.

I hate having to hear I'm a genuine, good person, when it's so clearly difficult for people to figure this out from the beginning. I suppose To Know Me Is To Love Me, but I just wish it didn't take so goddamn long for people to come to that conclusion. After all, it definitely impedes my job search results.

I hate dancing.

It's all fun and games until your air conditioning turns off and you crash into a coat rack.

My head hurts.

I hate bees.

I hate when a gigantic bumblebee runs me out of my house. I'm allergic, dammit!

I hate public displays of affection.

If I could pick just one mid-year resolution, it would be to stop making-out on the street while strangers pass by.

I hate sucking up my favorite thong with the vaccuum cleaner.

I'm not kidding.

I seriously hate this weather.

I don't know how much more I can take of this. I don't know why I'm suddenly so bothered by 80 degree weather, but I. cannot. stand. it. When it was 35 degrees outside, I managed to get myself outside every weekend, but now I'm facing my second free day of 70+ degree weather, and I just want to sit in my apartment with coffee and the blinds closed.

Gah.

And my leg is asleep. Just another incentive to stay ghostly pale all summer, right?

I hate earwax.

I hate when the RCN guy and his lackey take two and a half hours to "fix" my wireless connection. I also hate when their phones die and they borrow mine, leaving earwax all over the screen.

Dis. gust. ing.

I hate being misunderstood.

When you tell someone, "Hey, I don't want you or your ex-boyfriend to ever speak to me again," one might usually take that to mean, "Hey, this guy doesn't want me to contact him in ANY WAY."

Apparently, the Ex's Ex has a problem with communication. Specifically: he doesn't get that I'd like to avoid any with him. And he thinks it's perfectly appropriate to come up to me in a bar and ask if I'm "well."

Dude, stop pretending that you don't read my blog. You know I'm fine.

Also? You're a douche.

I hate when my cardigans smell.

I have two sets of cardigans. Wool ones for winter and cotton ones for every other time of year. I have ten cardigans (two brown, three black, one red, one green, one pink, one cream, and one white) that I finally pulled out of my closet because winter is definitely over.

All ten cardigans smell faintly like bars I hung out in last summer. Stale cigarette smoke and beer and rum and dirt.

Friday night laundry!

I hate plaid shorts.

I'm all about embracing my WASPiness for the sake of irony*, which explains my recent boat shoes purchase. But I will never - NEVER - own plaid shorts. I'm already anti-shorts because my legs are too skinny and also so white that I might cause car crashes. Blinding. Blinding drivers.

Also, why ruin plaid by putting it on shorts? Shorts are for white-trash people. White trash don't wear plaid!



















*I totally read the J. Crew catalogue for the sake of irony, as well.

I hate Kristen Bell.

I've seen about twenty minutes of Veronica Mars and I hated it. I'm sorry, Internet, but I don't take Nancy Drew type of stories seriously. Also, Kristen Bell annoys the hell out of me. It's just something about her dumb voice that does it to me.

I've been watching Deadwood on DVD and I cringed when she came onto the show with her dumb-looking face. Then she started saying "fuck" in every sentence and tried to seduce Kim Dickens and I was like, "Oh, please. Get over yourself, Kristen Bell." And then she stabbed Powers Boothe and I cheered him on as he beat her in the head. I don't think I've ever been on Powers Boothe's side. Ever.

Also, I think I've been watching too much Deadwood.

I hate summer in D.C.

I love living in D.C. But I hate heat. And I hate sweating. And I hate being hot.

Summer + D.C. = hell.

Megan likes to layer. Megan likes cardigans. And boots. And her super-fun winter hat that cost way too much but always gets her lots of compliments from strangers.

It's supposed to be above 75 degrees every day for the next ten days, according to weather.com

I'm going to melt.

And freckle.

I hate getting drunk and losing shit.

Last night I went with a friend to the Science Club and drank too much wine. I kept reminding myself not to forget my sunglasses, which were pushed off to the side of table (note to self: you carry a large purse for a reason. next time, place sunglasses inside purse).

