Arguing

I never fight with anybody. Ever. Ask anybody. It's the polar opposite of my nature. I tend to listen, say "okay," and then absorb it.

Well ... tonight I had some harsh words with someone I love. While everything ended up with the usual exchange of "I'm sorry," it left me a reeling, and I can't sleep.

Sometimes I wish I were a testosterone-laden asshole that didn't give a shit. But I think I'm a regular guy with regular feelings. And yes, I realize that saying that kicks me out of the Man Club.

The person with whom I argued tonight ended up saying that they simply were in a foul mood and struck out at me. [Olly olly oxen free . . . if the person with whom I argued tonight is reading this, then go f* yourself. This is my blog.] We talked about it after the fight, and everything is okay. It really is. I'm done with it and all's well.

Here's the point. Why do we strike out on those whom we love most? An example -- my sister and I have told each other many times that we hate each other, but don't for a second think that we are not each others' most ardent defenders in a time of need. Sometimes I hate her with a passion, but I love her with an inexplicable deepness -- unbreakable and until the day I die. I would literally take a bullet for her, but then tell her to go f* herself with my dying breath.

I believe we sometimes strike out against the ones we love because there's a big, fat, ugly zit on all of our backs. Someone we love (really love) has to be the one to squeeze it and relieve our discomfort. That's a very special person.

For those very very very few people for whom I have love, I'm happy to squeeze your big and disgusting zits.

You know who you are. All seven of you.