I am the man you hate. The man who prompts you to write. I am the man who leaves his dog's shit in the park, on the sidewalk, and on your lawn for you to step in. I am the man who fumbles for change on the bus, impeding your progress. I write checks in the fast lane at the grocery store, smoke in crowded, public places, and bring my squealing children to nice restaurants to ruin your dates and anniversaries. I cut in line, talk during movies, and go before my turn at four-way stops. I litter, speed through crosswalks, and let my dog bark outside all night. My car alarm blares at night and in parking lots unattended--all for you.

Why? Because I hate you--all of you silly, pasty-faced, cappuccino-guzzling Seattleites. You are spineless and passive-aggressive, but oh-so-permissive in public, never daring to speak out at injustice or utter a harsh word. Then you unburden yourselves by hiding behind a silly, anonymous column in an amateurish, pulpy magazine. You are pathetic and weak, and I will continue to torture you every day.