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.