I hate Mennonites. Or I just hate everyone who has a word for themselves. And I hate numbers. I can’t recall them all. They are too jagged, they don’t spell very well. Five for two, three for five. And I hate band names. I hate it because I hate it. I hate anyone who deals with love and hate as themes in their work. Hate is not a theme. It is commuting at nine in the morning to a better place than you live in, and coming back at five to a shittier place than you spent the day at. I hate grammar. Harder to beat than a b-boy, a wigger, a hardened criminal. I hate hardened criminals. They suck. I would be a soft criminal, caressing people out of their wallets, their vaginas, their precious cars and homes. And I would pad them all with pink fiberglass insulation and read books atop a great pile of my collected booty, surveying all I can see before me, fat, and satiated. I hate being content. I hate being content. I hate needing to have content in my sentences. I hate dietary content. I hate taking risks. I hate not knowing. I hate labels. I hate Mennonites. I hate automatic capitalization on micro soft word. I hate this paragraph. I hate the fact that you can predict what is coming next. I hate the fact that I can’t come up with something more original than this. I hate the facts. Just like I hate the fantasy. I hate the idea that the good die young. I hate conventions. I hate the fact that you think I am limited. I hate Byron. I hate Byronic guys. I hate the east-meets-west storyline so prevalent in young second generation asian writers and filmmakers. I hate that ms word didn’t automatically capitalize the word asian, but won’t let me get away with American. Godammit. There’s just too much