I know it’s not politically correct to go on the record and declare a deep, irrational hate for a specific group of people; but I’m going to do it anyway. Since I was old enough to tie my own shoes, I have abhorred this certain breed of individual. It’s not something I learned at home; so please, don’t blame my parents. I can assure you they’re lovely, tolerant, accepting creatures. I don’t belong to internet forums that stupidly speculate on how to humiliate and harm these people under the guise of promoting a genre of heavy metal music so auditorily repulsive, it can only truly be enjoyed by the deaf. I also don’t engage in organized public protest to shout scripture and my opinions on whether these misfits were born this way or it’s a lifestyle choice, while clutching the Bible. But I do hate. I hate with a white-hot, burning passion.
Morning People, you are the bain of my existence. I hate the way you smell like soap and manage to get dressed without getting deodorant smudges down the side of your shirts. I loathe the way you chirp “Good Morning!” or some other greeting associated with sunlight and seem to genuinely mean it. I despise the way you arrive to work on time, not reeking of vodka or looking like you put on your face or shaved while going over an obstacle course of speed bumps and train tracks. I’m disgusted by the way you leap out of bed at 5 a.m. and put on exercise clothes and then actually go exercise. My Adidas track pants with the stripes sewn on the side and motivational t-shirts are reserved for schlepping over to some seedy, all night purveyor of spirits and libations to pick up a friend who has misplaced their ability to ambulate on their own, or without the benefit of holding on to a wall. I bet you’ve never listened to the morning sound of crickets while ignoring the smell of urine and heard the sweet symphony of a friend repeat loudly “Hey. HAAaay, you know what? I reeeally apreee-shee-iate you doing this for me. I love you. YOoooooou, yooou are my one, true friend”, like the CD in their brain is skipping. I’m genuinely sorry that you may never know what it’s like to be loved this way.
I despise all of your weekend digital event invitations that boast the support of your newest charitable cause and try to guilt me into accompanying you to stand in a parking lot at the crack-of-ass for a car-wash. Why would you think the idea of waiting to cleanse the exterior of the SUV belonging to another jerk that is out of bed, on their way to get breakfast before “antique-ing” appeals to me? I don’t care if the puppies in Malaysia are suffering great social injustices and you’re training for a marathon that will raise money to build them a civic center in Kuala Lumpur. I feel we’re at a point in our Facebook friendship where I don’t even need to click “maybe attending” button anymore, to spare your feelings and then try to come up with a believable reason for why I didn’t show up. If the event requires me to rally before 10 a.m. on a Saturday and the invitation does not contain the words “free”, “cold”, “beer” or “professional midget wrestling” you can assume that my answer will always be a firm “not attending”.
One more thing…I don’t appreciate the tone of your 7 a.m. weekday text messages, that order me to have a “great day ”. Screw you and stop telling me what to do. I’m not one of these weak minded twits that are going to jump on-board the Great Day Morning Express. If you really wanted to brighten my day, you’d save the pep-talk until after 9 a.m., when my veins are pulsing with coffee. Who in the hell do you think you are?
And you happy morning people that congregate in the lobbies of tall office building’s downtown, shaming me with your smiling and saying hello in front of the elevators. I can tell by the pep in your step and seemingly good natured demeanor that we are going to be trapped together, in a button adorned cell, while you whistle all the way up the eighth floor. The elevator is not the time or the place for an early morning round of “Name That Tune”, you selfish, coherent bastard. Do you know how many times you’ve come close to being the victim of a hate crime? How I’ve plotted to lay in wait behind the potted plant in the vestibule, and jump out just as you start purse your lips, to rip them from your face? If it weren’t for the fact that you could identify your attacker because we work in the same office and you are actually capable of creating the water based, caffeinated elixir I so desperately need to survive, I can assure you, you’d be “Whistling Dixie” no more.
Morning people, I am aware that we live in a democratic society. The Constitution protects your right to go around spouting off your stupid ideological “early bird gets the worm” rhetoric. You are free to mow your lawn at precisely 8 a.m. on a Saturday and feign remorse when you make my phone ring at some ungodly antemeridian hour, to find that you are responsible for my forced extradition from the Land of Nod. But don’t expect that everyone is going to accept you exercising these rights; you will probably raise some eyebrows and may be met with some violent opposition from those who aren’t likeminded. Oh, and before I forget…have a great day, too .