Sprouting From Your Fists and Tongue

I'm sitting in my seat, listening to Joe say something--neither of us remembers what--when two of my classmates saunter by unexpectedly. Before I can do anything, before I can stop myself, my mouth opens. "GOD" I explain, loudly and exasperated. Joe falls apart, completely loses it. I realize what has happened, and I fall apart too.

Later, we're talking on the phone. I'm standing on my bed--there's no room anywhere else--pacing, yelling about the same two people, one of them in particular. Her name is alliterative and rolls off my tongue. Agitation has made me eloquent, and I am good at hating her. There are thousands of reasons--that she's young and slightly immature, that she's self-important and thusly self-appoints herself with titles. Unofficial liaison from our class to the next. The baby, the one who's come here far too fast with too little experience in failure. The prodigy, the one who'll use big words no matter what. She is too eager to offer details, to eager to offer explanations for fatigue, a walking case of constant ailments. One day, muscle aches too strong to walk normally down the stairs; the next, an intractable cold.

I don't like her because our personalities clash. We are the opposite poles of magnets and, therefore, repel. She doesn't feel it, because she doesn't want to. Or maybe doesn't want to find herself unlikeable. This last point, at least, I understand. I used to be like that too.

I accept that maybe I just hate her because the feeling is so delicious, that I owe it to myself to feel this one burning emotion. Joe points out that she and her comrade are, essentially, quite wholesome. There is no obvious reason to hate them, no glaring problem, and that makes the hatred better. It feels illicit and beautiful. Joe finds it hilarious because he understands it. He knows what I mean when I say I spend way too much of my time hating her. Because it comes naturally to both of us, and--maybe because we understand each other--we encourage it in each other.

Standing on my bed, jumping against the ancient springs that have felt the weight of so many other bodies, I decide that this feeling is one of the most human. It comes from the deepest part of the brain, that part that is modulated by the newer, higher functioning parts, and in some moments, it is the only thing reminding me that I am, in fact, alive.