The Inner Monologue

Let’s get one thing straight: hating is usually a garbage-tier hobby. Hate the rain? Cool, but it’s still gonna water the plants. Hate cilantro? Fine, more for the rest of us. Hate pineapple on pizza? Wrong, but at least that’s a victimless crime.

But then there’s the real haters—the ones who hate people. Not because of anything those people did, but because they exist in a way that makes the hater’s sad little brain short-circuit. They hate immigrants, they hate queer folks, they hate anyone whose skin, language, or love life doesn’t fit into their sad, beige worldview. And you know why? Because deep down, they hate themselves.

That’s right. The guy screaming about “those people” ruining the country? He’s mad he peaked in high school. The woman clutching her pearls over two men holding hands? She’s bitter because her own marriage is a joyless husk. The keyboard warrior ranting about “traditional values” while posting from his mom’s basement? Well. You get the idea.

Hate is their comfort food. It’s easier to blame “those people” than admit they wasted their lives being small, scared, and stupid. So yeah, I’m gonna hate the haters. Not because I’m intolerant—but because I’m extremely intolerant of intolerance.

You’re free to hate. And I’m free to hate you for it. Funny how that works, huh?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be over here enjoying great food, great people, and great views—while the haters seethe in their sad little echo chambers. Bye! 👋