So he hated tall people, short people, people who liked music he didn’t and people dressed in clothes he wouldn’t wear. He hated people who walked too slowly. He hated people in hats. He hated hipsters, he hated trust funders, East London burlesque nights and new folk music. He hated it when he needed to piss in the morning when it was too cold to get of bed. He hated his girlfriend. He hated Radiohead fans, he hated Lars Von Trier, he hated yoghurts and nuts. He literally hated people who used the word literally. He hated people who hated too many things. He hated pretension. Mostly though he hated people who wrote short stories. On the whole though he considered himself an optimist.
He considered how clichéd he was and got depressed. He considered it cliché to feel this way and so before he imploded he went for a shit and then for a wank in the bath. Talking crudely was a cliché as well so he started a new paragraph.
The more he wrote the more he hated it. He read what he wrote after. He hated it. Someday he swore he would change. But in the meantime he hated that thought. Change for the sake of change. He looked down at his shoes. They were plimsolls – what a nob head. He went over to his CD collection to find some music that would cheer him up. All he found was more proof that he was a Dickhead (copyright).
Slumped on the couch he considered his options. He thought long and hard, but came up with nothing. Leave the country? It won’t help, he’ll still like the same fucking books. He’d just be him but in Poland or somewhere; basically the same but with more homophobia and less possibility for a quick and easy abortion Still tell the same anecdotes, make girls like him in the same way, (for six months, usually) his stories were finite – his social value short term.