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The rules. I hardly care about them, except that I chose them when I walked in. They're my rules now, I suppose. Not to control; because I'm not a citizen here, just a warm body on a stool. Leave me with the rules, we're fine together.
Hate--the flabby, supercilious kind. I care about that because I see it in the rules so much these days, everywhere I go. People stand up behind it and pretend it makes them. Better. Stronger. More right. It doesn't. They beat me over the head with it eventually, and kick me out. That won't happen here, because I know now not to open my mouth too much. So much life. Maybe. I might forget. Or drink too much.
We haven't scratched the surface on hate. The rules have no veneer to scratch; there they hang beat to hell and still standing because nothing can erode what is already bare.
To me, such rules exist to acknowledge that some need rules to protect them from engagement with what they at least subconsciously suspect/fear they don't have the wherewithal/skills to endure. Rather than work on those skills to become capable of "rising to the challenge", they insist others' skills should be attenuated by gatekeepers to avoid having their lesser skills revealed.
Something like that.