I hate Lady Gaga

The eccentricity of fame is over the limit when the young lady in question walks out wearing a meat dress. It’s the same as putting on a sign that says “look at me! look and don’t stop looking!” except that this sign is made of corpses. Her always-absurd presence, her love of the cameras, and more than anything her fanbase, her success, are all irrefutable proof that something isn’t right, that we are arriving unstoppably at the end of the world. Meanwhile, the lady keeps her poker face.

Cher seems normal when she's holding Lady G's scarf

I hate used bar soap.

I hate bar soap in bathrooms, especially in the bathroom of an acquaintance’s or a friend’s house, at someone’s house during one of those awkward parties where I’m not really sure if I want to be there anyway.

It just sits there, grimy, waiting to slip through my fingers. It is used—it looks like it has been rubbed a few times, maybe that same night but probably some weeks before, when so-and-so’s mom visited, one of the only people to actually enter that bathroom and wash hands after peeing. It has that look: that it will do more harm than good, that I will somehow get dirtier instead of cleaner.

I especially hate picking up the soap, opting to believe it is the best thing to do, and finding a hair—it doesn’t matter where from—wrapping itself around my fingers.