Exouthenismos (ex-ou-then-is’-mos): An expression of contempt.
“I hate your guts.” As soon as I said it I realized it missed the mark by miles. Who wouldn’t hate guts.? Slimy, bloody, stinky guts are totally hate-worthy no matter whose guts they are. The truth is I just plain hate guts—anybody’s guts, no person’s guts in particular. All guts.
My mind was reeling. I was still in the hate moment and had to tell Charlene in a memorable, hurtful, way how I felt about her. I sad “I hate you” as a filler while I conjured something more wicked. She complied by sobbing uncontrollably, rending her garments and pulling out her hair. I was amazed at the work “I hate you” could do at ruining a person’s life. The emotional damage was evident. I had to call 911 and have Charlene resuscitated from the violence of her sobbing.
Although I didn’t want to, I rode in the ambulance with her to the hospital. She had rended her garments to a fairly great extent. The EMT couldn’t take his eyes off her. Maybe he looked at everybody that way—like he was looking at Thanksgiving Dinner laid out on a table. I almost gave him Charlene’s phone number, but decided against it because I was feeling like I liked her again. I didn’t know what I was going to do next.
When she woke up, I told her I liked her again, that all was well, I no longer hated her. She was a little bald from the hair pulling, but in some ways it was an improvement over her previous hairstyle. She smiled and motioned me to her bedside, pulled out her IV, and stuck it in my eye when I bent to kiss her.
I’m blind in my left eye now. Charlene was convicted of assault and is serving a one year sentence at a minimum security prison. I visit her once a month and she refuses to see me. I’m trying to get a new girlfriend, but it’s hard when you’re blind in one eye and they ask you how it happened. I stopped telling the truth. Now, I tell people it happened during a tornado when a wood sliver stuck in my eye when I was rescuing my neighbor’s dog, Tuffo.
I’ve actually gotten a couple of return dates on the strength of the tornado story. Lying works.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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