An Equal Opportunity Hater

I am an equal opportunity hater. If somebody does something that I hate no matter what color, religion, male or female, it doesn’t matter, I will hate them.

I am also an equal opportunity lover. I can love someone very easily. The number of times I have fallen in love is probably equal to the amount of days I have lived. That’s 21,985 as of right now. So, yeah, that’s about right.

What sparks this lust in me that I keep calling love? I don’t know.

Growing up the youngest of 5 kids, I spent a lot of time on my own. I had connections with my siblings and my parents, yet, the only connection I was and am incessantly longing for is between myself and a woman, or women.

Just thinking about the warmth between us, her lips, her hair…you know the rest…gets a rise out of me.

So when I met Rhonda in the Starbucks on 3rd avenue, her blue eyes and ample breasts, her mini skirt and blonde hair…it was love (or lust) at first glance.

I sat next to her and smiled. She was reading a novel which I couldn’t see the title of. She must have sensed my stare. She slowly lifted her chin up and looked at me. I smiled again. She muttered, “Ugh,” stood up to leave. I stopped her, “You stay, I’ll leave.” She smiled and said she was sorry.
I sat back down and we began to speak.
She was born in Tuscaloosa, which to be honest, I didn’t even know that was a real place.
When I asked her what she was doing in Starbucks in the middle of the day on a Thursday, she said, “I’m meeting my boyfriend here. Here he is.” A quarterback-like man walked in and she stood up and they embraced.
I hated him.
How can you not? The worst part is that he was friendly. Shit head.

I pretended my phone rang, said, “it was nice meeting you guys.” And walked out while “talking” on my phone.

How can I not hate the guy? Others would say, “how can you not like the guy?” He was pretty much everything I’m not. Athletic, good looking, seemingly a nice guy and he was dating the “head cheerleader.”
Me? I’m a 5 foot 8 judgmental, middle-aged, (to be kind), hairline receding, underemployed man who can come off as a good guy, but deep down inside (I know the real me) can be an asshole.

Maybe that’s my issue? I secretly don’t like the person I am. I am not the person I had envisioned myself to be.

I walk down the stairs towards the train to take me home. I see an older lady (she seems older than me) pulling a suitcase. I tell her, “can I help you?” She smiles and says, “I don’t need your help.” Pulls back the case from my outstretched hands and walks down the stairs.
I hate her.