Life is so much more interesting when you Actively Hate Yourself!

I don’t mean just having low self-esteem. Any asshole can have that. “Oh I’m too short! Oh I’m too fat! Oh I need to spend more time with my kids! What a terrible father I am being!” Shut the fuck up. I hope your tall-ass, skinny kid suffocates you with a Hot Pocket because you raised a serial killer. Fuckwits of the world: it’s time you gave up on that self-improvement bullshit and realize that you are a horrible person and you always will be and you should teach yourself a lesson.

When you Actively Hate Yourself, every day is a new adventure. Nothing beats the thrill of looking in the mirror each morning and screaming “Fuck this guy! Fuck him right in the ear!” and then throwing yourself down a flight of stairs. That’s true living! No other life philosophy can offer the alpha-male thrills of bullying AND the self-satisfying victimization of the bullied. All in one neat package!

Just the other day I found a crisp one-hundred dollar bill on the ground in my parking spot. One hundred dollars! Amazing, right? But immediately, my AHY instincts kicked in and I was like, “what have you done today to deserve that, asshole?” So I went to the nearest construction yard and started stepping on whatever dirty nails I could find. Then I stapled my left eye shut. Not so lucky now, eh shit stain? Tetanus shots can eat my dick.

And don’t think Actively Hating Yourself doesn’t get the ladies attention! When I’m out on the town dressed up in my finest barbed wire tunic, I spy a gorgeous lady dancing on the floor. I just walk straight up to her, stare her right in her eye, and I casually pull out a piece of wet slate and club myself in the head. A couple times if I think the babe is really hot. After that, she can’t take her eyes off me. And I know exactly what she’s thinking: “Damn! I’m sure glad that guy is Actively Hating Himself, because if he didn’t his herculean abilities would surely spiral out of control!” But then I realize I just kind of paid myself some sort of meta-compliment so I cut off the tip of my finger, you know just to show me who’s boss.

If you’re not a club rat, that’s ok! Actively Hating Yourself is for all genders, races, ages, and personality types! One of the simplest Actively Hating Yourself exercises is simply sifting through my Hate Box. In this box I keep all the pictures, postcards, letters and other trinkets from my past life when I thought I deserved things. Desperate platitudes to the opposite sex! Losing lottery tickets! Pictures of women I successfully fooled into liking me! A family portrait. Just staring into my grandmother’s hopeful yet fading eyes really gets that perpetual cycle of self-loathing going again. Don’t worry kids, that one’s on the house.

So don’t put off tomorrow what you can do today! I’d say “join me now” or some other cheap cliché, but you’d be better off burning your money than giving it to this child rapist. Until then keep hatin!

It was my last night in Tucson and Fred wanted to take me somewhere special. He said it was the best place to see the stars at night. It was December and the sun set early so we left around 8pm. We drove through town as everything was closing. The shops turned off their lights and the city got darker as the sky grew brighter. We saw the abandoned sugar factory and the drive-thru liquor store. We zoomed past the strip mall and cemetery. I rolled down the window and looked at the sky, but still couldn’t see past the streetlights and the palm trees. Fred drove up the hill through the pattern of houses with dusty lawns and cactus gardens. We finally reached the top of the hill and got out of the car. We leaned on the hood and looked up at the sky. The valley of Tucson stretched far and wide and the stars and constellations shone with a gleaming intensity I had never seen before. They echoed old maps of 15th century sailors, the ones that led them into uncharted and unknown lands. I thought about this small, sad little town that knew nothing about discovery and exploration and didn’t think of any place beyond the desert. These were the same stars that people on the water would watch and I had a feeling that no one in this town ever thought about that. I had never felt so small myself and I didn’t like the feeling. Fred asked if it was worth the drive and I said, “Definitely.” But not just for the breathtaking view, but because I was fully confident that leaving this place was the best decision of my life. 

