It’s “Love Yourself Week” here on The Frisky, and I totally misinterpreted what that meant. So instead of writing about socks and lube and “True Blood, I’m going to write about platonically loving myself. I’ve read my sister-from-another-mister Amelia’s epic post about the things she loves about herself, and I just read Jessica’s excellent piece. These public expressions of identity are subversive, considering the money that can be made promoting self-loathing. If everyone is pretty, who will buy apricot-scented face spackle? It’s easier to sell a cure if you give the disease away for free. What I most love about these personal whoops is that they’re introspective. In order to truly love yourself, you have to be capable of forgiving yourself for being a human tornado of emotions, fears, and appetites.
Believe me, I’m disturbed by my inability to articulate anything I love about myself. I know that the lists all the writers on The Frisky are whipping up aren’t shallow prayers to the mirror, mirror on the wall. In fact, it’s distressing that I could write 100 Things I Hate Myself during an episode of “Family Guy,” but I can’t come up with one detail about myself that I would publicly yawp. Or, at least, I can’t conjure up something that is serious. I love that my penis is so huge, it has its own Social Security Number and files its own taxes? I can wrestle a seven-headed hydra and win? My dirty texts are so hot, they broil steak? Ladies and scant gentlemen, I have a wee bit of writer’s block. I will be right back.
OK, I’m back. In the hour I’ve been obsessing over this piece, I have:
- Played my new Xbox 360. Which isn’t really new. A friend of mine gave me his, in an act of noble bro charity. So I played a game about The Incredible Hulk. It’s a very existential game. The more Hulk smashes, the more there is to smash. What would happen if Hulk run out of things to smash? Who Hulk then?
- Ate some Polly-O String Cheese. I don’t know why I buy this terrible cheese-like product. It always seems like a good idea. Look! The best part of pizza shaped like a hot dog! But they don’t taste like anything, just “soft” and “cold.” It wouldn’t surprise me if they’re in fact bioengineered Frankenfood that are grown in test tubes.
- I read a few more pages in Martin Amis’ book Money. I bet Martin Amis would have trouble writing a list of things he loved about himself.
- I stared blankly at the wall.
- I started writing a book proposal about wizard dropouts from a Hogwarts-like school. These supernatural losers grow up to be losers who use their powers to steal beer and lob lightning bolts at each other in trailer parks. All I got was the first sentence: “Unbeknownst to the shaggy-haired Muggle, it was a magic bong.”
After all of that angst and storm and stress, I do have one thing I love about myself. That I truly love. If this quality dressed up like a Wookie, I would hug it. Now, I can be a little anti-social. Stand-offish. A loner. If you ask some friends of mine, they might complain that I don’t open up as much as they would like. This is especially irksome, as I’m a good listener. And I listen because I really care about my friends. I just have a hard candy shell. So, one thing I love about myself is … if you’re a friend of mine and you’re in trouble, you can call me at any hour in the day. I will answer the phone at 3 a.m. I will talk to you. Jail? The hospital? The heartbreak hotel? I will be there. I ain’t no pushover – there’s a difference between a friend-in-need and a drama queen. But I’m there for you (except you, Jon).
That’s something I love about myself. Something that surprises me about myself, that I’m genuinely proud of. I love my friends, even if I don’t say that nearly enough to any of them. If they call, I’ll come a-running.
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