My culture-deprived, aspirational mother dragged me once a month from our northern suburb - where the word art never came up - to the Art Institute of Chicago. I hated it.
People used what they called a telephone because they hated being close together and they were scared of being alone.
He could not fucking die. How could he leave? How could he go? Everything he hated was here.
I always hated when my scars started to fade, because as long as I could still see them, I knew why I was hurting.
It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.