Me: I can never get enough baklava.
Me: Halva's not gross. I didn't know you hated it. I didn't know you hated any food.
Him: See? Keeping the mystery alive after eleven years.
Me: How much do you hate it on the Jeffrey Rosenberg scale of zero to Guy Fieri?
Him: As much or more than my hatred of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Me: Wow. I don't think I feel that strongly about anything.
Him: You hate the word "cantina."
Me: No I don't.
Him: Yes you do.
Me: I think you're making that up. I don't hate things like you do.
Him: Really ? What about frisée?
Me: Oh my God, I hate frisée so much.
Him: And passion fruit iced tea? And plays that break the fourth wall? And all the songs! Zombie by the Cranberries? Oh! And Mambo Number 5 - the Lou Bega version? And Going Up the Country by Canned Heat? You really hate that one. And vertical blinds! And futons - except the ones in Japan!
Me: I guess I am a hater.
Him: You are.
Me: But I like halva.
Him: You can have mine.