I hate him. I really, truly, deeply hate him. I hate the way he looks at me over the rim of his glasses, hate the way he bugs me when I'm reading or drawing or doing anything but paying attention to him, hate the stupid notes he passes me in class. I hate the way he's affectionate and snuggly in private, and cold and afraid in public. I hate the fact that he left two dirty pairs of boxers, a T-shirt, his spare toothbrush,and a June 1997 issue of Seventeen in my room. I hate that I left my United States History textbookin his roomand he won't give it back to me, no matter how nicely I ask. Like he needs it for some sort of sentimental masturbatory inspiration or something. Eww.
I hate the way his blond hair falls in his face when he's concentrating. I hate the way he whistles show tunes in secret, and the way he puts his arms around me and sings a line of said show tunes at the top of his lungs.
How the church bells will be ringin', with a hey-nonny-nonny and a ha-cha-cha!
I hate the way he hugged me and kissed my forehead and said, "I want to be with you, Specs." And how that means nothing now, because he's afraid of being seen as a queer. Oh, and I reallyhate the way he calls me Specs, and how he got everyone else to do it. My name is Daniel, and besides, he wears glasses too! It makes no sense. He makes no sense. I hate him. Hate, hate, hate.
I love him.
Love and hate. There's a very thin line between the two. Sometimes it's hard to tell which side you're on.