I loath thee. . .

I have a confession, I hate someone. For the sake of privacy, we can call them Jerry.
I hate Jerry with the up-most passion that a person can possible imagine. With every thought of Jerry, my teeth grind, my veins throb, and my vision begins to quake. I hate Jerry. Jerry is the do-gooder, the go-getter, the "go-the-extra-mile'er." Images and thoughts that I didn't think I possessed stream through my brain when but one hushed word drools from Jerry's mouth. I hate Jerry. Jerry is the pounding headache after a night of drinking. Jerry is the chair leg upon which you stub a bare toe. Jerry is the bird shit on your recently cleaned windshield. Upon seeing Jerry, my day will be ruined. Upon hearing Jerry, all focus is shifted to controlling predator-like urges of stopping the sound. I hate Jerry. If given the choice between a five minute conversation with Jerry and a hot wax removal of all bodily hair, I choose hairlessness. Jerry is not a concentration of evil, but rather a product of all that annoys. I hate Jerry.