I hate writers. More specifically I hate amazing, prolific, ethereal poets with a nose that is too large for their triangular face. 

I hate myself. Even more so I hate my ability to fall in love with large nosed poets that use my own acts of displaying affection to rebuff and then take their 'tortured souls' to paper.

I hate words. Because even though this triangular artist had the chance to talk, the thought of drinking black coffee mixed with whiskey to 'create art' seemed more appealing than holding my hand in the monkey exhibit because I hated seeing them chained up left with nothing to do but stare through glass.

This is on my doormat now:

                                    "Due to the influx of tortured souls trying to write out                                                        their feelings on trees with a piece of lead, everyone is now                                                required to just shut the fuck up."