familiarity breeds the funk

There was a time, not too many years ago, that I remember proudly proclaiming that I loved living by myself and couldn't imagine having a roommate again, and wouldn't have a roommate again until I was married.

Enter Boyfriend.  Commence blissful cohabitation.

It's actually pretty fun most of the time.  I mean, it turns out that Boyfriend really is my best friend in every sense of the word.  Who else can you joke around with about butt cracks and semen?  No, seriously.  He told me earlier today that he would "fix" my crack by "filling it with sticky goo."  And typically any slips of the tongue or inadvertantly harsh words are easily remedied with our standby apology of "but I love you."  It's really like we have our own little language now.  I guess over the past two years, we've accumulated enough inside jokes that nobody else could ever hope to understand half of what's going on between us on any given night.  And I love that.

But today I discovered a rather disgusting side effect of this uber familiarity.  Rankness.  Yes, I'm talking about the funk.  We're so pleasantly content with each other that neither of us really sees any problem going days without showering.  I remember back when we first started dating that sometimes I'd even shower more than once a day if I was going to see him.  Now...not so much.  So today we got into an insult match about each other's funk.  Clearly his is worse.  He is a man, after all.  But he pointed out that I don't always smell like rose petals either.  I think his insults were motivated mostly by a childish need to get me back for telling him that his b.o. was at the level of physically hurting me.  

He told me with a pout that he's going to call me Stinky from now on.  And being ever so clever, I informed him that if I'm Stinky, then his new petname should be Noxious Poison.  

But I love you?