Contemptlative: (adj.)


Marked by prolonged and meditative periods of loathing.


I’m a negative person. I’ve heard it all my life in varying levels of severity… from loved ones and friends, girlfriends, coworkers, peers, even my enemies (so few, unfortunately). Sometimes it bothers me to think that others see me as this smoggy old crag. But you know what? The world needs cranks. It needs critics and grousers to point and say, “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

It’s not that I’m without my glees and passions. I love dogs, and cats, and lemurs, and really good hot and sour soup, and rain, and big fluffy snowfalls, and reading magazines in the grass, and Jack Lemmon, and the smell of pencil shavings…

It’s just that I get the same dizzy charge out of masticating on the things that get stuck in my craw – loud neighbors, bad pop songs, people who don’t politely trot at an intersection when you let them go, and douchy guys who put gel in their hair, and girls with nasal, squeaky idiot voices, and insincerity, and Bono, and people who obsess over their children, and people who go on and on about how they feel blessed…

When I’m confronted with these things, I chew and gnash my teeth on my frustration. I drink it up and let my blood go hot and percolating. I get to wave my hands in the air and spout and bellow. I get to use really colorful language.

Negativity’s got its upside…

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