things I really, really don't like

I’m not much of a complainer. That said, however, I think its necessary to make it clear to people what you like and what you really, really don’t like. These are the things I really, really don’t like:
I don’t like the Edgar Allen Poe poem that lines the staircase to the third floor in the English department. Too many times I have tried to read it and nearly fallen to my death. Like any other kid, I am attracted to the eye-level writing on the wall, but like any other human being with average motor skills, I can’t read it and walk down the stairs at the same time. A classroom is a place for poetry; a stairwell is not. In fact, I can’t think of a more lethal place for such literature.
My theory is that whoever is watching the tapes from the overhead, smoke-detector camera got seriously bored of watching kids walking casually with their friends; they wanted to see some falls. I must admit, however, their methodology is genius: they target the ones who would deserve it most. It’s the people who would read a Poe poem coming to or from their English class who suffer the dire and humiliating consequences.
I don’t like the way girls are inclined to type on the internet. NoT sO mUcH LikE ThIS, but likeeee thisssss. The extra letters at the end of words are the bane of my existence. Like any considerate person, I type online in terse, informative language, e.g., my facebook status: “At the gym. Home at 7:00,” whereas generic ditzy girl’s status: “at the gymmmmm. Cominnn home at 7:00000000.” Listen to me, I DON’T KNOW HOW TO PRONOUNCE THAT. That’s not coherent language. The sound I hear in my head when I read something like that is like that of someone falling down a bottomless pit, their final words trailing off in the distance. So unless your status is “Plunginggg to my deathhh. Good-bye worlddd,” just don’t do it.
I don’t like the “h” letter in Spanish. I don’t know why they would use a letter that makes no sound in any word. It’s like having a number that has no numerical value. e.g. if the number 723 was the same as 23 and 7 is just decoration. I hate it.
I also hate the parents of the famous American poet, William Carlos Williams. Why did you name him William? His last name is Williams. Why did you do that? It’s your fault he has to include his middle name on each of his works. Somehow he managed to have a flourishing career, but no thanks to you. I’m not even going to start on the parents of Boutros Boutros-Ghali.
One thing bothers me more than anything else. It’s when those quiet times in class are violently interrupted by a grotesque gurgling clamor from the front of the room. I mean nose-blowers. I’m not talking about the modest kid who occasionally goes up to use a tissue in a silent manner. I’m talking about the chain-blower who is always at the front of the room making a huge production out of it. The one who casually gets up, pulls out a kleenex, makes the most revolting sound, and returns back to his or her desk innocently as if he or she didn’t just sin. How is something like that socially acceptable? If you can’t blow your nose modestly, and you refuse to separate from your peers while you do it repulsively, then by all means, you deserve a stuffy nose.