Yu Ping shares my fondness for standing near cliffs and wearing sunglasses when it's rather dim outside.

In a world full of faceless and forgettable people, Yu Ping Hu distinguishes himself. It is not because of his strength, agility, or endurance. Nor is it because of his intelligence, creativity, or work ethic. Especially not his work ethic. If I had a nickel for every hour he's spent playing computer games when he had deadlines to meet, I'd be able to buy Alabama. Not that I'd want to, of course. It's full of Alabamans.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah: Yu Ping. Yu Ping is admirable because he hates like no one else I've met. His hatred is not doped with the impurity of rationality. His hatred comes in clean, focused blasts of elemental force that can be put into arbitrarily long periods of quiescence and later summoned undiminished in precision or intensity. He hates bothersome students and their irritating questions. He hates noisy people. He hates Weekly. He hates Uncle Jack. Hell, odds are that he hates you. Yu Ping's hatred is at once terrifying and beautiful; it is poetry that enobles as it destroys.