“They’ll never cross me again!” shouted Arthur Reese, enraged by the insults directed at him while working in the Arcview Times office that day. Taunts and teasing rang through his ears as he poured himself another shot of Jose Cuervo Tequila. One shot, two shots, three shots, four. “Fat? Greasy? I am no such thing,” he roared, turning an instant shade of scarlet red, veins throbbing in his neck. Considerably intoxicated, he walked the perimeter of his one-bedroom apartment, swiping at vases and empty picture frames as he went. Then, the phone rang. He knew precisely who it was, for she called at least four times each day. Filled with the confidence of liquid courage and rage from the day’s events, he lunged for the portable phone.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Arthur? I haven’t spoken to you in months! I’ve left message after message, did you not receive them? How have you been? I’ve missed you so much!” replied Mrs. Reese, anticipation and slight annoyance filling her every word.
So long he had waited for this night, the night when he could finally express his pure revulsion for the overbearing, perfectionist of a woman that had given birth to him. The woman who had ruined his childhood. Five shots, six shots, seven shots. He sat, listening to the silent anticipation on the other side of the phone, ready to shatter her. His 39 years of self-loathing all came down to this moment, this sentence, these three words.

“I hate you,” said Arthur Reese to his mother, coldly.
Click.