“I hated my hair, and I hated my shirt.” – Jason Bredle, “Pinball City”  

I hated my glasses
and my eyes for needing them.
I hated the gap between my front teeth
—called a diastema—
and I hated my mind for making me
look that up. I hated being asked to sign
up for the app.
I hated being asked, “What’s a good name?”
before I could get my coffee,
which I didn’t hate at all.  

I hated hated hated
repeating my date of birth three times each time
I visited my rheumatologist.
I hated my demons
though I admired their work ethic
and my guardian angel
whose bathroom breaks
had become too long, too frequent.
I hated my manuscript
for not writing itself
while I sunbathed on my grungy hammock
for which I held no hatred whatsoever.  

I hated the noisy construction next door
and the indeterminate finale of The Sopranos.
I hated the tailgating trucker
and the slowpoke in the pink Prius,
not to mention my seat in the back
of the plane by the bathroom
and the flight attendant
whose legs stretching across the aisle
I did not hate at all.  

I hated my own jokes because
I’d heard them all before.
I hated the hiss of a snake
in my rusty voice
and I hated the calendar
filled with dreaded dates,
the first day of school and yet another
birthday, one giant step closer
to the grave, which I hated,
and how just looking at the calendar
made me hungry for cake,
which I definitely didn’t hate.
You’d have to be fucking deranged
to hate cake.