Tuesday Hatred: Greek Holiday Schedule
I hate getting into arguments. I further hate that I get into arguments regularly. Last week I got into 2 on-line arguments. In the first one I was posing under a female pseudonym. I was being called hysterical. In the second I passed under a male pseudonym. I got charged with being insensitive. The latter was in English. The former was in Dutch. In both arguments, ultimately, it were my language skills that were called into question. I hate that. It saddens me deeply, mostly on account of it being true. I have no time to review what I write, I tell myself, but I know the truth is that mostly I can’t be bothered. I rely on charity and that is, I hate to admit, a most uncharitable thing to do.
I hate people wanting to have the last word in arguments. I hate even more those people who offer others to have the last word in an argument. At least I didn’t take either of these options. I hate to say that I think I must finally be growing up.
But never mind on-line arguments with people I don’t know, today I got into an argument with somebody I do know. That, dear readers, I do hate more than anything else. It gets under my skin, up my nose and makes me want to punish myself with things worse than death (for instance: not being able to go for euthanasia when I would finally get Alzheimer’s disease or become incontinent or some such thing). Insensitive I am not. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.
I hate it so much that I hate to admit that the great plans I had for last week’s Friday’s Confessional that I wanted to recycle for the present Tuesday Hatred seem as pointless as they always were.
I vaguely remember that they had to do with the fact that this week and the next I will be fully focused on watching 200 or so human medical experiments take one of the most indirect bicycle routes possible from one part of France to Paris. I hate that this argument (the last one) prevents me from feeling the sweet taste of my childhood memories of re-enacting the Tour de France with figurines and marbles on the beach (sand sculpted so as to approximate that day’s stage). So, I’m just going to say for the record that in said re-enactment I was playing the role of:
[Ah, those innocent times when world champions could be walking tobacco adverts!]
I hate that I am not a child anymore. If I were I would be him:
[Ah, so innocent are our times that Belgian champions can still be cycling adverts for gambling!]
I hate that I’ll miss most of the third week of said bicycle race because I’ll be on holidays with limited access to television.
I hate that I did not call my friend before replying to his somewhat one-sided e-mail with a completely one-sided e-mail. This helps somewhat, but not enough. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I know I said that already but it’s true. I hate it. He does too. This makes me hate it even more. Two days ruined for no other reason than the failure to try to understand him (well, and the knee-jerk reaction of protecting the actions of somebody else).
I guess I owe you an explanation of the title. I hate that I half forgot and don’t really care much anymore about the other half. That said, I hate to leave loose ends so: it had to do with me being on holiday for a couple of weeks within a couple of weeks (you might have figured the latter out already) and needing to figure out whether I would quit smoking forever or quit the internet for that couple of weeks. I’ll go with the former meaning that there is no need to work out a schedule for my absence but this is an insight that came after choosing the title (and I’ll be damned if I’m going to make another one up). Mostly my deciding to stop is followed by a decision never to try stopping anymore. There is no harm in trying, I guess.
I hate to say that I don’t have the energy anymore to explain the word ‘Greek’ in the title. I’m seeking to avoid controversy. I have had enough arguments.
I leave you with a demonstration of my opinion on language skills.
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