2004-08-30 - 5:03 p.m.
Despite years of training, I must say, someone hates me, and I love it.
It was considered important, at least in my family, that one consider oneís self the least important person in the room, and that tendering favors for oneís fellow man was the highest form of pious action one could take. To have someone carry with them a severe dislike for you was a failing on your part. It was fine to hate and despise and wish all forms of skin eating disease to befall some poor sap that slighted you, so long as these opinions and visions of the object of your malice looking not unlike an extra from 28 days later, remained well tucked away in the imagination, never to flash across your face. Possibly if someone was bad influence you could avoid them entirely, but never giving up the thought that redemption could well be around the corner, and be understanding should they suddenly turn that corner.
But now, someone hates me, and, man, I feel like flyiní!
Itís extremely freeing. Not needing to tender warmth and joy, quips and wit, laughs and tears, and let that person for whatever reason, lay out their dismay with your person full frontal, and allow them that, maybe even encourage it.
Itís amazing. I do not know why I did not try this earlier. It made me giggle. Iíll be honest with you, I donít think whatever reasoning they have for their vendetta is in any way grounded, most likely based on biased reports from someone who has fair grievance, and that knowledge utterly frees me from responsibility. Itís not like I enjoyed their company in the first place, nor did I think their person was a soul I should rub up against to enjoy the free-flowing nectar of their loveliness. In fact, I have always been perturbed by this person, an opinion that probably shouldnít have been expressed to she who had full reason to make with the nogginí smacking.
But this does not change the fact that every moment while I caught the liquid nitrogen tempered fumes wafting from his shoulder was a beautiful one. His fumes seemed, well, comical; his refusal to confront said antipathy, even more so. I sat at the Mafia table, watching him whisper sour nothings into the ears of those caught in the crossfire of our war of the stares, and grinned.
With that fog blanketing the room, Iím sure the expected response was a tail placed firmly between the legs, or drowned in one too many whiskey shots. Instead I went upstairs, and played pool. I met some lovely people who could only be faulted for being far too tall. One particular giantess, not only made me feel as if I were the visiting representative from Munchkin Land, but also hit an amazing combo and kissed the eight, finishing me in short work; all the while holding me in conversation, and trading gag for gag, complimenting well taken shots, and enjoying a long swig of beer after horrible ones.
Maybe my cynicism has finally taken the last ground off my long-standing courtesy, and maybe this is not a wonderful thing; a last loss of innocence, a hardening of spirit. Here I sit bathing in a steamy pool of wanton hate, just enjoying the fumes, considering lighting some candles and drinking a nice merlot.
I would concern me terribly, if it did not feel quite so lovely.
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