Hatred Is In The Air

As my age multiplies by minutes and seconds like HIV outbreak, both consciously and unconsciously I've expanded a very long list of those things I hate. One time, when Father and I went for a drive and my mouth just couldn't stop criticizing most everything I saw along the way, he asked why I was so hateful. He even wondered if it's because he and Mother hadn't raised me good enough, nor given me the adequate share of love I should have had.

To lessen his guilt, I told him that he's just so lucky to be able to cope with so many annoying things in this world. Like maybe he could deal with a newly-wed girl friend baptizing herself with the husband's last name writing a posting in a mailing list: "What could be more wonderful than having your husband making you breakfast every morning?", or a shopkeeper curiously following every step I make in a fancy boutique, as if I was going to shoplift that over one million blouse if for one second she blinks an eye, or at a first encounter people shaking my hand weakly, while their eyes not looking into mine, nor listening to my announcing own name, only a few minutes later they would ask me to repeat my name. Well, okay, people do forget names. That's not a big deal. But avoiding a glance when you're offering the hand is like doing something having the exact opposite meaning of what it has to be.

I'm sorry, Father, I can't handle all those things without radiating my hatred.

And particularly this handshake matter is, yes, very intolerable for me. I can't seem to comprehend why people bother to do the routine of shaking hands if they don't really want to do it. I think they'd better cut the crap, rather than giving a too weak handshake, which I find it very insulting, as if I was offering a smelly hand I've just been using to pick up my nose and forgotten to wash the remaining buggers off my finger tips. While too strong and too long is just revolting. It's like that particular person - especially if it's a he - is trying to convey a naughty code: "Let's find a cheap hotel room and let me show you what I've got between my crotch!" But the biggest crime in a handshake world is shaking hands with eyes roaming elsewhere - ranging from the eyes of the other person at my boobs, at a piece of chili skin stuck between my front teeth, at someone else more beautiful standing next to me, or even at the most talked about celebrities happen to pass by.

I can deal with someone's wife holler at me as calling me names existing in animal kingdom or a set of thesaurus for the word "courtesan". But no, I just can't deal with lousy handshakes without eye contact.

Father suggested me to see a psychiatrist, for he thought I needed help to cure my anger and insecurites within. But since at this point in my life I didn't live on his earnings anymore and I, of course, preferred to spend my own on fashion items, or gastronomic pleasures, or return tickets to somewhere than paying a phony Jung hourly, I quickly threw his suggestion away.

Then he suggested: "Why don't you go get married? Maybe all the anger and hatred came from your repressed sexual hormones!"

And that surely shut me up.

Oh no. Do I sound like those typical old spinsters I've always avoided from ever resembling?