Hate

I Hate Shopping.
All women love shopping, right?  Wrong!  I hate it!  I don't care if it's for food or clothes, the whole thing tedious and draining.  When you go to the supermarket you have to deal with ditherers, wonky trolleys and screaming kids.  Clothes shopping is a nightmare because if you find something that actually looks as good on you as it does on the hanger, you can't afford it.  And when you find something you can afford, you look ridiculous.  It's just a pain in the bum.

I Hate Tomato Soup.

When I was about thirteen, a group of friends and I went to an ice rink.  When we'd had enough of falling over and freezing our fingers off, we went to Burger King where I had a burger and chips.  Twenty-four hours later, I was a sick as a dog.  I was throwing up like there was no tomorrow, I hurt in places I didn't even know I had, and I became very adept at "praying to the porcelin god".  That damn burger had given me food poisoning.

But the wierdest thing was that while I was ill I could smell nothing but tomato soup.  I've never liked tomato soup.  Nobody in the house had recently eaten tomato soup.  Why the hell was I smelling tomato soup?  From that day to this, if I get even a whiff of the stuff, my stomach starts to churn.

I Hate Insomnia.
Who in there right mind would enjoy not being able to sleep when they're exhausted?  The only good thing about it is that's when I get my best creative ideas.  But the tiredness consumes every inch of your being.  I'll go to bed, toss and turn, get up and just find something to occupy myself until my eyelids get blissfully heavy.  This usually happens at about four or five o'clock in the morning, if not later.  I will then fall into a gorgeous sleep, wake up ridiculously late, and then still I'm awake until stupid o'clock.  Baths don't work.  Aromatherapy doesn't work.  Bedtime drinks don't work.  I don't want to go on to sleeping tablets as I take enough medication as it is, but it is starting to look appealing.  Quite frankly, I would bounce up and down the street on a space hopper, stark naked apart from a pair of deely boppers, singing "Copacabana", whilst swinging a string of sausages over my head if I thought it would guarantee me a good nights sleep. 

I Hate My Allergies.
I am allergic to cream, ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg and pure garlic.  Whenever I accidentally eat cream (because you think it's the fake stuff and not pure cream), I turn into Regan McNeil from "The Exorcist".  We're talking world class vomiting here, not the head spinning or declaring that "Your mother sucks jellybeans in hell".  Really, it's almost impressive.

As for the spices, if I smell them I pass out.  This made cooking lessons at school a hell of a lot of fun.  A teacher once asked me, "Well, what do I do if you passout?"  How the hell should I know?  I'm unconcious!

It's a real pain when I have to pass on delicious looking desserts for fear of erupting or fainting.  Profiteroles look so yummy...  Sigh...

(Hey!  Now there's a thought;  maybe I should get a cinnamon stick and sniff it at bed time!  It might just work!)

I Hate My Boobs.
I have big boobs.  I won't tell you how big, but if you were to see them you would be very impressed.  Or very afraid.  But they're always in the way. I can't even think about not wearing a bra, so strapless dresses and halter tops are out of the question.  I have to buy tops that are at least two or three sizes bigger than the rest of me.  And as for getting a bra that fits me properly, you can forget it.  Unless they start constructing them out of scaffolding, it's not going to happen.

I was very close to getting a breast reduction once, but the surgeon cheerfully informed me that my time on the operating table could be taken by a woman who was to have reconstrutive surgery having lost one or both her breasts to cancer.  It was such a guilt trip that I quashed the idea.

But the worse thing (apart from the discomfort at certain times of the month, having to wear an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder just to play computer games, and the distraction it causes boys who must have been bottle fed because they act as though they've never seen a pair of boobs before) is the assumption that they must be fake.  Women like Pamela Anderson, Jordan/Katie Price (spit!) and the late Anna Nicole Smith have helped encourage the myth that to be a real woman you have to have big boobs and if you have big boobs they must be fake.  Mine are all natural, baby!

Oh, and call me heartless if you want, I have little sympathy for women who think their boobs are too small.  They can use Wonderbras and chicken fillets to make them bigger.  I can't make mine smaller as easily.  In fact, I'm convinced they're still growing.  I'm in my mid-thirties (ish), for crying out loud!  When will it stop?  I'm starting to think they're taking on a life of their own and are actually conspiring to take over the world.  So I apologize in advance it that happens.

I Hate the Saying, "At The End Of The Day..."
"At the end of the day.." it is night time.  So shut the eff up!!!

I Hate Meeting New People.

One word my friends would never use to describe me is "Shy", but deep inside I am.  Meeting new people terrifies me.  I almost chickened out of joining my drama group because I was so nervous.  Now I have no problem getting up on stage in front of strangers and singing or acting in front of them... just don't ask me to talk to them afterwards.

It's particularly strange when I bump into a member of the audience on the street.  The town I live in is pretty small and a majority of our audiences come from this area.  They think they know me because they've seen me perform, but I don't have a clue who they are.  They'll come up to me and say "Hello, A.  How are you?" and I'll just stutter and stammer my way through a conversation, looking for a reason to end it as soon as possible.

I think the biggest reason why I hate meeting new people is because of I'm waiting for the inevitable question of "What do you do for a living?"  Although I'm not ashamed of my BiPoloar (because I refuse to be ashamed of something that isn't my fault), it's still an embarrassing think to admit to someone you don't know very well.  It's even more embarrassing when I tell them how long I've been out of work.  So I fib.  I'll tell them I'm an actress on a break or I'm an artist (not exactly a lie, not exactly the truth), anything to avoid feeling awkward and risk being judged.  It's only if I really get to know them and feel comfortable with them that I'll admit the truth.

But at least I can be honest with you...

I Hate Feeling Lonely.

I don't have that many close friends.  I think (I hope) this is because I don't have much of a social life.  I rarely have the money to go out or even to top up my phone credit so I'm able to call someone just to say "Hello".  The last time I went out socially was exactly 48 days ago for Boyf's birthday, and then I was in bed by quarter to ten because I was in full bronchitis mode.  I'm not involved in the latest drama group production so I don't have my Wednesday night reharsals to look forward to, so I'm pretty much stuck inside.  Bouncing off the walls doesn't even cover it.

Of course I have Boyf, but I don't want to rely on him for company all the time.  We're not joined at the hip and he has his own stuff to do.  But at least I know at the end of the end (arghhh!) I get to go to sleep with my best friend.

I Hate Thinking Too Much.

I think too much.  I analyze everything.  I always look at the worse case scenario of every situation and assume that's how it's going to turn out.  I'm constantly making contingency plans for if something unexpected happens.  I think just about all of the time.  I wish my brain had an off switch so I could just enjoy the moment instead of fretting about what could happen.  It's the way I am and probably the way I will always be.

I Hate My Scars.
Between the inside of my elbow to the bottom of my hand on both arms, I have a total of twenty scars (I just sat here and counted them).  At first glance, nobody would notice them, but it's not as though you need a magnifying glass to see them.  It's worse in the summer if by some kind of miracle I manage to get a bit of a tan, because the silvery lines remain pale against my ever-so slightly bronzed skin.  When others see them, it's just embarrassing.  When I look at them, I am hit by a tide of bad memories.  They're not my badges of honor, I don't even call them war wounds as that glamorizes them too much.  But they are a part of me now.  A constant reminder of who I was and how far I have come.

Tell me what you hate...