Listen. It’s not that I don’t hate anymore. I do. Trust me I do. If you have spent time with me in real life — and a recent planet-wide poll reveals that only one of you has, and even then only as an imaginary friend — you have witnessed the merciless mélange of misanthropy (the spew stew, in street parlance) in bold 3-D. Believe me, quite a bit of the effect is lost when you only read about it, here on the two-dimensional page.
So, anyway, I know I haven’t been sharing my hate with you lately. At least not on a grand scale. Sure, I’ve been giving you little tastes. Sips. But I haven’t held out the spoon for you to lick. Or handed you the electric beaters so you can place your tongue between them a millisecond before I accidentally turn them on. And I apologize.
I promised (New Year’s resolution, everyone!) a very good non-imaginary friend that this year I would hate more fully and freely than I ever had. And I’ve been making good on that promise. Believe me. I’m just containing the hatred behind the scenes, is all.
So don’t worry about me. Don’t think I don’t hate you just because I haven’t expressed myself otherwise. I assure you that’s not the case.
Thanks for your concern, though. For that, I love you.