You know, I think the number one thing we come to realize over the years is “I hate my life.” Or when it really gets bad: “Gosh, I hate myself.” And then we instantly feel badly about it, because, aren’t there people in Africa who are starving, or teenagers who are shot in the streets for no reason? So, really, why should we complain when we’ve got the fancy [insert current car model] or the new [insert modern technology]? But then we remember that Sarah McLaughlin song that plays every time we’re about to eat dinner and that forlorn “Donate today” banner that’d flash puppy dog eyes, if only it had them. So we curse the world all over again, because really, how many times do we need to see those abused cat commercials, anyway? And just like a beautiful story arc, we twirl right on back to “gosh, I hate my life.”

But, it may just be me.  I wouldn’t be surprised. Sometimes, we go to sleepovers, if we’re from the dinosaur age, or host really intense group chat sessions, if we’re from this era, and everyone’s spilling enough guts that we could probably knock off a few people on the organ transplant waiting list. But then we share that one personal tidbit about our lives that we assume everyone else can relate to- but wrong…and that’s the last sleepover we’ll ever be invited to. So really, it might just be me.

Still, my “hatred of self” began long before, though I guess it really took off when my dad died. You know, I’d really have loved to have started this off with something oh-so-eloquently beautiful about the ruddy crimson leaves of autumn or even the somber grayness of the heavens the day my dad turned the exact shade of freshly fallen snow, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. Maybe it was that little bit of my father’s cynicism that’s decided to linger on in me before it flutters away the way he did. Ha. What does that mean anyway? Cynicism. It means I can’t take anything seriously.

For instance: people bring up funerals? Extra, extra of those conversations; why don’t I joke all about it?

Or: those students who are all friends and sit next to me, and sometimes include me in conversations, chatter on about something and nothing? Why don’t I just laugh really, really loudly at whatever that bit of nothing is today?

And: how about all those people who’ve got a professional degree in acting like nothing’s happened; they’re just like me, aren’t they? Why don’t I wish so very hard that one of them would ask me about it?

Cynicism. Maybe I’m misusing it. Maybe I’m twisting it into absurd shapes that my father’d certainly cringe at; twisting it like one of those ties they put on the plastic sleeves bread’s wrapped in. Maybe I should stop taking myself seriously. Because what does “I hate my life” really mean, anyway? Have I already forgotten? Those kids in Taiwan aren't getting any less hungry....