Tuesday Hatred: Second verse, same as the first
Unless I am badly mistaken, this Tuesday, this present day, is the last Tuesday—though not the last day—of this year. What hatreds will next Tuesday herald, if, that is (to traduce Cavafy), we will talk about things like that next year, if we’ll bother about them anymore, when we’re shut of this year and a new one, less a few days, stretches out before us, full of possibility like a carcass of maggots, each one awaiting its metamorphosis and chance to take wing? I would be surprised if it were anything very different from what’s come before.
I myself recently had cause to experience hatred regarding something very familiar to me, although I don’t think I’ve noted it in this space yet; that was the frequency with which I misplace my nail clippers and am unable to find them when I want them, to clip my nails, only to find them again at some later point when I no longer want to clip my nails (having lowered myself to tearing brutishly at them). Naturally when they’re relocated I move them to a place where they’ll be handier, or so I think, the next time; only sometimes are they actually. (In this case I found them quite soon and so I almost felt that it would be inappropriate to make them the topic of my hatred, but I consider this more than justified by the number of other occasions on which the devils have eluded me.)
Too, I hate it when the very passage one wishes to consult in a book one hasn’t got with one is among those not viewable on google books. It is very inconvenient. Sometimes one can use a devious trick to get around this, exploiting the fact that what google blocks from online viewing and what amazon blocks from online viewing are often not the same, no, not the same at all. But in this case the book whose occult contents I wished to view was not viewable at all on amazon. It’s also out of print, I believe—which is another thing one ought to find hateful, that this one does find hateful, as it’s a fine volume that’s had less than its fair share of influence, I suspect.
The other day I was using facebook for no very productive end (how hateful are these modern engines of distraction) and I “clicked” on the “icon” of someone whom I haven’t seen in a long time, an acquaintance from my undergraduate years, whom I generally picture sitting in a mildly slovenly dorm room with his mildly slovenly friend, being tall and whatnot. He appears to have gone from success to success after graduation, in business, romance, and postgraduate education. What, contrariwise, have I made of myself? Nothing! It’s all the worse with people one knows only glancingly; others whom I know better who have also made good, I know also not to be free from woes of their own, but it’s all too easy to imagine that the hazily-seen have only good fortune. The assholes.
Additionally, I hate the soapy water glasses in this cafe, and being just-friendsed (and not in the good buttsex way).
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