I can’t decide if it’s better or worse that he didn’t wear a helmet

I hate the young man in the orange and blue baseball hat. He just left on his motorcycle. I hate his blond hair. I hate the haircut I think he paid for. I hate his ugly and probably fashionable baseball hat. I hate his spotless, shiningly bright plain white tshirt. I hate his backpack worn over one shoulder. I hate the cigarette he smoked at the wire table outside the coffee shop where I am trying and failing to work, hate thinking about the taste and smell and especially the simultaneously heavy and weightless feeling brought on by a cigarette smoked fast after a long time without smoking. I hate that he probably doesn’t read books and listens to the worst of contemporary pop music or that he has read more than is fair for his age, and understood it too, and is aware of or worse plugged into networks of creative music and visual art. I hate that he is thin and probably muscled, without working out, or due to the discipline and spare time required to workout regularly. Mostly I hate that he parked his motorcycle where the side mirror beamed the bright sun directly into my eyes so I had to move to another table and became aware of him and all the comparisons between him and me, and of what is ultimately my wish to be in but oblivious to the presence of others.