I hate Halloween.

I don't hate it so much as I don't get it. For kids, yes, Halloween makes sense. It's fun. But for adults? What's the appeal? Is it because after the age of 16, Halloween just becomes another drinking holiday? Is it the excuse to dress like you're a third of your actual age? An excuse to wear slutty clothing? I really don't get it.

I hate Pitchfork, still.

Today, Pitchfork posted a review of the two-disc soundtrack to Marie Antoinette, which is a soundtrack that I love to a movie that I also loved. They gave it a 7.6 (I'd love to understand, exactly, how they get such precise numbers. Why not just a 7? 7.5? How did it deserve a 7.6 instead of a 7.5?). The interesting thing about the review is that Stephen M. Deunser chose to write it in two parts: one is a review of the album before seeing the film, the second an attempt to review the way the music works in the movie. Unfortunately, Mr. Deunser fails at the second part of the review and, instead of analyzing the music in the film, he begins to share his disappointment in Coppola's treatment of the political aspect of the film.

It seems after reading the reviews of the film that critics are split down the middle on the political issues. Should it have been heavier on the negative aspects of Marie Antoinette's life? I don't think so. I think that since the subject matter has been covered extremely well in the past two-hundred years, it's not a big deal for an American writer / director to make a film simply because she related to the character she was writing about. Art doesn't have to be historic.

But that is not the point of my post. My point is this: PITCHFORK SHOULD NOT PUBLISH MOVIE REVIEWS DISGUISED AS MUSIC REVIEWS. And, not surprisingly, Deunser ended his article with a reference to the fake-quotation, "Let them eat cake." Lame!

I hate being sick: the refrain.

My throat still feels mediciney from yesterday and despite the shivery sweats, no temperature here. My appetite is good with the exception of a vague, sort of gaggy feeling I get once an hour or so. Despite the 13 glasses of water, one glass of Crystal Light and three cups of tea I had yesterday, my lips and mouth are dry.

Siiiiiigh.

I hate rats.

And they're everywhere!

I'm on the fourth floor but after watching a parade of rats on U Street last night, I'm convinced that every sound in my apartment is a rat clawing his or her way through the walls.

I hate being sick.

I hate when you wake up feeling like death, but you drag yourself to the computer and do work. And you have a little tea and okay, that's not so bad. Then you shower, and you're feeling good! You eat an English muffin, you turn up the heat, and two hours later you're plastered to the floor with shivery sweats and your throat is crying for mercy.

I hate when you forget daylight's savings time.

I hate when you try to go out to breakfast but every restaurant is closed and you can't figure out why. And then you realize it's actually 8 a.m. on a Sunday the weekend before Halloween and go to a 24-hour diner.

I hate coming home.

I hate coming home when all I have waiting for me are deadlines and projects.


I'm going to a concert tonight! I should be in a good mood! Happy! Excited! Instead I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to cram two day's worth of work into four hours.

I hate what my thesis makes me do.

Shots or not, my alarm went off at 9 a.m. this morning and I leapt out of bed to sit at my little laptop-holding, blue-spraypainted card table. In preparation of today, I had turned it toward the wall, so I couldn't be distracted by trees or birds or blinds or light switches or ironing boards. All of those objects have played a role in preventing me from writing my thesis this fall.

So I've been writing and staring at the wall for three hours straight.

I also checked the school Web site to check on my formatting requirements where lo! and behold, I discovered my left margin could be 1.25 inches! And on pages on which headers appear, I can have a 2-inch top margins. How awesome is that? Can I have a header on every page?

Anyway, after reformatting my paper to fit the school's requirements, I discovered that my formerly single-spaced, normally margined nine page paper was, in fact, a halfway-completed 22-page masterpiece. And that's without the two-page glossary and whatever appendices I may decide to pad everything with it.

I'll admit it though, I'm starting to get seriously concerned about finishing this damn thing.

I hate waking up and feeling like ass.

And finding that my pants are mysteriously very, very dirty. Also, why did I take a cab one block last night?

I hate my neighbors.

For banging on the wall when I play Regina Spektor too loud. It's Friday!

Time to do shots. In my kitchen. By myself. Well, with Regina. Hotel Song? Ah!

