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Let’s just cut to the chase: I hate sharing. Yes, everything I needed to learn in life I absolutely learned in kindergarten. And yes, sharing is at the top of that list.

Despite this lifelong lesson, I still hate sharing. But I probably need to put that in context and add some caveats. See, I don’t hate sharing everything. I hate sharing certain things.

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You know, the kind of one-way sharing that happens in relationships with women. As in, I hate sharing my clothes. And I hate sharing my food at dinner. And things you don’t want until you see me with it.

I can hear you looking at me with the side eye. Bite me, b.

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I absolutely HATE it when I’m looking for a certain pair of socks and they’re nowhere to be found. Or even worse, ONE DAMN SOCK of the pair is chillin’ in the drawer, causing me to think that the dryer ate my socks again for the zillionth time, only for the woman in my life to walk through the front door, take off her boots and expose a mismatched pair of socks she neither purchased nor had the decency to keep together.

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Who the hell mismatches socks, anyway? Like, why? What evil lives in a heart for that to be something you just do? It’s like slavery all over again—breaking up families for no reason other than to get one’s rocks off. I don’t understand it.

For one, why are you going in my sock drawer for socks in the first place? You have socks. And why are you putting on mismatched socks that don’t even belong to you? Michael Jackson (RIP) would tell you to tell me that it’s human nature. Michael Jackson (RIP) can kiss my ass.

But that cuts to the point. My socks are missing, and what if they’re the socks I really wanted to wear that day? There is a wanton disregard for my socks and what they mean to me. Let’s keep it all the way funky: No woman ever TELLS a man she’s taking his stuff. She thinks that she’s doing him a service by wanting to wear his clothing. It’s like boo privilege or something.

Wife-beaters are another casualty of this Clothing Civil War. Woman takes a shower and just ruffles through a drawer and grabs a wife-beater, even if it’s the last one. Savages, the whole lot of you, who take the last wife-beater.

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If you ask a woman why she does this, she says because #bae’s clothes are so comfy and she likes how they smell and likes feeling close to him.

Cry me a river.

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Well, what about me? What if I like how my clothes smell and I like being comfortable in my own clothes? I like being close to me. Who will cry for the little boy, fam? Who?

And don’t even get me started on my food.

Let’s get started on my food.

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I absolutely HATE sharing my food. I do. I’m petty. I will stab your hand. I will make faces at you and offend you with my pupils. You will say to me, “Sheesh, it’s not even that big a deal; I just wanted a bite.” We will be pissy toward each other for the rest of the night and I will not care.

See, it is a big deal. I wanted that bite that you want. Do you know how I know? I ordered that bite and all of its siblings. You ordered that s—t on your plate that you aren’t going to finish. That’s your fault.

“I just want a taste.”

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You are a terrorist. You didn’t want what I ordered or you would have ordered it. You only want it because it’s mine and you think that I should want to share what I have with you as some symbol of my caring. If that’s what tells you I care, then I don’t care. At all. Ever. That last bite of my food might be the one that satisfies my hunger. Meanwhile, you’re not even eating half of the three random dishes you ordered that looked cute on the menu.

I hate sharing.

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What makes it even more f—ked up is that there’s zero way to return the favor. If you come home and find me wearing your panties because they make me comfortable, there’s a chance we will have reached the end of our dalliance. If I’m wearing (and able to fit into) your jeans, you’re going to wonder all types of things … about both of us.

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You have no clothing item that it would make any sense for me to borrow just because I want to feel comfortable, but my clothes are all up for grabs—from gym shorts to T-shirts to socks to pajamas to dress shirts to ties to whatever tickles thine fancy on any particular day.

And I don’t want your food. Do I ever ask for a bite of your s—t? No. Follow the leader. Take notes. Let me be your role model.

You smart.

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So stop taking my stuff that I don’t want you to take. I do not like green eggs and ham, and I do not like sharing.

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Signed, An Adult.

Panama Jackson is the co-founder and senior editor of VerySmartBrothas.com. He lives in Washington, D.C., and believes the children are our future.