This Process

It's difficult to write with my glasses on. Words seem to get stuck in my nose bridge. The keyboard is not a big help either. I prefer paper and pen. Words flow better from black ink.

Writing is scary.

Bad grammar is the least of my fears; saying I'm all for ghetto love is the space between. And beyond that the black sea of suppressed thoughts and high opinions that never see the light of day. These few hours of writing have taught me patience and new appreciation for the genius that is Ruel Johnson.

I always thought I knew words, lots of words. Now I struggle to find the right words.  The wrong ones can leave you confused. You'll wander in the wilderness for years wondering why you don't fit the meaning of the word, the label. You'll waste days searching for homonyms.

Whore; loved by many men? Bitch; tough? Liar; misunderstood? Indisciplined; bored easily?

Before this process, words were not weighed by me.

I would pause before cussing someone out though. More for emphasis than remorse.

I feel the most rebellious when I cuss.

My mother only said "shucks."

My best friend Megan tends to get palpitations when I start.

There is a certain rhythm to cussing out loud that is better than music.

There is a freedom that is insane in cussing.

Consider this: one cannot be mistaken or misunderstood when one swears.

Nothing beats a really good "Fuck you!!" And no amount of bitch, liar, whore, thief, two-faced, coolie, blackman can ever match one of my "Fuckers!"

I don't like saying shit though. Characterising anything as shit (except the real thing) suggests a process. And thought. Most of the shit around rarely has process. Just mind numbing dumbness.

I also don't like hearing shit. My wiring gets faulty hearing shit. Especially from politicians - even closet ones, or defenders of democracy. Or Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses. And especially not little girls at schools in their complicated relationships and mothers who want to be their daughters' best friends.

I couldn't think of how to put a sentence together to tell my mother that I am having sex. I am not a prude. And yes, I do have sex. Regularly. I am not telling my mother that. Are you nuts?

I think the old ways were better. When you had to choose your words when you spoke to your parents. All this vomiting of words around me now makes me uncomfortable. You may be flawed or damaged or whatever rass now because you didn't say the words you should have back then. But look on the bright side, you had time to process it; the years have given you time to find the right words.

I can now properly ascribe certain words words to me. I'll start with two:fucked up.