I hate him because I let him off easy on the back of that bus. I actually possessed the perfect trump card, and the memory of his fucking face reminds me of a time I was too self-conscious to realize I could play it. He’s a proxy for the mélange of self-doubt and ceaseless self-deprecation that infested my psyche, and I hate him because he reminds me of when I didn’t love myself enough to be hateful toward him then.
