Misanthropy

I hate people arbitrarily and with a passion.

Actually, that's not exactly true. I hate people based on what they exude to me in a rapid assessment. I don't know if I would say this is "superficial," as my decision to hate or not to hate a person has no relation to how good-looking the person is; in fact, I have been known to hate people whom I'd be quite happy to fuck.

I remember on one occasion being notably stoned and thinking I should allow people to redeem themselves in my bloodshot eyes. No, I should take active steps to embrace them in my heart. I thought this could be best achieved by pretending to be their mother. One by one, I imagined giving birth to each of my arch enemies, most of whom possess no knowledge of my existence. I would cry tears of joy as each little bundle, splattered with my vaginal fluids, was placed in my arms. I imagined hearing their first words, taking them to soccer practice and piano lessons, and smirking at their lovable idiocy as they waltzed off to the Prom. This exercise would make me regard my enemy in a very different light. I looked down at my belly button, the place where the bond began. Then I remembered that it was the enemy's belly button, not mine, that was linked to the umbilical cord. Then I decided I was just not cut out to be a mother, so I considered role-playing the father. Then the drugs really wore off and I realized I would burn myself on a funeral pyre before raising such a complete and utter asshole all the way to adulthood.