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Hate

Frequently, when some factor of my life is less-than-perfect, I think to myself, "I hate this less-than-perfect factor of my life!", but then sometimes I think, "Well, do I really hate this factor? Is it really deserving of hate? Do I even know what 'hate' is?", to which the answers are almost always a hearty "Uh-huh!" Once in a while, however, instead of thinking to myself, "Uh-huh!", I think "No, I am not quite sure," and if there is one thing I hate, it is uncertainty. On one such uncertain occasion, I was clever enough to write down my thoughts about hate. It has turned out to be very useful indeed!

I once found a strange little piece of twisted metal along the side of the road, and I picked it up and looked at it in a funny way, and after a while I decided to put it down and get back in my car. But then a voice, an oh-so-tiny voice, spoke into my ear, and it said, "Keep the metal thing. You never know when it might be useful!" So, I figured I would listen to the little voice, because having little voices talk to your ears is weird. So I took the piece of metal, all twisted up like a crunchy-corn "Bugle" snack (Mmm!), and I wrapped it in gauze and tossed it into my trunk. I can still picture the metal thing, its shiny bright surfaces disguising the sharp edges, lying in wait to slice the unwitting person who would casually play with it.

On another, later day, while I was sitting in a parking lot, I took a fancy to smashing the hell out of a plastic doll head I saw on the ground. I kicked it and punched it for a while, but it was quite strong. Just when my last hope was fluttering away like a pretty orange-and-brown butterfly newly-sprung from its coccoon, where it had changed from a loathsome caterpillar to a thing of delicate beauty, I remembered the metal thing. I got it from my trunk, and as I brought it down on the cute doll face as hard as I could, the head shattered! I was elated with joy. Then I remembered the little voice, saying, "Keep the metal thing. You never know when it might be useful," and I thought to myself, "I will never listen to that little voice again, because it was wrong. I did know when the thing was useful." Anyways, writing down my thoughts about hate was a lot like that time.

"Hate is not a good thing," someone probably thought once. That person was right! Hate is not a good thing, because it is not a thing at all. Hate is a verb, and verbs are never things. That is one rule of English every person should know. Since it is a verb, hate is something you can do. Whether you do it or not, though, is a whole other story! That's what English is all about. You don't have to do something just because there is a word for it. The joke is sure on the person who thought of that rule, because he forgot about one thing: America! Trying to make someone do something in America, just because you made a rule about it, and guess who'll be doing it: you! "You can go try that in CANADA," I always say to any socialists I meet, just so that they remember where they are, and that you can't tell anyone in America what to do. Or I shout, "How's the cabbage!" and laugh. Or else I just salute them behind their back a couple times, and they never know!

Anyways, I think all humans must hate something. Not just one thing altogether, but at least one thing each. Some of the things could be the same, I guess, but probably not all of the things. Although, it wouldn't be too hard to think of something really bad, and ask a bunch of people, and all of them would say they hate it. Probably, as much as they all hate that thing, no one hates it all the time. No human at least. If I was a badger, and I had to sit in a lukewarm pool of stagnant water, chewing on a moldy hunk of wood all day long, I would always hate that. Just sitting there in the water, your skin getting all wrinkly and your fur stinking, and all you got is a mouthful of damn wood shavings, and the boss badger is breathing down your neck, telling you to chew more wood, and he's sitting up on a log or something, staring into the sun, and those damn raccoon kids are throwing acorns at you, and you just want to take that rotten stick and shove it down the boss's throat, and tell him to shove his whole stinking job because you don't need this kind of crap, and why doesn't he chew the damn stick, and why does someone have to chew on it anyways? Man. You must just sit there and hate and hate all day long if you're a badger.

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