12.10.03 - 5:33 p.m.

If you're reading this: I hate you. If you talk in a baby voice even though you are an adult human being and you do not have some sort of medically verifiable speech impediment to explain your idiotic voice, I hate you. If you buy toffee flavored Hershey kisses, I hate you. No one should put toffee in Hershey kisses. Almonds were practically heresy, and the striped ones were anathema. Toffee?

Fucking toffee. If you came up with the idiotic idea of putting toffee in the middle of Hershey's kisses, I absolutely despise you. You are not worthy of the air you are currently breathing. There are more than enough toffee-flavored candy bars in the world, ruining Hershey's kisses and then deceiving human beings by putting the toffee inside an ordinary looking wrapper is evil.

If you are healthy, I hate you. If you don't bother to fill in holes in your fucking lawn so I twist and sprain my ankle on it just when I'm finally getting a bit better after being sick for 1.5 weeks, I hate you. Whoever came up with sweeps week, I hate you, and whoever decided that the networks need not show new episodes of my favorite shows in December, I hate you.

I hate you if you're still reading this. I hate you if you've never washed your mother's face while she's puking her guts up. If you're lighting up a cigarette while complaining about a sinus infection, I hate you. If you try to privilege your fucking cold virus by calling it a sinus infection, I hate you. If you think that whatever you are doing right now is more important than whatever I am doing right now, I fucking despise you. Go buy a life, or a least a conscience, or something.

I hate the world and every single last little self-involved moronic nitwit crawling around on the earth's surface. Among those I particularly despite: Jacqueline Carey. Woohoo, porno fantasy. S&M porno fantasy, with a Mary Sue complex, no less. You call that a novel? Jesus god, I saw the last 500 pages coming, and only read them so I could be sure it was drivel before ritually burning the poor excuse for a novel.

I hate you.

And you too.