I Fucking Hate You

I wish you weren't so perfect.

I wish you didn't seem so right for me and that you didn't have everything on my goddamn checklist of what a wonderful guy should be like. I wish you didn't make me laugh with your silly antics. I wish I never knew what your voice sounded like, or that you liked to draw, or that you also happen to be into a lot of the shit I listen to.

I wish you weren't so fucking awesome. Because your awesomeness only makes me wish the universe made copies of you and hope I could have one of your clones to myself. Although, to be frank, I would much rather have you.

Oh boy. I fucking hate you.

You make me miserable without meaning to, without knowing you do. You make me wish I were special (as if I don't wish for it enough). You make me want to read novels and write a few myself, only to be reminded that you write even better than I do, so I scrap the idea for someone who will happen after you. Someone less bright, probably. Who won't notice the lapses in my grammar or comment on the mediocrity of my style.

You are just an episode. A really bad episode of an even worse sitcom airing on my mental TV. You are a one star record blaring in my ears, a B movie playing in my subconscious' cinema.

I fucking hate you. I fucking hate you.

I really really really wish I hated you.