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| A moment from Swayze Dances, an instructional video. |
It's hate, mostly. And the fact that everything about you in the south is like an invitation for people to talk to you. When I prefer, two thousand percent of the time, to not talk to anyone. As soon as I opened up my computer a man in a hawaiian shirt decided to try to talk to me about my desktop image, which is a very fat woman on an underwater motorcycle. He asked if it was a picture of me.
I also hate couples, and how they are constantly in a state of almost killing each other. Is being alone really worse than being with someone else? It becomes apparent, right this second, that it has been almost six months since I've written anything but an order slip for food at my restaurant job. It seems more natural for me to write "TOM SOUP 3, GNOCCHI 12, CHEESECAKE 5, TBL 3" than to actually talk about anything. Luckily I plan on limiting myself to discussing what's important to me, and which I will be writing about for the most part.
1. Terrible things.
2. Terrible people.
3. Food.
4. Movies.
There's a terrible person cleaning her ipod with her spit right next to me. I'm on a plane heading to Asheville, North Carolina. A mostly unhorrible city, if I remember it correctly, but I'll just have to find the right places. Planes are always the most terrible places, and if everything in my technological arsenal wasn't out of batteries at this moment (come on lap top, hang in there for 15 more minutes, at least until boarding is completed) I would be filming all the terrible coming down the plane aisle past me, smashing into my elbow. Waking up at 6am to drive to the airport really puts me in a mood to start this, and so does the smell of the clearly non-airport purchased croissant that the woman next to me is eating.
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| The options for my in-flight entertainment. Grim. |
Croissants, I find, can range from hardened and stale pieces of greasy bread to a pastry that can unfailingly be a hundred adjectives at once, buttery flakey magical beings. There is a huge difference in the taste and texture and importance of, say, a gas station croissant and something you find on a side alley in the 5th of Paris at 7am made by a woman that clearly walked out of a Disney cartoon and whom you desperately try to hit on because, my god, if she could love you then she could MAKE THESE CROISSANTS FOR YOU WHENEVER YOU WANTED. Oh my. My fingers were slamming on my keyboard a bit there.
At a certain point in your life, though, if you are cut off from good croissants for long enough, you start lusting wildly for any type of croissant. And, well, I would have no problem killing the woman to my left for her croissant. She's so skinny, she's going to throw it up anyway, and she's probably hating herself for every bite. I would not hate myself for any bites, so, come on lady. Maybe I'll just steal her spitty iPod for vengeance.
