Monday, 30 March 2015

The Flowers of my Hatred Bloom in your Springtime.

To whom it may concern,

That I have bothered typing you a formal salutation is a wasp sting that will likely prevail on my skin until they've slid me into the crematory furnace, where kindly flames will finally sterilize me of any damning evidence that we shared Earth's gases. The simple act of writing this piece is akin to panting and trembling violently on a hospital bed in the total agony of birthing a 15 lb hate baby. You'd better take that job at the tyre factory, because the hate baby is yours. 

The only possible way I could hate you even more than presently is if I cloned myself, in effect multiplying my hatred by two. Even then, I feel sick at the thought of bringing a blameless clone into this world only for it to share the titanic burden of my loathing. As far as I would travel through the known cosmos just to satisfy the bitterness that drives me, the image of mercy killing my own clone just to rid him of our shared memories is a feat that even I would find excessive. At least I might find solace in that each slap and pelt of my hurl upon my clone's skull would be a soothing verse in a lullaby that would deliver him from your repulsive impression.

I fucking hate you so much that I plan in advance. I have spent months in a damp, windowless dwelling, eating canned avocados and just weaving an intricate web of coordinated events that may lead to my final revenge. I wear on my right hand a boxing glove filled with coconut oil in the hopes that one day my touch will be irresistible to your future bride. I want to take away that which you love the most, my nemesis, and coconut oil is how I'll do it. 

I will make scorching, white-hot love to whomever it is you have formed a close bond with, and I will come not from pleasures of the skin, but of the thought that I have shared council with the one person who promised faithfulness to you. By god, my hate for you is so strong that it requires the facade of love to be truly exemplified. 

Wake up, old chap, it's breakfast time. Can you smell the meal I've been slaving over in the kitchen? What do your nostrils detect here, because to me, it carries the very distinct waft of your children's shoes. Oh yes, that's right, I've been flipping the remains of your offspring in a wok layered with vegetable oil all morning and I've been doing this because my hatred is multi-generational. I'm a very sick person, but not as sick as you'll feel once you realize that you're digesting your own kids.

In a way, I have you to thank for getting me through my day-to-day, for though your existence is arsenic, it is the thought of even your most momentary sufferings that gives me the strength to rise from bed. The problem, it seems, contains the seeds of solution, and for that I am thankful. The knowledge that you are capable of agony is like emerald waters to the eyes of a shriveled desert wanderer. 

I hate you, and every day I dream of pulling off your stupid fucking mustache and feeding it back to you like a piece of hairy shrimp.

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