No matter how tolerant, how politically correct, how civilized I fancy myself to be, the disturbing fact remains that when I loathe someone, the loathing seems to latch on to their physical characteristics. Thus, it is not enough for me to articulate the sheer staggering incompetency of certain people whom I’ve had the misfortune to brush up against, and to recognize the vast depth to which they simply do not care about doing their actual fucking job correctly. The hatred and disgust with which I regard these people becomes inextricably intertwined with their physical markers, which in themselves become symbols of the horror and and loathing of their characters.
So you, oh fat woman who dwells in one of the basements of Dalhousie, or you, thin orange-haired man who lurks in another: yes, I hate you because of your deep unpleasantness and incompetency, and also because of your fatness and your orange hair. That is not rational, I know: the fact that you are fat and or red-haired has nothing to do with the lowliness and ineptitude of your character. But they have become symbols of my hatred for you: I find myself wondering if you, woman, were not so fat and you, man, did not have such crazy thinning orange hair, would you be nicer people, would you be able to discharge your professional duties in a more competent and professional manner, would I not find myself loathing you so deeply as I do now?