Every pathetic wall of it. Every useless tile and inch of peeling paint. I can't stand its awfully tall ceilings and the particular way sound echoes inside. I can't bear its unplanned architecture, awful texturizing, sticking out water-pipes and terrible electric installation. I loathe every single neighbor--all those fat, alcoholic, noisy, unhelpful, nosy, rude and downright vulgar men that like to stare at me whenever I go in or out of the house. I sometimes hate the whole neighborhood, for that matter, because it seems to exist as if no people actually live here, but only machines and cars and factories. That hole in the wall I once thought so romantic seems simply stupid and inconvenient now. I even despise every minute I wasted making improvements, drilling holes and putting up shelves. Cleaning. Trying to get stains out. Trying to make it look nice.
Most of all, I hate that blind, mindless way I can go about this house, because I know it by heart and it feels like home when I return from my unchallenging job. I wonder if I will always hate being comfortable.
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