I hate when I get all the way into the bathtub and *then* realize I forgot my Gilligan hat.
I hate when the butler forgets to water the shrunken heads.
I hate when the fabric of reality rips right in the crotch.
I hate wondering if I’m smart enough, strong enough, or slathered in chocolate sauce enough.
I hate when I mix up my recipes and prophecies. This seven-headed beast pudding just doesn’t taste right.