Just Because I look Stunning In My New Shirt Doesn't Mean I Want To Talk To You, Girl Sitting Next To Me Right Now
Why do I hate Bono? Well, I don't hate hate him [note: this is untrue, I do hate hate him]. What I hate is the word hate. I had a ninth grade "Social Studies" teacher who thought what a good excersize would be would be to sit in a circle and everybody had to name one thing that they hated. And these things we hated were not required to - and in the end did not - have anything to do with "Social Studies." More often than not they had more to do with Chrissy egging Tanya's house but Tanya's mother had to clean it up because Tanya was at cheerleading camp and Tanya's mother fell off the ladder propped against the tree, broke her knee, bad insurance, lost job. Tanya hates Chrissy, then, quite understandably. Anyway when it got to me I said I hate the word hate, because what good does the word hate do? And I distinctly remember hearing some girl, always sat in the back so I don't remember her name but I do remember her bookbag having Foo Fighters white-outed onto it, like a patch, but instead of Foo Fighters she'd put Food Fighters, could have been a joke but more likely is that she hadn't a fucking clue what she was white-outing onto her Jansport, saying, "I hate people like that." "Like that" meaning me, people who hate the word hate. Then later in the week the teacher showed us slides from his vacation to Sochi, where he picked up a sweet mail-order bride for like super cheap.
Life goes on, though, and I hate Bono, despite his numerous highly-publicized curvy sunglasses doing good all over Africa. I don't really know why I hate Bono, but I'm more than positive that I do, so there's no shaking me here. I know I hate Bono like my pregnant aunt knows it's a boy. I know I hate Bono like my Dad knows that sometimes we should take the Nickle Bridge, because, I don't know, I've just got a feeling that there was a large accident on the Powhite involving a motorcyclist and two trailers lugging horses to Powhatan. That's how I know I hate Bono.
I was also in that "Social Studies" class that I mastered the underappreciated pre-iPod schoolday skill of packing a CD player in your Jansport and having the headphone chord inserted under your shirt, up your chest, into an arm hole, into your hand, pressed against your ear. So that what might look like head-on-hands boredom/despondency is actually jamming out to Smashing Pumpkins.