It’s February and I’m full of hate…again.
I hate those coffee lids with the pre-made hole that slop coffee all over your hands and gloves while walking no matter how steady you try to hold the cup. What asshole decided these are better?
I hate being swaddled in so many layers that I can’t move my arms and bags just slide off my shoulders while I’m trying to steady my coffee hand.
I hate that in order to find my keys I have to pull off my gloves, find somewhere to temporarily house them (pocket, purse, shopping bag, wherever it is, it’s bound to be annoying), then dig around in my purse for 10 minutes with overswaddled arms, feeling for metal. And then inevitably the keychain hooks onto something else I’ve jammed in the overstuffed bag and it turns into a struggle that involves putting everything down in order to detangle.
I hate that to get food in tiny-aisled New York grocery stores we all have to bang into each other because we’re fat with so many layers.
I hate being cold.
I hate being in the dark all the time.
I hate all the grey people on Hoarders, refusing to get up out of the minutiae of their garbage and fix their lives and relationships. Their dowdy and ignominious choice of self-destructive form tortures me. And then I hate myself for watching it.
I hate that I’ll do things like sit on the couch and watch Hoarders instead of going to the gym, but the mere idea of putting on a ton of clothes to walk 5 blocks shivering to drone away on a treadmill enervates me.
I hate myself for not working out more.
I hate even the most benign requests for assistance at work. Figure it out yourself, goddamn it. You think anyone taught me this shit?
I hate getting up in the morning for work and resent that it cuts into the time I could be sitting on the couch resenting things.
I hate myself for whining when friends of mine have much deeper problems, such as no work at all.
This happens to me every year. I start out knowing that Winter is going to suck the life out of me and drag on well past its welcome, but I approach it with the highest of intentions. The holiday season finds me festive and full of warm thoughts. January, I just want to stay home but there are a lot of good birthdays so I brave the weather for loved ones. February and I just want to punch stuff. But I can’t, because I’m all jammed up in the same fucking coats I’ve been wearing for 4 months.
I hate that this is the only thing I have the energy to write about.