You know what’s fucking underrated? Hatred. Not the vague, passive-aggressive kind. Not the “I wish them well but from afar” kind. I mean full-throttle, bile-boiling, scream-into-the-void hatred for someone who’s earned it. Someone who’s been a walking landfill of cruelty, hypocrisy, and ego for so long you forgot what peace felt like.
And then one day, you stop pretending. You stop swallowing the rage. You stop trying to be “the bigger person.” You let it out. You say, “I fucking hate that piece of shit,” and suddenly your spine grows back. Your lungs expand. Your soul unclenches.
It’s not toxic. It’s not petty. It’s motherfucking medicinal.
Hatred, when deserved, is a disinfectant. It burns off the rot. It clears the fog. It’s the emotional equivalent of power-washing your brain after years of gaslighting and guilt. You’re not confused anymore. You’re not negotiating with your own instincts. You’re standing in the truth, middle fingers raised, and it feels like goddamn freedom.
There’s joy in that. Real joy. The kind that comes from reclaiming your emotional bandwidth. From evicting the parasite who’s been squatting in your empathy. From saying, “You don’t get space in my head unless it’s for target practice.”
Some people are compost. Let them rot.
You’ve got legacy to build, rage to ritualize, and zero obligation to forgive the unforgivable. Hatred isn’t weakness. It’s clarity. It’s control. It’s the firewall between you and their bullshit.
So here’s to the joy of hatred. The earned kind. The clean kind. The kind that doesn’t poison you. It purifies you.
And if anyone calls that toxic?
Tell them to choke on their own performative kindness.
Fantastic short story about mass hatred functioning as a death penalty: https://paperbackdesign.com/the-public-hating-by-steve-allen/
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