To Hate is to Love

•1• Blame your problems on the world

[Patrick]

Eyeliner. He was wearing fucking eyeliner.

This douche shoved past me in the parking lot -an empty parking lot I might add- to get to his car on the other side of the blacktop. I didn't know what to make of him other than the fact that he didn't bother apologizing and that he was wearing red skinny jeans that looked like they belonged to some thirteen-year-old girl. He was wearing a pair of beat up Converses and a black Misery Signals tee that looked a bit too small.

"Dude, what the fuck?!" I shout in his direction but he keeps walking. "Hey, asshole!"

That makes him stop.

He turns then says, "What the fuck did you just say to me?" his jaw tight as he stomped toward me. I wasn't phased.

"You going to watch where the fuck you're going next time?"

He smiles sarcastically and scoffs. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry. Where are my manners?" Then he shoves his hand into my shoulder, making me stumble backward slightly. "There. I watched where I was going. Happy?" He smiles fakely then turns his back on me as if nothing happened, walking toward his car once more.

This motherfucker isn't getting away from me that easy.

I stride over to him and yank the collar of his shirt. I might not be the most intimidating person out there but I made sure people knew when I was pissed. I refuse to take Mr. Eyeliner's shit.

"No, I'm not happy." I emphasize and the guy -who's not much taller than me- looks at me over his shoulder, watching me carefully as though he was actually listening. I was sure he wasn't though. "In fact, I'm so fucking unhappy right now and you are the cherry to top it all off. I'm trying so hard not to kick your ass that my legs hurt." I say truthfully, still holding his shirt in my grasp. I've had a long day and I'm tired and I want to go home and this jerk is fucking it all up.

The guy shrugs. "Do it." He says quietly, like he's defeated. "I wouldn't blame you, I deserve it."

That catches me off guard quite a bit. He must notice when my grip on his shirt falters because he takes the opportunity to pull himself away from my grasp and face me.

"Are you fucked in the head?" I ask him confusedly because really, he went from seething to kicked puppy in a matter of ten seconds.

"Maybe." He says then suddenly he grins like a maniac. Okay, seething to kicked puppy to psycho. I'm not sure whether to be afraid or concerned. "Hey, You're really pretty."

What the fuck...is this really happening right now? "Are you drunk too?"

Girly Pants shakes his head. "I'm alone and about to drive my car. Either you think I'm stupid or 'drunk asshole' is my default setting."

Probably a little of both, but I don't tell him that. Whatever, I just want to go home and sleep for the next two weeks. I roll my eyes. "Whatever asshole, just-"

"Pete." He says cutting me off, his face suddenly serious.

"What?"

"My name's Pete. Not asshole." And it almost looks as though he's seething again but isn't quite there yet.

"Okay, Pete, I'm going home. But next time, your ass is mine."

Then Pete grins again. "It's all yours, pretty boy." He says before I simply shake my head and go to my car, purposely not looking back to see if he's still there. God, that dude was kind of creepy. Nice looking, no doubt, but also very creepy. What did I do to deserve this, getting called pretty by crazy assholes named Pete. Pretty? Come on, that's not even...should guys be called pretty? I try not to think about it too hard.