Shrek. The movies. Not the William Steig picture book, which is charmingly grotesque. I wonder why there are not franchised animated films based on some of Steig’s other, arguably friendlier and more adaptable, works—The Toy Brother, for instance, or Abel’s Island, or Brave Irene, or even Dr. De Soto—yet I also remain obscurely grateful that these cherished bastions of an imagined terrestrial childhood have not been sullied by the early-aughts-CGI-to-meme-template life cycle.

Hagfish. Truly unsettling, that anything with bones could dare to knot itself like that. Watching a group of them (a hagpack? a hagschool? a knot, a weaving, a macramé? surely there is some applicable term of venery) work over a whalefall makes me feel at once outclassed and disgusted.

David Lynch. (As a concept, not as a person.) I should clarify that I have never actually seen a David Lynch film; I have tried, more than once, to watch Twin Peaks, but have never made it past the second episode. Additionally, I will say in the interest of fairness that it is not so much the content of his work that repulses me, as the reception it has received from certain demographics—by which I mean a particular kind of man, who is inclined to corner an often-younger woman at social events and describe at length the reasons why she should like David Lynch—and the terms in which it is often described. While I have read compelling arguments to the effect that his work’s reputation is largely the result of fanbase poisoning, they have not yet granted me the ability to engage with his work.

The cover designs of Danielle Steel novels. There is something to be said for a consistent visual brand. There is nothing to be said for this one.

Inconsistencies of spelling, typography, or punctuation.

This line, in the chorus of My Chemical Romance’s “Teenagers”: “They could care less, as long as someone will bleed.” I am aware that changing it to “couldn’t” would have thrown off the syllabic rhythm; I insist that Way could have figured out a better solution. (I am also aware that “could care less” is a widespread colloquialism, one acknowledged as legitimate by Merriam-Webster. I stand, on this point as on many others, with the Chicago Manual of Style.)

Actually, all of “Teenagers.” It, along with “I Don’t Love You,” is a blot on an otherwise excellent, if somewhat narratively fuzzy, album.

Lazy research in historical fiction. Not to be confused with intentional anachronisms, which I find pleasing.

Yearning.

Humor that is dependent upon social embarrassment. This makes it impossible for me to watch romantic comedies; fortunately, I have never been particularly interested in this genre. Sitcoms, which I do have an interest in, are only slightly less difficult; I must detach my arms from the cable during certain scenes, avert my gaze until they conclude. Occasionally, if a scene is pivotal to the development of plot or character, I can force myself to watch it with the sound off.

Sans-serif typefaces.

The AAAWOOOOGAA of a fake, old-timey car horn.

Sudden movements.

Multiplayer video games. I enjoy games, in a masochistic sort of way—I have, at the present time, nearly two hundred hours in Hollow Knight and twice that in Sunless Sea—but enjoyment does not equate to skill. More arms to hold a controller—yes, I have a controller, I have all sorts of terrestrial garbage down here!—does not necessarily mean a better grip. I do not play games with others, because in such scenarios my lack of skill not only becomes obvious to all involved but holds back the progress of the group (in a collaborative game) or results in my pitifully repeated deaths (in a competitive one). There is also the matter of preventing the other players from discerning that I am, in fact, a squid.

Cheeseballs. While I have, of course, never sampled one personally, I have seen their likeness repeated often in advertisements, and it disturbs me.