So of course I left them there.

After I got home and went to bed, I kept waking up from these horrible dreams in which I'd lost my sunglasses. And I kept waking up and saying to myself, "Megan, they're just sunglasses. Why are you being like this? This is not important."

Today I went back to the bar, where the very nice bartender found my sunglasses for me.

I think my brain is actively trying to find something to worry about the way I worried about my thesis for, oh, 18 months.

I hate synchronicity.

Kelly: Guess what?!
Megan: What?
Kelly: I just bought the new Bjork and Feist albums!
Megan: Wha-aaat? Just now?
Kelly: Yeah, I just left Best Buy.
Megan: You're kidding.
Kelly: No. Why?
Megan: I just bought the new Bjork and Feist albums.
Kelly: Just now?
Megan: I clicked "complete order" on Amazon.com just before you called.
Kelly: Fuck.

Kelly is coming to live with me for the summer. We will have two copies each of the new Feist and Bjork albums.

I hate writer's block.

This morning I had the first GChat conversation with Megan that didn't involve lots of sighs and frowny faces in response to her hateful thesis jargon. Here's an excerpt:

Me: man, will you have anything to write about in TWH now?
Megan: HAHA
Megan: i don't know!
Megan: maybe i can write about normal things, like how i hate that dustin diamond MADE himself fat to go on celebrity fit club for the money and fame
Me: hahahaha
Megan: i truly believe that

Whew. We're all okay.

I hate Megan's thesis, part II.

I'm agreeing with Tyler

I hate Megan's thesis.

Seriously, Internet, I think we're all in the same boat here. If I didn't live half-way across the country, I would be getting Megan seriously, seriously fucked up tomorrow night after she turns that shit in.

I hate my printer.

I hate when my printer runs out of ink the night before my thesis is due.

Seriously, God, what's the problem?

I hate my computer.

I hate when my laptop dies four days before my thesis is due.

The good part is that most of the paper was backed up elsewhere. The bad part is fourfold:

1) I lost three hours' worth of major edits to my introduction.
2) I had to take the day off work to redo the edits I made last night pre-death and finish up the rest.
3) I wandered around Cleveland Park at 10 p.m. last night searching for an eyeglasses kit so I could use the mini-screwdriver to open up the back of my computer, like the Dell tech folks told me too. After finding one in the last of three stores, the damn thing broke before I could get my computer open.
4) Of course, the stress of all this only magnified my sleep problems, and despite heavy melatonin consumption, I only managed about four hours of sleep.

So now I feel guilty for taking the day off, mad at my computer, frustrated with my thesis committee, overwhelmed by the massive amount of revisions I still need to do, and tired. Prime writing conditions, wouldn't you say?

I hate that I had to miss this.

We all know what the big hate in my life right now is: the thesis. I have maybe an hour's worth of work today in terms of revisions and then I have to edit my abstact because I was informed last night via email that I have no idea how to write an abstract, so please rewrite immediately.

Anyway, I'm sad because I've spent the last week week editing this damn thing and missed not only the entire ten days of the D.C. film festival but also Jane Seymour's opening reception for her art show in Alexandria, Va.

Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, does D.C. and I had to miss it!

I hate wishing I had TV sometimes.

I really don't miss TV very much, mainly because I watch four to six movies a week, work a lot, and have this damn thesis to do (T-minus six days).

But sometimes you just get a Saturday afternoon craving for Golden Girls.


I think it's because I saw Betty White on that damn PetMeds commercial while I was at the gym.

I hate laziness.

Especially my own.

But I can say this: I am halfway through the last set of revisions of my thesis. It's due on May 4, by 5 p.m. Before then I need to edit the second half, write the abstract, give copies to my whole committee, make last minute adjustments, print it twice, gather signatures, and hand it in at the library.

