I hate pickles.
I've always hated them. For as long as I can remember, I've made sure that no pickle slice or even pickle juice contaminated my burgers.
But for some reason, ever since I partook in Hooters' fried pickles a few months ago, I've had a perverse craving for them.
I actually bought a jar of them for my apartment, god knows why.
I still hate the taste of it when I eat it, yet I can't stop.
I think it's my way of relieving my masochistic inclinations.