In reality I'm fairly free of hate. I dislike a lot of things, and I use the word "hate" to express my displeasure, mostly for emphasis, I think.
That said, I hate our upstairs neighbors. Do not confuse my meaning here. I hate them. I fantasize about owning a machine gun so I could spray my ceiling and kill all of them (yes, it's possible for a pacifist to think about violence--it's the action that sets us apart). If I saw one of them choking on a chicken bone I'd shove a dirty sock in after it. To borrow my favorite vulgar phrase: I wouldn't piss in their faces if their eyebrows were on fire. I hate these people.
Why all this venom, you ask? Because they never stop making noise. When humans sleep, these monkeys are banging on the floor, the walls, the furniture. They scream off the balcony at 3 in the morning. The music starts--well, it started at least six months ago and didn't stop until a few days ago.
We think they moved out.
We may finally find peace here because the cretins upstairs are gone. I did my part. I complained to them. I complained to building management. I complained to the police. I wrote anonymous notes to the building managers with deliberate misspellings and poor grammar so they'd think it was someone other than me (for strength of numbers). Finally, it's quiet upstairs.
I don't mind stupid people, as long as they stay silent. I've noticed an inverse relationship between intelligence and volume, so I know that's a vain hope. I wouldn't mind them so much, though, if they didn't make so much noise. Or breathe. Or exist.
But if my upstairs neighbors have moved out, I'm happy.
Because I hate them. Sorry, Mom.