It's quite entertaining to blow off steam by smashing an endless supply of flies breeding in a dorm's kitchen sinks. Yet, just cleaning the sinks is easier and vastly more satisfying. If I aim to eliminate the flies at some point, I might as well skip the smashing.
I had to follow my hate to much darker places before I finally managed to understand that this observation generalizes. I don't think I'm ready to start caring about the suffering of flies, but at last I've seen the utility of detaching myself from hate.
Actually, make that "utility" a "necessity". Even if the blood on your hands never causes you regret, blood in your eyes is a terrible distraction. This past fall, in a series of events unrelated to our kitchen, I tasted what regret could arise from that kind of distraction.
Out, damned spatula.