This seems doable. And for the first time ever, I felt a twinge of pride this afternoon as I rewrote the introduction for the 11th time in the past six months. I may despise my topic and resent my department for stifling my two original thesis ideas, but that only makes the final product feel like more of an accomplishment. It takes genuine effort and several hundred dollars' worth of coffee (even instant is expensive if you drink enough of it) to write 70 pages on a topic you couldn't care less about.

I hate being a jerk.

Do you know how hard it is to keep from being passive aggressive in this blog?

I hate heat.

Have I mentioned this before? I don't like to be in a temperature warmer than 72 degrees Fahrenheit if I can help it. Which means that today, which was a balmy 70 degrees, is the last day I will be comfortable outside in D.C. until the first week of October.

I'm already dreading tomorrow.

I hate wakefulness.

I hate waking up 2 hours before I need to and being unable to go back to sleep.

I hate coming home.

I hate coming home from a semi-vacation. I got home from Miami around 2 p.m. today and spent the afternoon catching up on emails and blogs and looking over my thesis adviser's revisions on the first 42 pages of my thesis. As things stand right now, in terms of returned email and thesis revisions, life is a little scary.

The thesis is due in less than two weeks. I'm going to use some leave both this week and next to get this damn thing done. I basically only have the conclusion to edit, ahem, I mean rewrite, and then need to go back and do general edits throughout the whole document.

Keep your fingers crossed!

I hate Amy Winehouse.

OK, I'll admit that I hate / love Amy Winehouse. I hate that she's a big ol' drunk who just don't care, but I also love that she is a HOT MESS. She's replaced Lily Allen as Britain's Sweetheart, at least in my head (I can't speak for the Brits, because I don't get them).

I also love how unpredictable this gal is. She's like a volcano, and we're all waiting for Mt. St. Amy to blow any second now.

But still, I love her voice, and any one who has anything produced by Mark Ronson is at the top of my list right now. Even if she rhymes "addicted" with "a dick did." Sorry, Amy. There's no way I'm letting you get away with that one.

I hate exhaustion.

I hate how exhausted I am by Wednesday every week.

I need to pack for Miami, but all I've done since I got home from work is knit a little and listen to the Essex Green and eat a cookie.

I hate my dinner.

I ate a third of a box of croutons for dinner. Am I lazy or poor? You decide.

I hate my thesis. Part 9,384,509,384,530,985

I'm not the only one. Tyler hates it. Kelly hates it. My parents hate it. My thesis committee hates it. My co-workers at my last several jobs, both full-time and part-time, over the past two years hate it. Anyone who talks to me at least once every six months hates it. The, ahem, third deadline is on the horizon, less than two weeks away, and so I've sitting on my bed for about an hour, doing what I do best and most: Reading blogs that are entirely unrelated to my thesis ... which is about blogs.

So now, in the interest of prolonging my thesis pain, I present a list of things I like to do instead of writing my thesis, and I hope that in two weeks this list can be retitled as things I like to do and never feel guilty about:

1) Dancing alone in my apartment. This is really No. 1. Always and forever. Sorry, neighbors.
2) Furniture window-shopping online -- because I'm way too busy writing my thesis to actually go to the store and purchase furniture. Besides, if I actually purchased any furniture for my apartment, there would be no room left to dance.
3) Reading novels that have nothing to do with blogs or Victorian literature.
4) Cooking, a hobby I adopted several months before a looming thesis deadline (the second of three).
5) Knitting, the hobby I pick up for a week at a time, then abandon for two months. Or two years.
6) Walking home from work, a journey that offers two music stores, six, count them, six bookstores, two bridges, a zoo and Filene's Basement.
7) Buying coffee instead of drinking instant. Paying tuition requires money and since I am too overwhelmed by my thesis efforts to focus properly on my part-time freelance gig, a girl must make sacrifices.
8) Running. I will be fresh out of excuses not to do this six times a week, once May 4th rolls around. I don't really like it, but I like my calf muscles. And I am vain.
9) Searching for jobs in Germany that I will likely never apply for. Because I am still homesick, 11 years later.
10) Seeing friends. I use my thesis as an excuse not to go out all the time, and I always regret it.

