I don't like nearly slipping in large puddles of technicolour vomit at the bus station.
I don't like straightening my hair only to find out that the humidex has other ideas.
I don't like prematurely resurrecting winter sweaters because work is glacially over-air-conditioned.
I don't like sidewalk hogs.
I don't like that I've never seen a black woman featured in a shampoo ad.
I don't like when people call my flavoured water "juice".
I don't like those aggressive giver-outers of independent newspapers at various street corners in the early morning hours.
I don't like my silk wrap dress catching in the wind, granting the lucky Byward Market pedestrians, an Aquabus full of tourists, and roughly 200 wedding guests in front of the Notre Dame cathedral on Sussex a generous glimpse of my undies (which, thank god, I was actually wearing).
I don't like not having anything to complain about (after all, it is part of my charm, no?). Lately, however, I find myself listing only superficial complaints, and I'm awfully smiley despite it.