Read Online You're Making Me Hate You by Corey Taylor - Free Book Online Page B

the hell it really is you’re looking for. Meanwhile, directly behind you, there is a pedestrian traffic jam stretching back to the exit sign by the family toilets. The thing is, there seems to be no way to get around people like you; every time we try to pass, your body, your suitcase, or both moves to block the fast lane that leads us to freedom. I believe those people afflicted with Where Am I have an unconscious reverse sensor, like a backup camera on a Range Rover, that disallows anyone from getting by. These people swallow up the hallway like a binge-eating Pac-Man, dedicated to making sure NONE SHALL PASS. Like the Black Knight, even if you try to cut off their legs and arms, they’re still going to ruin your days and ways. It’s times like this when I wish I was carrying a riot gun with plastic bullets, but they make you keep that in your checked luggage, so no joy. I assured them it was three ounces …
    Because of the aggravating onset of Where Am I, I have been forced to apply an extra twenty minutes to my trip, either in the front end or the aftermath. Trust me: I can shuck and jive with the best of them, and it’s still everything in my power to get around and away from these lost and lonely imbeciles who are bound and determined to make everyone wait as long as humanly possible. But thankfully I have been blessed with four speeds when walking through the airport: low, mid, high, and Fuck Off. Once I’ve throttled up to Fuck Off, I shoot by these insipid turds with a blast of motion and some pounding of the quads. It’s everything in my power not to hurl insults over my shoulder like verbal Molotov cocktails at a riot after a GnR concert. This madness happens all over the fucking world, and it’s absolutely intolerable. I’m going to have giant spinning blades attached to my Metallica
Kill ’Em All
Vans like the ones from
Death Race 2000
so I can start drilling into cocksuckers who refuse to do more than the speed of pulse.
    Then again, Where Am I seems to have a temporary status. Once the culprits reach their gates, this diabolical mindset evaporates, leaving these travelers scratching their heads and consulting each other to figure out how exactly they’d gotten there. WAI seems to have the effects of a date-rape drug: no recollection of what happened and a slightly soiled feeling of violation when you do come back down to Earth. Maybe this is why suddenly it is now time for urgency. Standing at the counter and banging on the top, these wayward fuck tits now are in a state of furious panic and absolute selfish insistence. No one can go fast enough for their taste, and, worse still, once the doors open for the jet bridge, they transform into the embodiment of impatience, staring anyone in front of them down like a boxer with a gun. Anyone wearing a uniform also gets the gas. All of thisanger means we’ve crossed the border from Where Am I into the cantankerous lands and minefields of Hurry Up.
    Hurry Up is an interesting development because it’s an amalgam of extraordinary scale: the selfishness of Me-Me-Me, the bewilderment of WTF, and the vacancy of Where Am I converge to create a tsunami rife with ego and vacuous thought. It’s also completely fucking contrite: Why are you in such a fucking hurry to get on the damn plane? It’s not leaving until we
all
get on it. It’s not even going to begin taxiing until we’re all strapped into our seats. What is your fucking damage? Do you seriously believe that once you’ve jammed yourself down into one of
the
most uncomfortable and unforgiving seats ever invented by Man, the pilot is going to swing his head around and start the final checklist so they can get into the air faster? Do you think your presence on the plane has
any
bearing on the scheduled departure? The answer is simple: F no. If you’re not in your seat, they’ll probably just stuff someone else into it. The flight attendants do a final walk-through before takeoff, counting what they