This is obviously a list of things I like, rather than a list of things I hate, but I've been prevented from doing almost all of these things as much as I'd like while I've been working on my thesis. So, in effect, I hate the absence of all these things.

....

And if anyone is interested in an unpaid freelance editing job, please comment! I will gladly email you my 75-page document and you can track changes in Word as much as you like!

I hate having to de-friend people on Facebook.

When you find out, through the grapevine, as they say, that the person with whom you spent the last five months in a relationship was planning to break up with you for weeks but avoided it because you were in a horrible emotional state (you know, because your father had CANCER), and instead led you on and perhaps insulted and treated you like shit in order for you to want the relationship to finally end, it's not very hard to delete them from your online network as well as your off-line one. But it seems somewhat appropriate (and deliciously immature) to de-friend them online first before you call them to explain what a sick fuck they are in real life.

And then you write a blog about it, because it's 3:45 in the morning and you're sobering up, livid, and happy that, soon, you'll have them out of your fucking life.

This is all hypothetical, of course.

I hate the blue screen of death.

I hate when I set aside a whole afternoon to edit the last chapter of my thesis, get myself all set up with coffee, food, paper, pens, etc. at the coffee shop, and then get the blue screen of death from my temperamental laptop.

My computer only likes to do this when the circumstances are particularly dire, for instance when I have two weeks until my thesis is due or when I'm working at a conference and am required to submit my work via email.



Anyway, now I'm home and hopped up on coffee and completely unmotivated to work on anything.

I hate bars with a twenty-dollar minimum.

So I got home from work yesterday and immediately got into bed because I was tired. I didn't anticipate falling asleep, even though I've taken a nap every afternoon this week. Granted, I started these naps around five o'clock - not six o'clock, which I KNEW was a bad idea. But I was watching Deadwood on my laptop and something about those cussin' cowboys put me right to sleep.

And then I woke up at 10:30. I slept for four hours. I woke up when a friend called to invite me to meet him at a bar, which is the type of invitation I don't turn down, even though I know it's a really stupid decision to go out after sleeping through dinner.

I got to the bar and started a tab and the bald, tattooed lady bartender told me there was a twenty-dollar minimum to open a tab. Thus, my third poor choice of the night, because after my first two five-dollar gin and tonics, which weren't very good to begin with, I thought, "Fuuuuck, I'm drunk but I have to get two more drinks!" Then I got two whiskey sours that came in tiny little cups that everyone thought were cute. And then I could barely stand up.

But joke's on you, lady bartender! Apparently someone else bought my last whiskey sour and my tab came to sixteen dollars! I don't get it, but I like it! Ha!

I hate smoking neighbors.

Neighbor, if you're going to insist on chainsmoking for every hour you spend awake in your apartment (including the last four), I'm going to have to continue playing the Feist video on Tyler's blog as loud as my laptop will let it.

I hate injury.

Just when my supposed dislocated shoulder pain had faded into nothing, I go to a bar, sit on a barstool for four hours, and leave with shooting pains up and down my right forearm. That was Thursday night. It's Saturday morning and there is a bright blue vein pulsing visibly in my arm where the pain is. What does this mean?!

I think it means I shouldn't go back to Rocket Bar. Once I've been injured physically there, and once I humiliated myself in front of co-workers. No more Rocket Bar for Megan.

I hate tourists.

I hate when it's 80 degrees on April 2 and you're wearing a dress and some fancy under-dress underwear combination that's only got a precarious hold on your body and really uncomfortable shoes, and your heels are bleeding, and you're trying to read a book while standing on the Metro and clutching an enormous bag full of dirty Tupperware that's been piling up in your office drawer for two weeks, and you notice a family of tourists staring at you.

And when you slowly look up from your book, the mom pipes up, "So what's it like to live in the nation's capital?"

And all you really want to do is ask one of her kids if she'd be so kind as to crouch down and reattach the band-aid on your heel that is flapping in the humid subway breeze, but instead you say, "It's expensive."




