Sorry, You're out.

I met this girl the other day.

I hate her.

I would like to just stop there. But my mother always says that hate is a strong word, so I think I should provide sound, reasonable reasons for my hatred.

Strike Numero Uno: She’s a girl.

I can hear you all in an uproar already. “That’s unreasonable, YOU are a girl!”

Details.

Hypocrisy doesn’t make something an unsound reason. Although I am a female, I can’t really say the gender does much for me. It’s something about the combination of the inability to make a joke that evokes laughter, the propensity towards over excitement due to ballet flats and the need to divulge private information to strangers when drunk that makes me nauseous.

Strike Numero Dos: She apparently wanted to be my psychologist. And although I probably have multiple issues (most of which revolve around extreme hatred for fat kids), I wasn’t in the mood to be taken seriously.

She was overly attentive.

She nodded excessively.

She made uncomfortable amounts of eye contact as if her eyes were laser beaming small, but oh so many, holes into my soul.

She threw out the exact same overly thoughtful “hmm…” every time I made an observation (mostly about fat kids). She would have provided the same response no matter if I told her I liked eggs, had an ingrown toenail or liked to get pissed on.

She said “I see” while pressing her lips together so many times that I began fantasizing about first gouging her eyes out, then cutting her lips off and stuffing them into her empty eye sockets. At least that way it would be funny when she commented that she could see (and therefore unstriking Strike Numer Uno).

Just by being in her presence I began to yearn for a sticky leather couch, a box of tissues and childhood issues.

Or just the relief of the cold metal of a rifle at the back of my throat.

Most likely the latter. But really. What’s the difference?

Strike Numero Tres: She spells definitely incorrectly.

I refuse to even replicate the spelling for fear that my fingers might fall off and my IQ would drop to the single digits. Let’s just say there was an “a” forced helplessly (probably kicking and screaming) into the middle.

I have standards here, folks. I believe that people that spell definitely incorrectly are not worth my friendship, but are, in fact, worth my loathing. Call it cruel, call it judgmental, call it whatever you want but I have a feeling Jesus would back me up on this one.