I hate hindsight.

I purposely didn't make plans tonight so that I could get up tomorrow, go for a run, work on the thesis, get stuff done before commencing two nights of drinking + one extra hour.

But I am bouncing off the walls and dancing and drinking by myself, and I'm about to call someone, anyone in my cell phone, who might be in a bar right now.

I'm itchy!

I hate American Apparel.

Dear American Apparel:

Shut the fuck up.

The first thing I think of when I see this girl wearing metallic silver leggings is: "date rape."

I can't explain why, but I do know it's bad.

Sincerely,
Tyler.

I hate waiting for phone calls.

Call call call!

I hate it when people ask me stupid questions.

Since I go by my middle name, I've faced a lot of trials and tribulations throughout my life. For example, my work email address features my first initial rather than my middle, and I imagine that if anyone ever needed to email me for important reasons, they might get confused. It's these types of scenarios that keep me on edge.

I've also had to deal with having others realize for the first time that my first name is actually John. The inevitable question is asked: "What made you decide to go by Tyler?"

I DIDN'T PICK MY NAME, PEOPLE. My parents chose to call me Tyler. I was too busy discovering my hand and trying to lift my own hand to come up with what I'd like to call myself. And is it really so odd to go by your middle name? I mean, what else are you going to do with it?

I hate it when people don't remember which foods I hate.

No one every remembers what foods I like. I know this may sound petty, but consider this anecdote:
For years, I have despised coconut. I hate the way it feels in my mouth (slimy and stringy), I hate the way that it tastes (like weird milk and babies), and I HATE HATE HATE answering questions on why I hate it. It's preference bitches, recognize.

Regardless, I feel like I express the fact that I dislike coconut on a fairly regular basis. Often enough that my family and close friends should probably know that I consider it a demon fruit. So what does my mom make me for my 18th birthday? A coconut cake. And what does she do when I don't eat any of the disgusting concoction? Force me to eat a big slice. Thanks Mommy. Love ya.

I hate being questioned when I know I'm right.

That's it. No story that I really feel like sharing. Just know that I'm right. All the time.

I hate teachers.

It's more complicated than the headline would lead one to believe.

I hate when I'm reading the blog of some random DC person, someone on my blogroll who doesn't know I read his blog, who has written a page-long ode to a favorite English teacher -- the same English teacher who once gave me a C for an entire semester based on my interpretation of some R.E.M. lyrics as poetry.

If he hadn't turned down all my other goddamn suggestions for lyrics based on the fact that he'd never heard of the bands maybe I could have analyzed the song lyrics -- an activity, by the way, I did every year of public school from eighth grade on -- more to his liking. We don't all marvel at the wonder of Dave Matthews Band lyrics. Pity, I know.

Okay, I was being pretentious and immature. I'm over it. Really.

I hate spiders.

I especially hate spiders when they're teeny tiny and in vast quantities climbing up the walls of my apartment. I'm not putting away the vacuum until the first frost.

I hate headband headaches.

Ouch!

I hate my lack of motivation.

I've had seven whole days to write the two short papers (two pages maximum! that's just four pages!) for class tomorrow night. What did I do instead?

I've watched a whole DVD of Gilmore Girls.

I've gone to a conservatory. (I don't even particularly enjoy plants!)

I bought two pairs of jeans (total spent: $23).

I also bought a bitchin' scarf (it was the same price as the more expensive pair of jeans).

I saw Marie Antoinette.

I spent several hours trying to download the soundtrack to Marie Antoinette.

I went to a concert.

I went to a party! (A real party! With strangers! And people I know in vague ways! And, unfortunately, a lack of appetizing alcoholic beverages which forced me to experiment.)

I drunk-dialed someone after two mixed drinks!

So now, twenty four hours before my papers are due, I'm finally getting around to writing them. I've finished one, which only took dragging my ass to a coffee shop a mile away from my apartment. Did I mention that (I think, at least) it's FREEZING outside? And that the girl working here tonight has played an old Green Day album and then the new Coldplay album?

Shouldn't I sit here for another hour and a half and write the stupid second paper?

Yeah. I'm going home and eating a slice of pizza instead.