On self-loathing

Is there really any other kind? I mean there's non-self-loathing but I believe that's called "hatred" (or "standard operating procedure" for the hardcore Musselmans among us). Truly, the most accurate target of loathing is oneself. For example:

Loathing the honeyed cakes, I Ionged for bread. - Cowley.

Now, I don't know who this Cowley cat is but really? That's a bit strong.  How can you loathe a honeyed cake? Or any kind of cake, really? I could understand: detesting, abhorring, rejecting, even hating a cake, but loathing is a step too far. Loathing is that deep, pristine sense of hatred that we can only feel for something we know as intimately as ourselves, viz., ourselves. We can only loathe that which we know inside and out; in fact, I would argue that loathing is the very phenomenon of knowing the essence of something completely. To understand something is to hate it. (You learn this in first year English Literature; this isn't news.)

And to those of you in the crowd that insist that you love yourselves (and not merely in an Onanistic way), I can only shake my head and squint my eyes in the powerful beam of your glistening denial. No one loathes him- or herself more than the person who claims to self-love. Besides, the type of person who loves herself (because men don't self-love unless lubrication is involved) probably enjoys the humor of Cathy Guisewite, which intellectually speaking is the equivalent of spray-painting Q.E.D. over everything I just said. Emotionally speaking, its the same as sobbing between mouthfuls of a red-velvet cake.

Self-love? Please. Self-hate! Self-loathe. It feels so right coming off the tongue and makes all the sense in the world. Honeyed cakes be damned.