This morning I said “I hate you” to my toothpaste, and I meant it. Every time I use it, the tube needs to be unclogged. It’s been a while since I last said I Hate You to an inanimate object, although I scream it at the TV several times a day. Alternating with “Just DIE already!”

I remembered writing something I called a Hatefest, and when I found it, I was impressed by how comprehensive it is. I know for a fact that I’m still as full of hate, if not more so, than when I wrote it. But my powers of recall and word retrieval are shit. Yesterday I couldn’t remember the word for lint, and tried “fluff” instead.

But back to hate, I am suspicious of people who claim not to hate anyone. Ever. Have you encountered these people? I’ve married two of them. They maintain that hatred is unknown to them. They dislike people, yes, but don’t hate. I used to imagine their mommies admonishing them as children, “No, we never hate! We dislike.” I remember a childhood friend whose mom told us, “We don’t say ‘I’m mad’! Say ‘I’m aggravated!'”

But these non-haters insist that it’s not that; it’s just an emotion they don’t experience. My latest theory is that they hate as much as us haters, but they just name it something else, like anger or revulsion or something. It’s just semantics.

(Unless it’s alexithymia, i.e. the inability to express or identify your emotions, a whole other story.)

If you can’t name at least 5 people you hate, just go away. Or get a note from your doctor.

Let the Hatefest begin!

Taylor Swift
Swiftees
Madonna
The Row
Laura Ingraham
Laura Trump
IvankaTrump
Jared Kushner
Imagine Dragons
That guy in the Strokes
J. Lo
the word “cropped” when applied to clothing
“how’s that working for you?”
Tom Ford
John Hamm
flavored coffee
Mitch McConnell
pro-lifers
butterfly tattoos
new words for homeless
Shein
proving I’m not a robot
Cormac McCarthy
Golden Goose sneakers
The Kardashians
David Duchovny
duck lips
my ex-husband
TikTok
memes
Chihuahuas
celebrity interviews
“got any plans for the weekend?”
Anna Wintour
Jack Harlow
Noam Chomsky
Anais Nin
Star Wars
MAGA
erectile dysfunction commercials
Steely Dan
people who call their dogs “rescues”
celebrities named Hailey
that awful guy who was married to Lisa Bonet
Doja Cat
Coco Chanel
hard seltzer
people who drink hard seltzer

That’s it for starters.

What did I leave out?

Most people know at this point in social etiquette not to bark, “Cheer up!” at people who aren’t showing their back molars in a smile. Thank god that’s pretty much a thing of the past. I remember strangers informing me, even as a kid, “Things aren’t THAT bad!” as they walked past me.

But many people do find it difficult to be in the presence of sadness, not to mention grief.

Not long ago, a family member came over to visit, and was moved to share with me their wish that I could be less sad. I have so much going for me, after all!

It was a wish born of compassion. But still. Feeling aggressive, I leaned toward them and said, “Until you have seen your child in a body bag, you cannot understand what it’s like. You just can’t.” I know what a brutal thing this is to say aloud. But at times, I want to make it a teachable moment.

They were taken aback, but rephrased the sentiment to something like, “Yes, but you have to go on living.”

Humans of Earth, AREN’T I ALIVE? How alive do I have to be before you can deal with me? I walk and talk, I put on lipstick, I go to the grocery store, I walk down the street, you know?

Do I have to go on a fucking world cruise or Dancing With the Stars or what?

When I moved to my new community nearly five years ago, I was thrilled to make a new friend: An intelligent, vibrant mother of two who was funny and well-read. The perfect friend, I thought. As it turned out, she started avoiding me. When I finally pressed for a reason, she texted that I was too sad for her.

Even though all she talked about what the sexual assault of her daughter and how much she hated men. I was devastated, but I lived to tell. I’ve chalked it up to Her Problem, Not Mine, as one does.

I’m okay with being sad. Just let me be sad. I am Sad Girl. I am trying to use my sadness as an instrument for good. I’m an excellent listener, if you’re sad too. I try to turn my sadness into art, when I can.

I just read a review of a new Nick Cave album, in which the writer notes about the death of Cave’s teenage son, in 2015:

He has not put the grief behind him; he has learned from its presence.

OF COURSE he has not put the grief “behind him” for fucksake, it has only been four years, Jesus Christ. When can this kind of thinking end?

Most people never even get over a divorce, let alone such an elemental loss.

People need to be allowed to exhibit an entire range of emotions, as long as they don’t do it while driving. Let people be sad, worried, negative, silly, anxious, inquisitive, grumpy and hopeless if they want to be. Unless they ask for your help or your diagnosis, just try to accept this rich tapestry of human behavior.

Here’s a study that might convince you.

I’ll start with the word ‘pant’ in the picture above.

Why can’t they use ‘pants’? The singular ‘pant’ is so grating, like ‘a red lip,’ which we all hate so robustly.

