A Steaming Cup of Hate Soup
Boy, I don’t like you.
I know that I only saw you for the first time here in the line at Subway, but I just plain despise you.
That’s right, you go ahead and order that five-dollar meatball sub. I hope you choke on it. Each little meatball is going to be like a tiny balled-up fist, covered in overly-sweet marinara sauce, punching you in the mouth. That will teach you to smile at me.
Oh, you didn’t really do anything wrong. I’m totally taking the negative emotions I have built up for another reason and projecting them on you.
Yeah, you want lettuce on that sandwich. Why don’t you just ask the girl to shove it down your throat? Just shove it down there like I’m shoving my own emotions about a completely different situation down my own throat, and then ignoring them until they seep around the edges and land on an innocent bystander.
That would be you. Yes, you. The one with the security badge hanging around your neck with a picture of your stupid, stupid face. The stupid face that looks a little bit like the person I’m really angry at.
I’ll tell you what you should get on the side: You should get a big steaming cup of Hate Soup. That’s the soup du jour. Hate Soup. You have to ask for Golden Broccoli Cheese. But, we all know it’s hate. Thick, slightly bitter hate with a ton of calories.
You better watch yourself because I’m looking right at you, just waiting for you to do something I don’t like so I can get disproportionately upset about it. I’ll probably yell at you and then look at the 16-year-old behind the cash register for approval. I’m sure she’ll agree with me because she looks like my high school girlfriend who always understood me. In fact, I’m going to leave her a big tip for that reason.
Oh, sure. Pay in exact change; dig around in there for pennies. Warning! I’m about to sigh really loudly. That’ll show you. That’s what you get for your slight resemblance to the person who caused me permanent psychological damage. If I had been able to face up to that person, I probably wouldn’t even notice you. But I was incapable, so you get the sigh.
That got your attention, didn’t it? Some sighs sound a bit pissy but that sigh was as a strong as a primal scream. I saw you look up at me and roll your eyes. If you take one more second I’m going to tsk.
You asked for it. There, I tsked. I clucked like a schoolmarm at a burlesque show at your inability to count out 27 cents. What are you going to do about it?
I’m perfect willing to embarrass myself during lunch rush at a Subway rather than truly deal with my emotions.
Hold on. I’m going to have to forgo this pointless expression of pain. A cop walked in and I have a real problem with authority figures. I’m going to talk in a loud voice and tell funny stories in an attempt to get his approval.
Oh, and order a sandwich.