Being hated

Being hated

A couple days ago I saw the one person in the world that I think hates me. He was walking up the street with his girlfriend. No, check that, I heard they got engaged. I remember when he showed me the ring he wanted to get her. I wonder if it’s the same one? To be honest, when I heard that they were engaged, I felt happy for them. Like, these are two people you can imagine with kids – I think they’d be good parents. There was a time I thought we could be friends. Not best friends maybe, that wasn’t going to happen. He was too eccentric and I was too neurotic. Clashes were bound to happen. Once, after a little back and forth, he told me that having a repartee is like having a knife to the throat. He laughed. I laughed. We moved along. We were in to the same shit though, so we always had something to talk about. We don’t speak now. When I saw him and his lady walking up the street there was just an odd eye contact. I didn’t see the hate I expected in his eyes, but I don’t doubt that it’s there. I don’t expect to ever be given the opportunity to clear the air, which is something I regret. It’s a strange thing – knowing someone out there hates you, but he was ready to believe terrible things said about me without even talking to me about it. The painful thing is I think it was always there, the willingness to believe that I’m a terrible person. I’m a lot of things: lazy, fussy, a constant swing-back-and-forth between too extroverted and too introverted, smarmy, sometimes pretentious, and no human being in the world has wasted more time, but terrible? I won’t cop to that. So, keep walking, buddy. But, if you ever want to wave or say, “hi,” I won’t hold these last nine months against you. Won’t even talk about it. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. I expect you’ll keep walking. I hope not though. Holding on to that kind of hatred doesn’t make an ounce of sense to me.