I was poking around the backyard when Freddy came through the gate. He asked if I wanted to get stoned and I said yes. Later, we were both poking around the backyard and Freddy kicked something half buried. I uncovered it and wiped away the dirt. Freddy said that it was Lucky’s favorite mug. I sighed and dumped it back on the ground. That night we got wasted at Dale’s Tavern. The bartender (Dale’s daughter) didn’t even bat an eye as we ordered well whiskeys and downed them like desert walkers. I told Freddy that I thought the mug had left with Lucy, that seeing it today was not good, that I was pretty sure if I hadn’t been stoned I would have done something stupid. He told me I sounded stupid and ordered another round of whiskeys. Laying in my bed hours later I could hear the sound of cars speeding down the road. The streetlight flickered. If I closed my eyes the world spun, falling off its axis. I lay there with my eyes open wishing I had the mug to puke into, wishing the streetlight would burn my retinas, wishing Freddy had left me some weed because I knew in the morning I would hate myself. The streetlight flicked off and the world jolted, but stayed mostly upright. My mind became blank as I sank into the darkness.

Meanwhile, on Dryland…

“I live for scrap metal!!” Janice shouted to the sand as she blazed through the dunes in her beat-up, dangerously pointy, paint-chipped bike. She had just hit a big score out by the water where a motor-bike crash had happened two days earlier (she heard about it from her dentist) and just this morning a washed-up ghost ship trawler collided into the motor-bike crash. “This is the best pickin’ for my bike!” She had shouted, to no one in particular, while feverishly pounding at the bent up and twisted pieces that were already mimicking the intertwined sculptures of seaweed and driftwood around them. Sharp, jagged pieces laid all around her when she was done mining the wreckage for her parts. She started welding the pieces to her bike with a hand-held welder she carried with her everywhere for situations exactly like this. There was little rhyme and zero reason to her work, but she always placed pieces deliberately. She whistled Dixie the whole time in a round (after round…) of high-pitched, whispy staccato which crescendoed whenever she found a piece of metal that worked especially well in its correct spot. “You’re a beaut’, time to show ‘em what we’re made of!” She revved the engine, which sounded the same, and which was perhaps more strained from the added steel. Going up and down the dunes she buzzed loud and out of sight, full-speed ahead leaving a black, smokey cloud in her wake. “Janice the Jet-Pack” was a junk metal junkie and the ultimate rebel without a cause. 

Everything is blue. Which means we’re cast in an unfortunate pallor. All glassy eyed and anemic. I’m sure it wasn’t always like this, but it’s been a while. A long while. Tommy keeps dipping his hand into an endless bag of potato chips, some generic brand I’ve never seen or heard of before. Laid. Strange. And Sandra keeps sucking on a straw of endless cola. Hep-si Cola. That doesn’t even seem right. But it’s hard for me to tell because this underwater lighting seems to be messing with my mind. The hi-def television glows dome-like, surrounding us. It is absolutely impossible to look away. Our eyes are attached to spider web thin strings that stretch and enter the plasma screen and this string is as tough as NASA titanium. The crumbs from the chips that cover Tommy’s shirt float up into the air and catch the light like dust motes. The soda from Sandra’s straw escapes and forms bubbles that bump along but never pop. Soda pop and strings like marionettes. We are lucky to be so well cocooned, fading to translucence. 

Coming back home was never a fun thing to do.  I left Pawtucket for a number of reasons, the primary of which being that I fucking hated Pawtucket.  I hated Pawtuckians.  I hated the Pawtucket High Panthers.  I hated the Pawtucket High School marching band.  I hated the fat mayor, and I hated his fat wife.  The Pawtucket Church of the Holy Mother was a terrible church.  Pawtucket’s claim to fame for years was that it was home to the world cheesecake-eating champion.  I hated that someone could be a celebrity for forcing six pounds of cheesecake down his gullet.  I hated that that someone married the girl I took to prom.

I flew into Providence and my brother picked me up in his old two-door Chrysler.  His wife was in the front seat, and I threw my luggage in the trunk and climbed into the back seat.  I am six foot six.  About three miles down the highway, my brother’s wife asked me why I never come home.  This is why, I said, and I pointed to my crunched up legs.  This is why.

An hour later we saw the WELCOME TO PAWTUCKET, HOME OF WORLD CHEESECAKE-EATING CHAMPION DONALD DONFLIGLIO sign, and I sighed in a combination of “I-give-up” and “thank God.”  We saw the old high school, we saw the old church.  We saw the abandoned sugar factory, its parking lot filled with broken fluorescent light tubes and the remains of a rusty old car.  We saw our first house, on Fletcher Avenue, with waist-high weeds and boarded up windows.   Ma’s not ready to see you yet, city boy, my brother said, and we stopped at an old diner.  The timing was wonderful.  My bladder was throbbing.

