I have a signature style. It’s very subtle, and it’s kind of a secret, but I can never get enough of psychoanalyzing myself, so here we go.
My style–I call it “ironic self-deprecation.” It’s the perfect attitude for the Irony Age. When I was in high school, I stuck with self-deprecation classic, opting to charm my friends by pointing out hilarious flaws with myself. I was never told, back then, that nobody likes self-deprecating humour. That’s something dorks like me never understood. It was a defense mechanism that had no offense. No agression. It was safe, but not at all rewarding.
On the other end of the spectrum is cocksure cockiness. It’s attractive if you can make a case for it. But if you cock it up, then you cock cock cock cock. Only smart, accomplished people like Freud can get away with that kind of arrogance. He’s pretty much my inspiration when it comes to self-psychoanalysis.
Anyway. Somewhere in the middle of the two spectrums is the small bowl of porridge that is ironic self-deprecation. Listen: this is how it works. You tell everyone how awesome you are, all the time. It goes best if the listeners know you, and know that the thing you’re claiming to be awesome at is something you are decidedly unawesome at. It also helps a lot if you are awesomely charming and witty like myself. (That was an example.)
The irony comes from pointing out how amazing you are despite everyone knowing that you are average at best. It’s an elevated form of sarcasm. But it’s better than self-deprecation classic because that cockiness, that extra, exaggerated twang of cock, makes you seem badass despite the fact that you’re clearly making fun of yourself. And eventually, you feel badass, too. That’s where confidence comes from, my friends.
It comes from cock.