I hate you. I hate you to the extent that punching you in the face with impunity would not make me feel better.

I want to curbstomp you. Twice. Maybe a third time, for good luck.

Then, I want to pick you up by your ankles and swing your body like a bat against a telephone pole until your head separates from your neck.

I will then ship your head to a country where they still practice cannibalism.

Then, I want to jump up and down on your body until your bones crumble and turn to powder, forming into a sludge when mixing with your blood.

I will then hang you by the ankles and collect the runoff into a bucket, take it to an aquarium, and dump it in a shark tank.

Then, I will patch up any holes (natural or otherwise made) with a durable yet flexible resin.

I will then inflate the husk made by your skin with helium, tie it off at the neck, and marvel at the amazingly lifelike balloon I've created.

Then, I will let the balloon go, and giggle with abandon as it sails upwards, past the buildings, over the trees, into the clouds and out of sight.

I will then keep an eye on my watch, and know that about 20 minutes into your ascent, the pressure inside the husk will be greater than the pressure outside the husk, and the husk will expand and explode.

Then, I will sit back and smile, knowing that whatever is left of you is now hurtling towards the Earth, burning on the friction of re-entry.

I will smile when I hear reports of a large and unexpected meteor shower of unknown origin, and how breathtaking it was.

I hate you that much.