The Hypocricy of Hating Haters

Throw my soap box out the window, I’m no better than any other hater.

It hit me today:  If I hate haters, I am a hater too.  Ouch.

I accept that everyone has a different point of view and preferences are all over the map.  If you don’t like strawberries or tomatoes or yoga or reading, I don’t understand it, but I don’t think you’re stupid for it.  I don’t hate.

If you like your espresso traditional and without flair or fuss or additional flavor, which I do like, I accept that your taste buds are different than mine. More power to you.  Drink your espresso strait up.

But if you like your espresso traditional and you sneer at me and think I’m stupid for not liking it that way, I hate you for that.  Because that isn’t fair, or right or nice.  It’s not loving.  And it’s just not cool.

Therein lies the dilemma.  If your preference is to hate, shouldn’t I just accept that your preference is different than mine and love you anyway.

It’s like a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.  Or something.  And it makes my head hurt.

Still, I press on down the path of not hating.  Even the haters.  I will love the haters.  I will.

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