Seriously, what did they want me to say? "Every day I wake up thinking about President Lincoln, and then I thank God that I live in a city where I can buy a quarter-pound of grapes for $12."

I hate people who blog about television.

And not just because I'm too cheap to get cable and live in a building that can't access even local channels. I hate it because blogging about TV is boring.

I hate people who don't recognize their age.

I hate people in their mid-twenties who insist on going on Spring Break.

I hate neighbors who think they can sing opera.

Shut the fuck up.

I hate underdeveloped senses of humor.

When asked what I want to do tonight, the appropriate answer would be: "Die."

Unfortunately, no one else thinks that's as funny as I do.

I hate Corus Bank.

Last night I went to CVS to get a prescription filled. Because it's 2007, and I only write checks to my landlord, I planned to use my debit card. Of course, that was declined, which wasn't very reassuring because I look like I'm one of those people who can't afford their thirty-dollar prescriptions and have to drive up to Canada to stock up.

So I called my bank today since there was obviously something wrong, since my balance was definitely not under thirty dollars. And I got a lovely lady, Jasmine, on the phone, who informed me that my card had been "compromised" and they sent me a new one last week. (Let's not even think about how my card had been compromised, yet they waiting an extra week before they closed it, okay?) Anyway, I told her that because I wasn't expecting a new card, and because I receive tons of credit card offers in the mail everyday, that I probably through it away by mistake. (Oh, God, I've become the number one target for identity theft.) Then Jasmine treated me as if I was the biggest idiot she'd ever spoken to (and she must know, considering she WORKS IN CUSTOMER SERVICE AT A FUCKING BANK), and told me to check again at home just in case.

Oh, JJ, thanks for the help!

I hate napping at night.

Sure, falling asleep for three hours when you get home from a hard day at work sounds great in theory. Why wouldn't you just want to sleep your problems away? It's cheaper than buying vodka, and more socially acceptable than cutting. But still, it's a horrible idea.

I woke up after the first hour at 5:44 because it was storming, and I thought, "Fuck! It's going to rain again." Because I thought it was tomorrow. Oh, JEESH! Don't you just HATE that, too? Now, you'd think that I'd say to myself, "Hey, don't fall back to sleep. One hour won't kill you, but if you fall back to sleep now you're never going to get to sleep tonight." But, because I enjoy making poor choices, I went to my room, changed out of my work clothes and into comfortable jeans, and went back to sleep. On the sofa.

Hey, at least I had enough sense to not nap in bed at six o'clock.

I hate dribbling.

To be more accurate, I threw my head back with my mouth connected to the hole in the coffee cup lid and the coffee sprayed out the sides of my mouth and onto my jacket.



And that may be why I'm currently single. This is one on a long list of coffee related incidents lately. I'm always covered in coffee stains.

I hate getting old and tired.

I was up until 3:30 a.m. on Sunday morning. I slept in until 8:30 a.m., because I have sleep problems.

It's Tuesday, early evening, and I'm so tired, I want to take a benadryl and sleep for the next 12 hours.

Should I skip yoga and running and just sleep all night? That would be bad since I skipped yoga and running last Thursday to drink and be inappropriate and embarrass myself.

But sleep would feel so much better than embarrassment...although maybe not as good as being inappropriate.

I hate missing ingredients.

I hate when I go to make bagels and realize I'm missing yeast.

Now I have to go walk allllll the way up the street. Sigh.

I hate the Apple Store.

I hate the Apple Store more than walking through Lakeview on St. Patrick's Day. I hate it because it's not even as entertaining as walking past thirty bars with half-naked (or completely naked, while hailing a cab, because that's certainly effective) Midwestern post-grads. I hate it because, unlike St. Patrick's Day in Chicago, it is completely, utterly, and disgustingly pretentious.

