Indulgent Bout of Self-Pity and Hatred Directed Outward

I miss Mexico. I miss the sweetness of having pleasant interactions with people on the street and in stores. I’m very depressed to be back in the land of bankruptcies and people who don’t say hi to me. Depression is hatred turned inwards, so in the name of my health I’m going to turn it outward, where it belongs, towards Los Angeles.

I don’t know what you call this…when you hate everyone, even the girl holding up the photo printing machine at Target. Who cares about pictures of you and your friends dressed in slutty outfits and getting drunk at some sleazebag’s condo? I’ve got ART in my camera! Why are you and your friends dressed like hookers, anyway?! Have some self-respect.

I hate the cars here. Why is everyone driving so fast? Are you so important that if you don’t get to Hooter’s on time the waitress’ boobs might deflate?

I hate the salsa dancers here. You’re a salsa dancer, not an extra on Fame, not on dancing with the stars. Stop whipping me in the face with your hair, and taking up another piece of dance floor with your hair. Or, at least say you’re sorry when you do. Say “Excuse me,” when you ram your partner into me, that’s what people do in Mexico. Where are the manners?

Did I mention that I hate it when people don’t say hi. I hate it when a person knows me and doesn’t acknowledge it, but I even hate it when strangers don’t say hi. Would everyone please just say “Hello!” Can you take a second out of your life to acknowledge a person?

Just for today, I can indulge my self-pity and drink the haterade.

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