Two scrambled eggs, rye toast, bacon, and a coffee, black.  French fries instead of hash browns.  My brother ordered a hamburger, his wife chicken tenders from the children’s menu.  We ate in silence until I asked why my mother wasn’t ready to see me.  She’s freshenin’ up, my brother said.  Freshening up, for me.  I nodded and we finished lunch.  When the bill came, my brother had to take a call. 

Thomas Michael Callahan is awake, he is wrapped in a light blanket, he wiggles under its tightness.  An arm comes free, a leg, he stretches, he yawns.  His room is freshly painted, his crib newly assembled.  Everything is blue, his eyes, the walls, his plastic crib, everything is blue.  His mother lifts him, supports his neck, and he attaches his lips to her left breast.  His father laughs, smiles warmly, and places his hands on his wife’s shoulders, and they rock back and forth in the new morning light.

She told me she was leaving, but I had just brewed a full pot of coffee. I asked her to stay and tell me about dreams, her goals, her wishes, or whatever it is women like to talk about. She said, “Screw you” and slammed the door as she left. Well, I thought to myself, that’s her loss. But now the couch and wide coffee table and the empty mugs with playful prints looked painfully lonely. I suppose I looked painfully lonely. I looked at myself - a fresh pressed shirt, a new pair of jeans and some shiny wingtip shoes - I looked pretty sharp, actually. I felt better about myself and poured coffee into both mugs. The coffee was too hot and too strong, but I was never the one that made coffee, I didn’t even drink coffee. But today was turning out to be a day of new beginnings and I didn’t want to be sitting in a sad living room with my sad thoughts the whole day. I braced myself and gulped some of the coffee. It burned my  tongue and the palate and everywhere in between. It was also bitter. I had a feeling that the rest of the day was going to be awful and that I was an idiot. 

Diane kept insisting that we take a trip. She felt antsy, restless, she needed a distraction, she said. I told her if I could get the time off, I’d borrow Brian’s truck and we could go over the Pass, to Walla Walla, visit vineyards, drink wine, relax, hole up in a B&B somewhere. That seemed to please her. She turned back to the TV and un-muted the volume. The commercial break had ended. I watched her for a bit then went into the garage to call Todd to see if he could cover a few shifts for me.

Two weekends later we were driving through Eastern Washington, passing by Yakima, Richland, Pasco. The sun was beaming in from the rear window, all caramel colored sweeping across the rolling landscape behind us. I watched as Diane tucked her hair behind her ear and stared out at the passing shrubs. Just a couple more hours and we’d be there. I rolled down my window and lit a cigarette, keeping my eyes on the road, humming along to the music. She glanced over at me and smiled, her eyes crinkling and teeth showing. I grinned back. Her hair glowed against the setting sun.

The third vineyard we went to was owned by a husband and wife. They didn’t have a fancy show room. The testing was conducted in a large warehouse packed to the ceiling with boxes. Outside the grapevines swept far over the hill. Perfect rows of stunted grape plants, their limbs all stretched across even wires. We were the only two people at that particular time of the day. The couple, Joe and Beth Walters, asked if we’d like a tour of the field. Diane nodded excitedly and Beth lead us out between the rows. The dirt was dry and the sun was hot. I held Diane’s hand as Beth told us the history of the winery, of her parents who had owned it before, of the dry spells when the rain didn’t come and the Columbia river ran shallow, of how they just had to hope the next year would be better. She mentioned her son who was out East attending some fancy college in New England. We walked over the crest of the hill and saw the grapes stretch out even further. She talked about the help that comes during the harvest. How she learned both Spanish and English as a young child. She let us taste the tart, hard, little grapes. Diane bought three bottles of wine. She was quiet as we drove away. Her chin rested on her shoulder which was propped against the window pane.

After we had finished the second bottle of wine, months later, Diane told me she was leaving, for a while, not forever. Did I understand? I looked down at my rough, large hands and balled them up into tight fists. She sighed and pushed what was left of the pasta around her plate. She told me the last time she was happy was when we took that trip, out to Walla Walla. I didn’t look up at her or respond, I kept staring at my hands, remembering the last night at the B&B, how the moonlight had cast her face in a shadow. How she seemed to shrink away under my arms. How I could smell the dust of the day in her hair and how I knew she was already lost to me.