I Hate Myself for Loving You

I may judge a man for the things he likes, but I will loathe myself for the things I love.

For instance, I sort of hate myself for how much I love Titanic. I also hate myself for not loving Flight of the Conchords. It's probably so I can beat everyone else to the punch of hating me (because I'll always forgive myself, but I know that people like my brother may never find it in his heart to forgive this kind of crime).

But most of all, I hate myself for loving, so much, the ironic, hilarious statement T's. Tonight I went to the laundromat and saw a large man, daughter in tow, with a shirt on that said "STOP SNITCH'N!" across a stop sign, and I had to laugh because, sir you are YELLING at me and we've never met.

But this isn't the first time I've appreciated and adored these shirts. And I hate that.

I hate that you are a grown man wearing a shirt that says, "Sister for sale..." and that I love it.

I hate that I wonder how many times a week you wear that "Warn a Brother" shirt because I know it's more than one and I hope it's more than five.

I hate that I want to know what you were thinking when you bought your shirt. If you laughed, or if (and I hope) you looked at it and thought, 'yeah... people do need to stop snitch'n, and I need to let them know that... one to five times a week.'

But most of all I hate that I don't hate it, not a little bit, not even at all.