I’m really struggling with existence. I’m looking for relief and I’m turning to hate, as always. Please join me. In no particular order:

Seth Rogan
Donald Trump
friends of Seth Rogan
Taylor Swift
Ariana Grande
Pokemon Go
cancer
Hannity
Lena Dunham
cropped jeans
the word ‘cropped’
selfies
Game of Thrones
Kylie Jenner
the other Jenners
Tom Hiddleston
Ben Afleck
Rudy Giuliani
Vetements
those girls named Hailey
social media
Brad and Angie
TV commercials
Jezebel
Republicans
Star Wars
movies about comic book characters
my three half-sisters, all cunts
millennials
apps
NRA
Giselle and Tom Brady
Julian Assange

Okay, that’s just the tip of the iceberg, hatewise.

Let’s here what you’ve got.

Death Cafe is sort of a coffee klatch for would-be coroners. At present, it’s more of a movement than a physical space, with pop-up Death Cafe’s in 31 countries.

Here’s how Death Cafe defines itself:

At a Death Cafe people, often strangers, gather to eat cake, drink tea and discuss death.

Our objective is ‘to increase awareness of death with a view to helping people make the most of their (finite) lives’

How nice! Because, who doesn’t like death? You can never have enough death, evidently. But here’s what Death Cafe isn’t:

It is a discussion group rather than a grief support or counselling session.

It’s not a spelling class either, but that’s okay. What isn’t okay for me is the concept of death as something cool because, you know, it’s so dark and transgressive. It’s like one big memento mori festival, full of arty skull motifs and and Victorian post-mortem photos.

Death Cafe is a ‘social franchise’. This means that people who sign up to our guide and principles can use the name Death Cafe, post events to this website and talk to the press as an affiliate of Death Cafe.

Yay, we can all host a Death Cafe if we follow the guidelines. I like this one: The main qualities of a host are enthusiasm for talking about death and dying and high ethical standards. That rules me out, since I have ethics but no enthusiasm.

I’m aware that a fetishistic interest in morbid things has long been a feature of hipsterism.  Taxidermy, Day of the Dead artifacts, the Morbid Anatomy Museum, zombies, all those tumblr pictures of dead girls in bathtubs. I get that it seems cool to embrace the taboo.

But this Death Cafe thing, no. A big No.

What a bunch of fatuous fuckers.

Cat Cafes, fine. *Baby Cafes, even better (*as soon as I get the idea off the ground. Contact me if you want to fund my business plan!)

Death is a drag and there’s already so much of it. It isn’t really cute. Let’s not trivialize it.

For the last two nights, we have been watching a new documentary about the Eagles. I have tested my husband’s patience by repeatedly asking “Which one is that?” I still can’t tell them apart. I always thought Don Henley was the other guy, Glen Frey.

The sound of the Eagles triggers a cascade of uncomfortable emotions. As an entity, they make me sick.  The “laid-back” sound, ugh,  awful. The song “Tequila Sunrise” represents everything painful about the 70’s. The mustaches and bad hair, the bandannas, the glowering expressions, the very idea of the Eagles is just lame. The 70’s marked a divisive era in rock music and I was repelled by the “Southern California Sound.”  I recall being contemptuous of my upstairs neighbors who loved The Doobie Brothers.

Remember being young and taking music so seriously that it could be a deal-breaker if a new person in your life turned out to have bad taste? An awful record collection was nearly impossible to forgive. If someone owned an obscure record that I loved, I probably slept with them. Actually, I slept with them, regardless, but that’s a whole other topic.

The Eagles wrote such catchy songs that when I hear them I can’t help singing along. But familiarity is no measure of quality. The Eagles evoke nostalgia without being exciting or satisfying. It’s just elevator music. I don’t care if they’ve sold a billion records. I wouldn’t take one to a desert island even if was my only choice.

The 70’s were the decade of my young adulthood. I had a baby, in the happiest moment of my life. I also had a bad marriage,  a two-pack a day cigarette habit, and little capacity for self-examination. Music was the background for everything. Elvis Costello, Patti Smith, and Townes Van Zandt were the rays of light in the bleak cloud of my domestic life. Bands like the Eagles remind me of anomie and macrame.

Some punk band wrote a song called “Don Henley Must Die” and I still admire the sentiment. even if I can’t tell him apart from Glen Frey or those other guys. Now that I’ve seen the documentary, I hate the Eagles with a deeper sense of their awfulness as people who can’t stop arguing about money and their own importance.

Eagles fans or detractors, jump in!

One day last week, I had the clever idea of paraphrasing Shakespeare with a post called “First we kill  all the something,”  But now I’ve forgotten what the Something was.

You’d think if I really hated it, I would remember it but you wouldn’t be factoring in my severe memory problems. I’m hoping someone can remind me what the Something is, and presumably it is a group.

Going through my brain’s rolodex of hated things, I have already ruled out:

Republicans
Christian fundamentalists
Fashion bloggers
The members of Cream
The members of Steely Dan
People who say “Everything happens for a reason”
Child molesters
Racists
TV chefs

Godammit, what am I leaving out? This is really bothering me! Please help, if you can.

~

*(My husband just responded to my question with “It’s too big a category for you.”)