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Mind Of Man: The One Thing I Love About Myself

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.

I’ve recently begun to feel like a hot chub sandwich, but men don’t feel “fat.” That would be vain. So I’m trying to coin the phrase “truck” for dudes who are growing their own FUPAS, or Fat Upper Penis Areas. Do these jeans make me look “truck?” Yeah? RIGHT ON!

So

I’ve recently begun to feel like a hot chub sandwich, but men don’t feel “fat.” That would be vain. So I’m trying to coin the phrase “truck” for dudes who are growing their own FUPAS, or Fat Upper Penis Areas. Do these jeans make me look “truck?” Yeah? RIGHT ON!

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.

Follow John Devore’s preening narcissism on Twitter.

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