Tuesday Hatred (s.v. Weekly Features)
I hate when I strip my bed and take my bedclothes with me down to the basement, intending to do such lascivious things with them as launder and dry them, and discover that the landlord has put up a notice requesting his tenants not to launder or dry anything until after six p.m.—and I’ve already made plans for that night!
I hate that I complained on facebook about Mr Foster Wallace’s use of “q.v.” and “sub”, and then was “called out” (dubiously; according to the NY Times’ standards I was wrong, but the OED supports me in email) for having used “aggravate” incorrectly.
I hate being a person who’s seen a movie before, watching with people who haven’t, if those people constantly subject me to questions as to who that is, what is the significance of that, etc., when generally ignorance of these matters is the result either of not having paid attention, or the paucity of information yet available to the viewer. I hate people who hold loud, oblivious conversations in the immediate vicinity of movie-watchers.
I hate dust. Unfortunately, I also hate dusting. I hate that I seem to be unable to clean copper in such a way as to prevent its requiring cleaning again shortly thereafter. I hate getting a snootful of acetic acid. I hate waking up feeling ready to go to bed again. I hate it when smoke gets in my eyes, or on my glasses. I hate it when shoelaces break, a hatred in which which I suspect I have more occasion to indulge than do many, because of my habit of lacing tight. I hate watching people with bad knife skills use bad knives (or even good knives). It really makes me antsy.
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