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Chumwater, why do you hate me?
Hey, wait a minute I hate me too. |
| by quayzar |
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I must admit when I first read the preceding essay I was a little hurt. Here I am thinking that Chumwater and I are friends and it turns out he's hating my guts the whole time. I had to read it twice just to make absolutely sure I hadn't misunderstood something, but no. I was a classic Group #2: Everyone Other Than Chumwater's Ex-Boyfriend. The logic was cold and inflexible; I was hated, just like GG Allin. You can be sure I cried myself to sleep that night.
What about all those fun times we had together, like stealing bolts off the Cyclone so the tracks rattled? Or mugging NYU students? Or starting the rumor that Bobby McFerrin killed himself? Or that summer we spent in the park, high on shoe polish and grape juice, just hanging out and making fun of bums? Was he lying that whole time? Did none of that mean anything?
I know he hates everyone; that I can understand. I hate everyone too. Everyone sucks. But why me? What's so bad about me? I always put the seat back down after using a public restroom. That's got to count for something, right? I mean, unless the seat's already wet, in which case I leave it up so the next person using it doesn't think I peed all over it. Does that make me a bad person? Does that make me deserving of hate? Sometimes I put the seat down specifically to pee on it, then put it back up and pretend someone else did it but I only do that because it's funny. There's a difference between being a bad person and doing something just because it's funny, right? If not, then there should be.
Then I started thinking: maybe he was right. Maybe I am a loser. There's my nose whistle; that's pretty hateful. I know what you're thinking: everyone's nose whistles sometimes; it's not a big deal. Except mine whistles the theme to The Andy Griffith Show. I can't help it I mean, I have to breathe, after all but that's a pretty big mark in the "minus" column.
That kid in kindergarten certainly wasn't shy about hating me. I told him I had a Sherman tank in my backyard so he'd come over to my house and be my friend but in reality it was just a septic tank, an open one, and when he came over I pushed him in it and laughed while he swam around, vomiting, and then I went inside and wrote a program for my Commodore 64 that changed the color of the screen whenever you pushed the space bar. I know now that it was wrong of me to have lied to him just so he'd be my friend, but that's still no excuse.
More proof: remember that Carly Simon song that goes "I bet you think this song is about you?" For the longest time I thought it was about me. I couldn't help it. She kept at it with the "Don't you? DON'T YOU?!" until I just couldn't take it anymore. YES, for fuck's sake, this song is about me. You win! I'm a selfish, egotistical asspouch and someone should shoot me in the face. At least I'm not some gangly, horse-toothed burnout obsessing over how I slutted my way through every straight actor and rockstar alive in the 70s (and even a few of the gay ones) before my ass dropped loose and my hair started falling out. Then I found out she was singing about someone else. Whoops. Guess I should have checked on that before gluing her dog's paws together, keying her car, and getting a job as her personal chef just so I could spit in her food. I still think she's Carrot Top's mother but that's beside the point.
One time I wrote "just married" in white paint on the back window of a police cruiser but that was only because I saw them holding hands.
Yeah, now that I think about it, I am a son-of-a-bitch. Look right there! I just insulted my own mother! Man, what an asshole. Not only do I understand why chumwater hates me now but I'm wondering why more people don't. Like my third-grade teacher Mr. Robinson. When I showed him my drawing of a racecar, he'd only said "nice job" instead of the "great job!" he gave that prig Aaron's airplane drawing. So I told the principal he touched me in my "Speedo area". Maybe he does hate me; I don't know. How many third-grade teachers have you visited in prison? I mean, seriously.
I guess chumwater's right: I'm a loathsome, foul, fetid waste of carbon-based tissue and I am deserving of hate. Of his, yours, and most importantly my own. After all, if you want something done properly, do it yourself, right? At least that's how I was raised. |
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| November 28, 2002 |
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