Do you like Phil Collins ?
When my alarm goes off at 9 am sharp, I let it ring once before turning it off because I hate it. I’ll get out of bed and open the curtains; I think a cloudy day is the perfect weather to be a hater. But really, any day is a good day to be a hater. People say ‘hate’ is a strong word, but I hate that. No other word can encapsulate how I feel about things. I believe in taking care of myself and being a hater is one of my many self-care steps. There is an idea of Celena Ho; smart, funny, pretty, ambitious, hilarious, entertaining, charming, inspiring, original, witty, attractive, hot, stunning, talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show-stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, and completely not ever been done before. But there is no *real* me. She doesn’t exist. I am merely an entity.
I start every morning with a 10 km run and an ice bath for my joints when I’m finished. When I get into the bathroom, I brush my teeth with an electric toothbrush and whatever blue paste my mother buys from the store. I brush for exactly 30 seconds on each side, top and bottom. I need them to be presentable for the day of hating that I have ahead of me. I’ll then wash my face with a thirteen-dollar cleanser because I hate spending a lot of money on skincare. Being a hater is frowned upon, but I think people should be more open with hating. It keeps me young.
Then I leave the house for class. There’s nothing I hate more than the TTC, but I take it so that I appear humble. When I get to class I pick a nemesis, except that they don’t know it. Every time they raise their hand my blood boils. “I wrote about this in an essay if anyone wants to read it,” she says. Ugh. I can’t believe her. “What’s your plan to defeat her?” my friend asks. He’s a hater too. We hate on things together, but what he doesn’t know is that I hate him more. He could never hate the sheer amount of things that I do. He wouldn’t understand what it’s like to be me. I tell him that I plan to be better. I do all of my readings on time, I go to class and have flawless attendance. I contribute to the class discussion with insightful comments, I ask inquisitive questions and impress the teacher. I study really hard for the final exam and do better than her. It’s silent and goes unnoticed but at least in my head, I’m better than her at her own game. I live out of spite and pure rage.
I’m a hater. Sue me. There’s a pool of things that I will always hate. It depends on the day but everyone and everything has their chance. The “friend” that unfollowed me on TikTok for no reason. The architecture of Sidney Smith Hall. When my tote bag slips off my shoulder for the millionth time. People that walk in the middle of the sidewalk really slowly. I hold several years worth of hatred for someone I knew from high school. He unfollowed and blocked literally everyone after graduation. I see him on campus and flash him a smile, I even address him by name. He doesn’t know what I know. I go to sleep at night knowing that several people in this world hate me, but I’m lulled to a restful slumber knowing that I hate them more. It comforts me knowing that my ex can never listen to a Taylor Swift song without thinking about me. I continue to live out of spite because that is the only way to live.
I think people should be haters more. It’s freeing. I’m not being a hater, I’m being real and honest. People need to know that they’re a walking ick. Isn’t honesty the best policy? Who doesn’t want to be seen as honest and trustworthy? When people tell me that they trust my opinion, my lifespan is extended by five years. When you’re a hater, you live longer. Haters outlive optimists or whatever the saying is. Being a hater keeps my skin clear and my crops thriving. It’s the real me. I can’t hide my true colours anymore. If there’s 1,000 haters in the world, I’m one of them. If there are zero haters in the world, I’m dead. On the outside, I look like a human being. I have blood, skin, hair; but not a single emotion, except for hatred. You can shake my hand and feel the warmth of my flesh, but I am simply not Celena. I am a hater.
