I'm standing in a souvenir shop in Manhattan, holding an I Love New York t-shirt. I turn to my boss and say, "I'm buying this for Curtis, even though he'll hate it."
Curtis doesn't like stuff. Even if he does.
He loves monster trucks. But if I were to buy tickets to Monster Jam, he would tell me that he doesn't want to go. (I have. And he did.)
He loves getting mail. But I were to send him a litter, he would open it up and then immediately throw it away. (And then tell me, "I only like letters that have money in them.")
When I got home from New York, I gave Curtis a hug and said, "Hey, buddy. I brought something home for you." He took the shirt, held it up, and gave it a look. Then, without breaking eye contact with me, he crumpled it up and dropped it on the ground. Pretty much like I thought he would.
But he didn't stop there. A few minutes later, after I had moved on to something else, he tracked me down. "Dad," he said, "There's something weird under your bed."
"Weird?" I asked.
I followed him into my room and looked under the bed, where he had shoved the balled-up t-shirt.
"Yeah. That's pretty weird," I said.
The next morning, Curtis was wearing the shirt.
It's now one of his favorites.
That's Curtis. He hates stuff. Even if he doesn't. And sometimes he loves it.