I can’t tell you which book I loathed more: the one that was 342 pages or the one that was 368 pages. 368 pages were, let’s face it, 26 pages longer than 342 pages. But the 368 page book had a larger typeface, which meant that each book took just as much time to read.

As I turned each page, I realized that it was impossible for me to love anything. I despised the characters, I despised the plot, I despised the writer. Sometimes, I even despised myself. Hatred coursed through my veins as my eyes scanned each sentence. I hated the subject. I hated the verb. I hated the subject-verb agreement.

Why should I give any book a chance when it was so easy to hate? The authors had sweated years, but I had sweated hours just reading. I took both books and threw them against the wall. Then I picked them up and threw them against the wall again. And again. Until there was a few dents. Yeah, that will teach you, books. Then I unzipped my fly and urinated on one book. And when I was done, I pissed on the other.

Then I scooped up both books with a dustpan and took them outside and urinated on both of them in public. I was careful with my micturition, making sure that I hit Page 362 in the longer book.

Then I unleashed a torrent of epithets on the books just to show them who was boss.

Then I went back inside and sat down to the computer and wrote this post. I don’t have anything to hate right now. But I’m pretty sure I’ll come up with something. Permit me to reflect.

I still hate both of those books. I will go on hating them until the end of my days. In fact, I’m scowling right now just thinking about the author of the 368 page book. And if these two books have their defenders, then I will hate them.

I hate this blog. I hate you.