there's nothing wrong with being a hater

a gentle approach to recreational spite

There was a time when being a hater was a lifestyle choice. We were online to make jokes at the expense of people we’d never meet, and to bond over shared contempt for things like fedoras, milk alternatives, or anyone who posted “hustling in silence” or “rise and grind.” We were all hating.

Then came the era of awareness. Suddenly, every joke needed a disclaimer. Every tweet had to pass through five filters of political correctness, empathy, and universal relatability. Every critique risked becoming a referendum on your entire character. Our memes evolved from “drag her” to “maybe she’s healing.” And honestly, I get it. It needed to happen. The internet was mean, unfiltered, and often genuinely harmful. So it grew up, and so did we. We got therapy, started journaling, and learned that bullying wasn’t a personality.

But I miss it. I miss the edge. I miss when we could say someone looked like a haunted porcelain doll and it was just fun, not a federal offense. I miss when we could say someone’s brain was as empty as a phone with no apps without losing a job or getting kicked out of university. I miss trolls who were annoying but creative. I miss deprecating humor that didn’t feel like a cry for help. And most of all, I miss the camaraderie of shared pettiness.

There’s a part of me, deep in the nooks and crannies of my brain, probably hanging out near my inner child, that still loves being a hater. Not the violent kind. Not the bitter, evil-comment-section kind. I’m talking about the unserious hater. The troll-lite. The “this outfit is a crime” energy. The casual, recreational hate that made the internet feel like a sleepover where no one was safe but everyone was laughing.

I miss the perfectly timed mean joke. I miss the group chats where someone’s Instagram post got roasted respectfully (or not-so-respectfully). I miss the Twitter era when we all decided someone’s poem needed to be publicly flogged for being too earnest. I miss the chaos. The bad taste. The glee of a good roast.

But I also know better now.

I’ve learned that a lot of hate is a shield. That jokes about other people are often ways to avoid looking at ourselves. That meanness, even when it’s funny, still leaves bruises. And now, like everyone else on the internet, I’m trying to be kinder. Gentler. More aware of other people’s realities. I don’t want to be the reason someone logs off and questions their entire existence.

Still… sometimes I’ll see someone post a fake deep quote like “be the CEO your parents wanted you to marry” with a glamour shot in a parking garage and I feel it bubble up: the urge to clown. I pause. I ask myself, am I the problem? Is this projection? And then I screenshot it anyway. I’m growing, not dead.

I think I should still be allowed to hate. Just a little. Like a treat.

Because sometimes I see things—outfits, opinions, gender reveals—and my soul leaves my body in protest. Am I supposed to not say something? I’m not God. I wasn’t built to let things slide.

I’m conflicted. Am I wrong? Should we abandon hate altogether? Am I a horrible human being for sending the girl next door’s highly facetuned photo to my best friend just to poke fun? Probably. But also… maybe not.

There has to be a middle ground. A sustainable hater lifestyle. I want to be the kind of hater who hydrates, stretches, and meditates, but still whispers “be fucking for real” when someone says their favorite movie is Don’t Look Up.

And before we go any further, I think we also need to redefine “hater.” There’s a difference between calling someone a fashion criminal and being genuinely cruel. A hater is someone who leaves a shady comment like “your dog looks like a chupacabra.” A hater is someone who makes a meme about how every man in Dune looks like he was raised in a root cellar. A hater is unserious. Slightly feral. Chronically online. They’re annoying, but they’re not dangerous.

Someone who despises you—sometimes without ever meeting you—because of your body, your skin tone, your gender, your identity, your joy? That’s not a hater. That’s something else entirely. That’s insecurity with a WiFi connection. That’s bias with a Canva account. That person deserves another title entirely. Possibly a diagnosis. Probably a prayer.

I’m here for the hater who shows up to the group chat like it’s Fashion Police circa 2009. The kind of hater who would never attack someone’s existence, but will absolutely say their boyfriend looks like a thumb.

