When someone has wrapped their entire body around a pole in a crowded subway train and someone else coughs to indicate their annoyance. How loathsome. If a person is sufficiently clueless to body block all the other strap hangers, then hacking up a lung nearby will only communicate you have a tenuous grasp on the purpose of language.
When you share a moment with someone who exists five seconds in the future, she will always finish your sentences for you. When she realizes she’s skittered too far ahead and can’t see you behind her, she frantically gropes backwards through the darkness of time to find you. She jitters wildly between her moment and yours. It is exhausting to be around her.
When you share a moment with someone who lives inside her own mind, for her, the moment is like a dream. When you dream, no matter what anyone does, it is done for you or against you. When you dream, your perception becomes a reality in which you are the only driving force. When you dream, your reactions are always dramatic because you’re the star of your own daytime REM talkie movie.
When you share a moment with someone who lives in the past, his eyes roll back in his head as he recalls the time when this moment transpired. He will tell you with certainty that your plan won’t work or you’ll blow out your knee. Or he will tell you the long and winding story about the time when it happened. Nothing important occurs in the present, everything meaningful has already finished.
It is loathsome when you only realize the price was negotiable after you bought it.
You managed to get tickets for the third row and have just seen a magnificent show at Lincoln Center. The clean light memory of the experience fills you up like helium and holds you aloft. It is loathsome when some nebbish who got in for free complains the show ended so shortly after his late arrival and he thought it should have gone on for another hour so he could have seen more.