but that's just me

 I like bacon. 

But I hate the sizzling guilt, the pig-shaped shadow behind every bite. 

I like music, but I hate the tyranny of notes, those tiny black marks that mock my fingers. 

I like old movies, but I hate that the stars are all ghosts now, flickering in sepia purgatory. 

I like paychecks, but I hate the calendar’s cruel joke—work, wait, repeat. 

I like life, but I hate its spoiler ending, printed in invisible ink on every birth certificate.

I like how cinnamon rolls smell, but I hate the calorie toll, like a tollbooth on the road to joy. 

I like a nice green lawn, but I hate that it’s a five-star resort for bugs with no checkout time. 

I like being warm, but I hate heating bills that arrive like ransom notes. 

I like Christmas, but not winter. 

I like ice cream, but I hate its existential crisis—born to melt, destined to drip. 

I like learning new things, but I hate the bottomless pit of ignorance it reveals, like peeling wallpaper in a haunted house.

So yes, I like things, but I hate the fine print. The trade-offs. The cosmic “gotchas.” The way joy always seems to come with a receipt.

Still—I keep liking, because maybe that’s the trick, to love the contradiction. To laugh at the terms and conditions. To eat the bacon, hum the tune, watch the ghost, and melt with the ice cream, before the credits roll.

zc