"Everyone," I answer Fredward's question from a beanbag chair with a bucket for vomit sitting next to me.
"That is literally impossible." He should know it is possible with me by now.
"No, it's not, I hate people who sniff, snore, sleep on couches, breathe audibly, cough, hum, itch, sing, sneeze, speak, chew, eat, drink, twitch, stretch, point, live, and I hate people."
"This is outrageous."
"No, it's not." He stays quiet for a moment, I suspect contemplating whether to argue any further.
"Do you have emotions?"
"I don't know. Maybe I do."
"What don't you hate?"
"Nothing, except for food and Carly, occasionally."
"Why didn't people send you to psychiatric hospitals?"
"Maybe they didn't want to subject the orderlies to me."
"You are interesting to speak with, a little self-loathing, which is surprising."
"I hate you."
"I don't think you do."
"Shut up, I'll just pull your lips off it you don't."
"Liar."
"Why did you just call me a liar?"
"You didn't rip my lips off."
"I don't think that's a valid argument."
"You're unbelievable."
"Our argument will be settled when I feel less vomity."
"Good."
"Doctors are annoying."
"I'm not a doctor, I'm a nub, in your words of course."
"Fine."
"Ma'am, I believe you merely need better social skills."
"I have some, nub. I hate people."
"I understand that."
"Why are you talking to me then?"
"I suppose I am helping you."
"Two things: you can help yourself by ripping your own lips off. You can also leave me alone, I don't need anyone's help."
"You need multiple people to help you." I lunge at him, grabbing his collar and ignoring the want to sit on a beanbag, eat soup, sleep, and vomit.
"I do not particularly want to leave now."
"Why? Am I that charming when I threaten your life?"
"Precisely."
"I am discombobulated."
"Good, that was my goal."
"Fuck you very much." I say, less than six inches from his face.
"Well, maybe I will leave," he coughs, I must let go of him, to be repulsed, "to get some mints for you." He runs out the studio before I can chase after him.
I own nothing.