Four of Them

It's because, my dear doves, we need the things we hate. If peope didn't hate things, nothing would get done. Can you imagine everyone on the fucking planet twirling around in utter bliss? I'd say a paradox would form from your annoyance at such tomfoolery, but then, you'd be in the same state.

We need stuff to bitch about. We need those tiny little grievances that make your day more interesting. Sure, the rest of your week will rise and set on a math test, but hey, it distracts from the fact that we're on a hurling rock, the odds of human survival are comically stacked against us, and it's only through dumb luck that we have existed this far into a fucking terrifying universe.

We are fueled by our hatred of talkers, hipsters, preppies, teenagers, old people, young people, math teachers, cell phones, social networks, Cameron Diaz, Kim Jong-il, toasters, water taking forever to boil, broken computers, ugliness, uncomfortableness, Blogger malfunctions, Disqus, losing your favorite issue of Teen Titans Go!, the fact that you actually read a comic based off a Cartoon Network series, feeling overprotective when someone mocks us for it, the fuss over Johnny Storm, realizing your Bio teacher doesn't know who Nikola Tesla is, the fact that there's a huge honking Edison poster plastered outside your English room, writing poetry, your lack of multilingualism, stubbing your toe, hating that one girl who sits at your lunch table, crowded stairs, broken washer, Canadian rappers, weird fingers, stories about nature, the inpenetrable smell of feet permeating from your living room, your state, your government, your lack of dignity, your cold future of cubicles and Community reruns.

We need our own complaints. That is all.