But here’s the real catch: there has to be a line. A very real, very serious line between silly, unserious hate and the kind of judgment we need to unlearn. Because I’m anti-discrimination, loudly and proudly, but the second someone who isn’t conventionally attractive is mean to me? My brain goes feral. Suddenly I’m calling them a bridge troll. Or worse, if they don’t fit into the societal thinness box (which, for the record, I don’t either), I’m internally mumbling “pantry pirate” or “buffet bandit” like a Victorian insult comic possessed me.

And that’s not the kind of hater I want to be. That’s not funny. That’s internalized trash leaking out. That’s me letting centuries of beauty standards hijack a perfectly good roast.

It’s wrong. It’s mean. But it’s also kind of funny. And that tension is where the work lives.

Maybe instead of abandoning hate altogether, we need to redefine it? Hate, when done right, is a little funny. A little theatrical. A little cathartic. It’s roast, not rage.

Yes, I want to hate, but with precision. With ethics. With kindness? With a firm “we’re not going there” list taped to the inside of my forehead.

So in my holy role as the missionary of chaos, it’s only right I provide a doctrine. Here are my 10 commandments of ethical hating, because even chaos needs a code.

The 10 Commandments of Ethical Hating
(for the wannabe politically correct person who still needs to talk a little shit)

1. Thou shalt not punch down.
   We’re hating upwards. If the joke only lands because someone is marginalized, struggling, or unaware, it’s not a roast, it’s just mean. Try again.

2. Thou shalt clown the action, not the person.

   “That outfit is a war crime” > “she’s ugly.” We have vocabulary. Let’s use it.

3. Thou shalt not project.

   If you hate something because you secretly want to do it too... babe, journal first, roast later. No dragging that girl’s outfit if your drafts are full of the same Pinterest inspo.

4. Honor thy group chat and keep it sacred.

   Screenshots, not sub-tweets.

   Public dragging is for public figures. If you must talk shit, do it in the DMs, not in public. We’re not trying to go viral, we’re trying to giggle in peace.

5. Thou shalt not confuse internalized oppression with personality.

   If your insult is rooted in fatphobia, classism, misogyny, or colonial beauty standards, start over. That’s not hate, that’s trauma.

6. Thou shalt laugh, not destroy.

   If you can’t say it with a twinkle in your eye and a little laugh in your voice, it’s not ethical hate. It’s just being hateful and mean. And if no one else laughed… retire the joke.

7. Honor thy own cringe.
   Before you drag, remember your 2016 Tumblr phase, your side part loyalty, and your unhinged finsta captions. Nobody’s clean.

8. Thou shalt never mock joy.

   If someone’s genuinely excited about something harmless, let them have their little frog meme page in peace. That’s real joy. That’s sacred.

9. Thou shalt not go viral on purpose.

   If your hate is strategic and comes with a caption like “tell me I’m wrong,” log off.

10. Thou shalt remember: being annoying is not a crime.

    Some people are just cringe. Let them live. Let them love. But also… feel free to mute.

Remember: hate is a seasoning, not a main course. Sprinkle, don’t drown. Shade is meant to spice things up, not set the whole table on fire.

And there you have it. Ten guidelines for recreational spite, equal parts petty and principled.

Being a hater doesn’t mean being cruel. It doesn’t mean projecting your insecurities onto strangers or turning the internet into your emotional landfill. It means knowing the difference between a roast and a red flag. Between playful shade and deep-seated bitterness.

I’m not saying I’ve fully healed. There are still days where I have to physically stop myself from crafting a tweet that starts with “I just know this man smells like…” and ends in career-ending slander. Is that growth? I don’t know. But I do know better. I know how to side-eye with compassion. To boo respectfully. To drag with love. Growth doesn’t mean silence. It means better insults and clearer targets.

This is not a relapse. It’s a rebrand.

So go forth. Roll your eyes. Roast a man for saying his biggest green flag is “she’s chill.” Call an outfit medieval if it deserves it. But know the line. Respect the craft. And when in doubt, ask yourself if your inner child would laugh or flinch.

Amen. Or whatever the hater version of that is.

---

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this and want to fuel more overthinking, storytelling, and occasional strokes of (accidental) genius, you can leave a tip — or buy me a matcha at the overpriced café where I pretend to be extremely mysterious while staring at my screen. No pressure. Just eternal gratitude… and maybe a questionable plot twist or two :)