Haters gonna hate

What does my Dad have to do with this school-related blog? Plenty. I hate him. This hate consumes me, pretty much like in psycho movies. I'm a twisted, broken person. Had a gun somehow made its way into my hands when I was in high school, I might have done a school shooting. Cause the world didn't make sense.


Seriously, I was a messed up, albeit clueless and naive kid. Now I'm pretty much still a clueless, naive person, though I'm a little better off in some ways, and worse off in others. I used to just blunder around, now I have a sort of mental map to help me blunder around more effectively. I don't hate the world as much as I used to. The only person I can't stop hating is my dad, whom I take after. My mom who is bubbly and pretty-faced is nothing like me. My dad and I are both predisposed to hating, probably sharing genetic material which account for temperament.

It was Saturday, 22 October 2011 when I wrote the following. Just another day in the life of a--what do I even call myself? For now, I'll settle with bully magnet. Someone who by the look on her face is asking to be treated like shit.

Its pretty easy to forgive that teacher I mentioned in the previous post, from whom I didn't get my bad genetic material and who had nothing to do with the negative childhood shit that has plagued me. I have never really forgiven my dad for the pain he himself caused me, (the first episode of which was when he called me "siraulo" which is the Tagalog derogatory term for mentally impaired. That was around when I was 5 or 6.) in addition to that which resulted from crappy decisions he made. It probably would have been different had he been more involved in raising me, had he put more effort into being a good parent to me. What happened was he buried himself under his pile of crappy paperbacks and let everyone else do the fathering.

The thing is, it's hard to forgive someone who never fails to find a way to make me feel like crap; the negative vibes just build up and it never really leave me completely even though I vent out every now and then to keep myself from going completely crazy. For what it's worth, old age and brain deterioration may also have a hand in making him the prick that he is today. But still, I just...hate.

We've all heard "Haters gonna hate" in one form or another. The catchphrase itself is fairly new, but the idea has been around pretty much as far back as I can remember. It's basically a variation of "you can't please everybody." (a contraposition or converse, to be exact)

I've seen some people discuss it in a very articulate manner. It seems like there is a loose consensus on it being ok as a general philosophy, but a dumb argument. An interesting comment thread about the cathcphrase can be found here.

I'm not a fan of memes, but I suddenly had the urge to google this one, because it's just ACCURATE in my case. Yes, accurate. I have been living with one MAJOR hater all my goddamn life. I'm pretty sure it's not just me he treats badly. He treats the maid pretty much the same. She gets ordered around more, but we get equal amounts of hatred. When my mom was still living with us, she was treated just as shabbily. The only people he treated well are my brother, possibly because he is a male, and my cousins, possibly because they are prettier than me. Or because they're not me.

This post was triggered by an incident involving my dad, Fit 'n' Right, and me. My dad has sent me to the store to get him Fit 'n' Right, 4 times. The first time, he wanted 2 bottles of the 4 seasons variant. I went to a store and there was only one bottle 4 seasons left, the rest were all pineapple. I took the 4 seasons plus 1 pineapple, and went back home. He was pissed because I should have checked the other store. The next time he asked me to buy Fit 'n' Right, I went straight to that store. They were out of 4 seasons and only had pineapple. So I went to another store, then another, until I found one which had 4 seasons. When I got home, my dad was pissed because it took about 20 minutes for me to get back. The next time he asked me to get him Fit 'n' Right, he specifically instructed me to get it from his favorite store. I told him they didn't have it the last time I went there. He insisted that they have it. I went straight to that store, asked for Fit 'n' Right 4 seasons, when the store owner said they ran out of 4 seasons and only pineapple was available I said ok. I took it and went home. My dad was pissed because he wanted 4 seasons.

I went to the supermarket today. He asked me to get him the 1 liter bottle of Fit 'n' Right, watermelon flavor. I asked him, what if they don't have watermelon? "They will have watermelon," he says. But what if they don't? Do I get something else, instead? Like, maybe, 4 seasons? Or do I not buy anything at all? But my dad insists that they have watermelon, and since I knew that he was there last night, I just let go of the issue (that there is a possibility that they might not have it, and that I might get blamed again if I decide to getting something else.)

I never finished this post for some reason, I probably fell asleep or something. Anyway, what happened was I got watermelon like he instructed but when I handed it to him I got told off for getting the sugar-free and not the no sugar added kind. Which was not even mentioned when we were talking about what I should get. He fucking used "you son of a bitch" on me (the Tagalog version which goes "tang ina ka") for getting sugar free

What I'm saying is that some incident like has happened to me pretty much as often as I commit some trivial mistake that he finds worthy of a of a verbal tantrum. Since I was little. Expletives and all. I was in kindergarten. I didn't get the firm, fatherly, old-fashioned but well-thought out guidance, I would expect of a man supposedly as intelligent and as as well-liked as him. Instead what I got were inconsistent and grossly unfair emotional outbursts sandwiched in between periods of lax parenting.

When I was in high school, he hated the music I listened to, so much that he actually went and threw my cassette tape collection out and stomped on them. I was getting ok grades compared to other kids in the house at that time, but I was the weirdo. I was the awkward, nerdy kid.

He himself was, from his accounts of his childhood, labeled as "bakla" which roughly meant sissy or soft. I got half my DNA from him, and we are at the shallow fucking end of the gene pool. His memory is just as poor as mine, or even worse. Whatever is wrong with me, if it is hereditary, it must have come from him.

I sort of blame my mom too, but I'm gentler in judging her as she has been more than supportive, as if she was and still is trying to make up for her shortcomings as a mother. I have always thought my dad was more intellectual and analytical, she was more of a doer than a thinker. Plus she has been through hell herself, having lived most of the prime of her life as the miserable wife of a real dick who gets away with it by being nice to everyone but his wife and later on his daughter. "BEHIND EVERY BITCH IS A MAN THAT MADE HER THAT WAY"

Whatever it is that's wrong with me (which I've researched BTW. And which I fully intend to resolve, with the help of a professional. Thank God for the Internet. My own offspring won't be as unfortunate as I am.)

I physically blend in with the other kids at school who are about half my age, but somehow there are occasions when I just can't help sticking out. It can be great sometimes, like in one of my English classes where the teacher went out of her way to tell me she liked my input. But at times it's just...bully magnetism. So I hate. I'm hated and I hate.