On Being a Hater

"Why are you such a hater, Nate?"

Because I'm really freakin' good at it, that's why. I have definitely invested the requisite 10,000 hours in hating on stuff, and it's more rewarding every year.

The reason most haters are frowned upon is because they're bores. No panache whatsoever. I'm not talking about bleating out every random animal complaint that bubbles to the foreground — I'm talking about bonsai-level contempt for all that is hollow and drab and unctuous, sub specie aeternitatis.

The universe's supply of lameness is inexhaustible. This is my garden. Tirades are my flowers. If you want to picture my soul, imagine a Chihuly chandelier of expertly curated grievances, each gleaming tendril fashioned from something that was once obviously putrid, but now sings with light.

They say carrying resentment around is unhealthy. The Buddhists mark it as a tendency of the pedestrian mind. But synthesized properly, it is enriching and clarifying. Properly nourished and reflected on from several perspectives, you can make tomorrow's aria from today's common grudge.

This is magic. Not everybody can pull it off. It takes craft and even a smidgen of moral purpose.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to call my cousin in Arizona on his direct line at work. Last year during a family get-together, we were getting legless in a hotel lobby and he tried to interrupt my playlist with a request to play a Hopsin track. I was deeply offended by this and I've finally figured out why.

This is going to be a platinum-tier polemic. It's going to be like watching an Appaloosa at full gallop in a dewy field. He is going to understand why he is a clod at a cosmic level. He will be reshaped by the flame and emerge better than before, shorn of crippling illusions.

This is my gift.

This is what I do.