Comfort

Saturday, somehow managing to stay conscious after my injury, cousin's hubby and I walked into their house, lugging our forties of Mickey's fine malt liquor brew. S asked us how the day went, and B (her hubby) says, "Damn, your cousin is a puss. He got a blister sweeping a tiny room out. I swear it wasn't no bigger than (motions an area about 4 x 4) this." We both laughed, and then I watched in shock as my cousin lit into him...

"You're a walking, talkin' penis. You know that??? I can't believe what a dick you can be..." B and I looked at each other, and then B said, "Easy... it's just a guy thing. He showed me that blister, and you've got to make fun of him. It's expected. I wouldn't make fun of him if I didn't like the guy!"

To which I responded, "And I never would have shown him the damn blister if I wasn't comfortable around the guy. I expected him to make jokes... hell, I started it by mentioning how sad it was that I got a blister that easily..." She still thinks he was being a dick, which is kinda cool, in a way. I never thought my cousin would rush to my defense like that...

Anyway, it got me thinking about how so many of us are so cautious with what we want to show of ourselves (personality or otherwise) to other folks, and then once we reach a certain comfort level, we expect to be given a rough time about those things. Where we once kept things hidden, all of the sudden we feel the need to toss those very things out for ridicule... a definite sign of comfort, if not a bit strange.

It applies to blogging, too. For instance, I never would have shown you folks my crotch if I weren't comfortable around you weirdos. Hell, I almost posted a pic of my chest encased in a soaking wet t-shirt the other day, but I didn't. Hey. I'm a sensitive guy, and I knew that posting my crotch ruined Quality Weenie's weekend... I wasn't about to throw her off again. Because I care. Though, I think I may be on to something... crotch... Quality Weenie. Crotch. Weenie. Quality Crotch. I may just be too damn tempting... she wasn't really turned off like she tried to sound.

Thus were the thoughts behind the blister posting. I knew that I was going to get a bunch of shit, but that's what it's all about. Lob the softball, give up the hits. It's about entertainment. But after reading some of the comments, I don't know. I'm thinking that I best go back to being shy and retarded retiring.

You folks really are perverted bastards. A blister, on my left hand, from wacking off? C'mon. Although, I thank you for the compliment.

Looking at the postion of the blister, I'd have to be hung like an elephant to get a blister there...

Posted by That 1 Guy at August 22, 2006 09:29 PM | TrackBack