I spent two hours in the Apple Store on Michigan Avenue on Friday. The "Genius Bar" was - shocker! - short-staffed, and the few geniuses there were busy being social inept and greasy. One of them was talking to a customer's very, very ancient mother on a webcam, explaining to her how video conferencing worked. And my genius had me sit at the bar, watching my computer go through a stress test, which involved running iTunes, chess, and some crazy-assed graphing program (apparently I can really put my eleventh-grade pre-Calc to work with my iBook). It was supposed to show me how they fixed my computer problem, and I was relieved that finally, my computer would no longer shut off randomly and not turn on again.

Then I got home and my computer wouldn't turn on. Thanks, turds.

Also, Justin Long is a dickface and it makes me want to never buy an Apple again.

I hate some things about St. Patrick's Day.

For instance, there's no such thing as a positive experience on public transportation on St. Patrick's Day, is there? You're always going to have to deal with beer stench and chocolate gold coins being tossed at you and frat boys in green Abercrombie shirts taking up two seats at a time and maybe a chicken bone under your seat.

I also hate when I arrive home at 2:30 a.m. and an ambulance and three cop cars are parked in front of my building with all their lights flashing. Gives you that warm and comfy feeling inside.

I hate having to write in the hypothetical.

The next time I hypothetically send someone a stalkery message on Facebook because I may have just been dumped at the time and at a low point of my life, which conveniently lasted all of one week, and after which I very much regretted my hypothetical stalkery message, I will make DAMN sure that the object of my hypothetical stalking does not live in my neighborhood, does not work in another division at my workplace that - just my luck! - might involve work-related interaction, does not happen to make me stand in a bar looking like a deer in the headlights because I'm really drunk and embarrassed that my friend with me is LAUGHING AND SMILING at my hypothetical stalkee, and will not run in to me ever again.

If I can avoid that, I can avoid writing blog posts like this one.

I hate shoulder pain.

Yesterday, while sitting at my desk and rolling my shoulders back because sitting at a desk for 10 hours straight makes you a little stiff, I suddenly felt immense pain in the back of my right shoulder. And the pain is getting worse, probably because I keep "testing" my shoulder to see if it still hurts when I move. Every time I rolled onto it when I slept, the pain would wake me up. And I've become somewhat of a "roller" in my sleep, where I just cycle and turn myself around constantly. It was a long night.

I'm really afraid I've dislocated my shoulder and I don't know what to do about it.

I've haven't dislocated in years, but I have shallow joints and a history of dislocation. Maybe I'll call my dad and ask him. He once dislocated a shoulder while reaching for a bowl of M&Ms.

I hate too much melatonin.

Last night I went to an office happy hour. I was the last person to leave. I popped a melatonin pill just before I went to bed at 9:30, even though I knew I wouldn't have trouble going to sleep with all that alcohol in my system.

I woke up at 2 a.m. Dehydrated. I drank two huge glasses of water. I iced some cupcakes. I checked my email. I tried to go back to sleep. For an hour and a half.

So I took another melatonin pill.

Now it's 6 a.m. and I'm fighting to keep my eyes open. My schedule today is not flexible, so I'll be forced to work in a sleeping-pill haze until it wears off. Oh and it's raining and I have to carry a pan of 16 cupcakes to work. This basically means no coffee, because I can't carry a pan of cupcakes, an umbrella, and a cup of coffee all at the same time.

Screwed!

I hate ending weekends like this one.

The Sunday night after a great three-day weekend always makes me a little depressed. I'd like to be drinking wine and getting ready to see of Montreal for the fourth time in a week, but instead I have to go through emails for work tomorrow and do laundry and go grocery shopping and clean my apartment.

It doesn't help to waste three hours in the afternoon eating stale pita bread and having strange im conversations with the blinds closed.

I hate GMail.

GMail is currently blocking me from checking my email. For the past three hours, it's told me that there's some server error and GMail is unavailable. Of course, my cubicle neighbor, Adam, is having no trouble with GMail.

I'm sure I have a ton of employment scam emails to respond to just sitting in my inbox right now.

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.

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.