Love to be hated

I once again find myself the object of hatred. Hated by people that have not met me. Not talked to me. Have no idea of who I am. They simply know what I am not.

I am not the right age. I am not monied. I am not educated. I am not successful.

I am just who I am, what I have become by waking up each day since my birth. Too many times for some people.

If I was wealthy, I mean, really wealthy, none of the other things would matter.

If I was younger, they would matter only half or possibly even only third as much.

Oh well. I am not.

Even you, who say it doesn’t matter, have already made up your mind. For all the same reasons.

There is a part of me that feels the same as they do. Probably even more so. You see, I know me. I have something to base my hatred of self on. I have seen what I have and have not done in this life. I know what I am deserving of.

I try to be angry with them for judging. All I can really do is laugh at how feeble and weak their hatred is compared to mine.

Why am I here? Why do I put myself in this situation?

Perhaps I just love to be hated.