There’s always something to hate about one’s mannerisms. People speak more openly about their insecurities than their religion. Nervous habits spread amongst the party-goers like wild fire. Nervous chatter slithers between sealed lips and tackles our tongues.
We boomerang insults off of each other, because a compliment is foreign self-hatred (I hate you because I love you for that). The remainder of coffee in my cup gives me an excuse to keep talking. How rude of me to leave the room, when I am still thirsty. We act self-less as a way to be selfish. “I did this for you. I did that. Now I want, I need!” Handshakes and hugs aren’t suitable gifts for those who give and give. Apologetic text messages sent to those who actually care are deleted, because words should be generated in only the mouth.
You there, sipping your coffee and picking at your biscotti, I hope you are taking notes. Yes, notes. Yet, I know in the corner of your notepad – which you call your “brain” – you are doodling my face, jawless. Why don’t you just admit that you think I talk too much? You are forever anonymous until you speak. Compliments don’t count as conversation. You see, we already went over this. You find me attractive; therefore, you find yourself far from beautiful. But, what if I called you attractive? It’s crazy how much we sacrifice the moment our mouths open.
You purchased a pastry to go with your beverage, because you wanted something to pinch, poke and pick at. Don’t get me wrong, you can go ahead and pick on me. Pick on me; punch me; stand up and yell anything you want. No one is here. Well, no one who would care. You don’t need an audience to speak up; no one comes to a coffee shop in hopes for a show.
As you can tell, I did not buy a biscotti or scone to go with my coffee (cappuccino to be more specific). I don’t want to choke on something delicious as you feed me garbage. Most garbage isn’t worth much and that’s why we put it out on the street for others to pick up, drop off, pick up.
But this time, I’m listening.
Tell me what you hate about me.