You know you’ve made it when you’ve got haters. By that measure I’m truly a success because I’ve left a long trail of bitter, thwarted naysayers in my wake. None of them has been able to block my shine! This is for you, haters.
This is for that Amazon reviewer who gave one star to my debut children’s e-book Tammy vs. Pinkeye. Sorry you don’t enjoy educational literature that explores the danger of communicable diseases in a fun, judgment-free context for kids ages 5–10. (I’m actually not sorry.)
This is for the guy who walked into the bar where my sludgecore band, Mouthfeel, was playing, and then immediately turned around and walked out. I see you, boo.
This is for the casting director who assumed I was there to audition for “Aging Secondary Villain” and not “Athletic Male Lead.”
This is for my dental hygienist Debra, who criticized my flossing technique and accused me of grinding my teeth in my sleep. Jealousy makes people say crazy things. But Debra, it’s not gonna work. The only grinding I’m doing is living my #blessed life with this million-dollar smile on my face.
This is for the barista who complimented my “beret.” It’s a Kangol. Big difference. I’d never wear a beret.
This is for my wife’s friend Phil who’s acted like we’ve never met on three separate occasions.
This is for Jenna, who told all the other girls in fourth grade I was “icky.” I couldn’t help but notice that you’re now hawking body wraps on Instagram and your husband has a frosted-tip Caesar cut. Now that’s icky.
But I don’t wanna be too hard on my haters. The fact is I cherish them. They make my triumphs all the sweeter. Every step of the way, as I hustle to keep it 100-percent positive, haters are there to remind me why I do it.
There can be no light without the darkness. I would not exist without the haters, and vice versa.
I want to make a sizable donation to the charity of my haters’ choice. I want to purchase an engraved brick in the courtyard of a top-tier art museum to memorialize my haters’ trifling ways. I want to send a cookie bouquet to my haters’ place of employment. When their coworkers ask what’s the special occasion they’ll be forced to shrug and mutter something vague like, “I doubted the wrong man.”
Most importantly, I want to see the shock of recognition in my haters’ eyes when they read this column, then nod their head wearily and whisper, “Dammit, he’s done it again.”
