Girls can't even hate honest.

This to any ex-crush, any ex-girlfriend and any ex-ex-chromosome I've known and decided it prudent to label with an 'ex': I HATE you. Yes, I HATE you because I don't love you, and I can't be indifferent about you. My fiancee loves it when I hate you aloud, and although I find that amusing, I get the same kick out of listening to her damning her misadventures. (Digression. And that's the way it should be. There shouldn't be regrets, questions like 'what if' and 'how could I'. Time has an arrow; the me,context tuple of yesterday had made the me,context tuple today. I am because I was, there's no way I want to defy time; then I will not be what I am. Hating is my defence against my human tendencies to regret.)

I hate you a lot, oh yes, there were times I wanted to kill you. I probably wouldn't have killed you in the end, though; I was fearful of myself. And that was the bend, when I saw the dark yonder of the curve, each time. I was fearful of myself, so why would I destroy Me because of You? And so you became that-one, and love turned into hate, kill-and-let-kill gave way to live-and-let-die. Hate saved me, or maybe I saved myself and HATE saved me from there on; HATE I brood. For there is no cause not to hate, it's done with and all that remains is a muted vengeance and a heart full of filthy wishes. For you.

Sometimes I did flounder, there were days when I thought, why don't I let it go, because there isn't that sting in the HATE anymore, I didn't, like, think filthy of you this morning, maybe I've almost forgotten you, so why not let it go? If I see you next time, I'll just say 'Hello', and then you can slip into the class of people I've never met, who may have been in the world and hence in the context of my me,context tuple of the past, but were never used, and hence why not cut them out, Occam would say. Cut You out? How can I? How could I? For you changed me everytime, every one of those thorns changed me so that if I like what I am, which I do, I have to give you credit. I have to say, look, you WERE used! So Occam yields, and I think, if I can't cut you out, why say Hello? Nothing matters anyway, but to say Hello would be to say, Oh well, it's okay dear, those days were not that important, that madness, that insane urge to murder, destroy and burn was, ah, something I can forget about. Duh!? Who said I can forget about that, dear. Off you go Unhelloed, for I HATE you.

So why can't you hate me the same way?

When there's a cigarette burn in my shirt, I like to tear around the hole till the shirt looks like part of the hole, and not the other way around. I am NOT okay with holes in my shirt. Although you ARE, probably because you've never smoked? Why do you like keeping things 'floating', hoping for a better future with the sun shining inspite of the clouds that would inevitably beget mud? Why are you, what-shall-I-say, so optimistic? And what about? Or is it your curious urge to be likeable, by friend AND foe AND once-upon-a-time-lover-who-I-hope-not-turns-into-a-foe? Oh but I HAVE, I am dormant, yes, but I'm your MOST dangerous foe! Yet why don't you leave me alone? Why do you, N, ask for the coffee date, and you, S, tell me about your adorable H, and why, of all people, you, T, the girl I HATE for eight years now, whose name I'd vowed to give to my first ugly pet-bitch and then poison her, why would you crop back into my life again, as you did today?

Why don't you just leave me alone?