It’s been a while since I’ve introduced you to a new D.J. confession. In the past I talked about how I used to wear tight jeans, and how I pretended I was in bands when I wasn’t, and how I poop when I talk on the phone. But that’s nothing compared to this confession.
Ever since I can remember, touching a cotton ball freaks me out more than anything else.
Let me put this in perspective. When I was nineteen I worked as a security guard in a Jewish retirement home. I had a badge. It was totally lame, and I just sat around reading books and drinking from the water-cooler. I sat behind a desk, and pretended to look tough.
That summer I watched a beautiful woman my age who did the cleaning with her grandparents every day. I never had the courage to ask her out.
I did, however, have the courage to find three dead bodies. Well, not courage, exactly. I just ended up finding three dead bodies. Old people die sometimes.
These were elderlies who kicked off in their apartments. And you know what? While a little sad, the idea of seeing a dead person (this was my first experience) wasn’t such a big deal. I don’t remember freaking out at all. Even the smell didn’t bother me.
But the idea of touching a cotton ball, then and today, sends me into a inner mental frenzy. I’d just as soon never touch one for the rest of my life.
Now, I’m not a total spaz. You wouldn’t notice that if you put a cotton ball in my palm I start screaming on the inside. I play it cool. Inside I’m exploding like a tween at a Justin Bieber mall sighting. But not in the good way, like exploding with excitement. Like in the bad way, where I need to run away so far that I’m sure it won’t roll in my direction and stalk me.
So, here’s the deal. If you place one in my palm, I can deal. If you ask me to pick one out of a bag of them, I’d really rather not do that. I suppose I could, but I would try to find any excuse in the world to get you to do it for me. If one fell to the ground and you asked me to pick it up, I would not. You are pushing me too far. Stop now.
Then, if you asked me to squeeze one with my fingers, I would sprint away at full speed, sweating like a bastard. Because to squeeze a cotton ball between my fingers would be fucking CRAZY. I’m all worked up just writing that. No lie.
Every time I get a new vitamin bottle with the cotton at the top, it’s pure agony to remove it. I’ve tried using two knives to grab it like a chopstick so my fingers don’t actually touch it, but I can still sort of feel the texture that way. No good.
Sometimes I just press the cotton to the bottom with a pen cap (which also is awful because of the pressure) and try to jimmy the meds out around the cotton.
This is my personal Vietnam.
Can you imagine how awful it would be for me if I were a woman? Using a cotton ball to remove makeup? No way, Jose! Also, tampons? Forget that. I’d be a proud panty-liner patron.
To be clear, snakes don’t bother me. I can speak before a thousand people and not break a sweat. Fingernails across a chalkboard? It’s like a symphony to my ears. I could chew on tinfoil and love every bite.
But cotton balls – man, that’s just not cool. Not cool.
Think I’m alone? Well, I’m not!
Now, if you watch this, you’re going to think it’s fake. But I know better. It ain’t fake. I know this woman. And to a much less embarrassing extent, I AM this woman.
So, if you ever want to see me in the fetal position, build a wall of cotton around me. Sure I could just run through it to escape, but I totally wouldn’t. I’d just stay in the circle until someone rescued me. And I’m pretty sure I’d have my eyes closed the whole time.
Ooh, now I’m thinking of stepping on it. That’s freaking me out. End of post.