Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Swearin' like a sailor('s wife)

Here's where I admit, after a perusal through my blog, that I swear a lot. This might offend a lot of people, but after growing up as an apologist, I've decided not to make restitutions for what I acknowledge as a possible character flaw. Certainly I'd cringe to find out my childhood pastor and his wife read my site.

As dearly as I loved my pastor and his family, I realized that most of the dreams I had were unachievable so long as I put great stock in how they viewed me, especially with regards to whether or not they'd allow me to babysit their youngest daughter knowing what a mouth I've got on me. That's all well and good, except that I used to dream of being a writer until I realized that I couldn't ever own up to anything I wrote if there was a chance they'd read it. Fuck what my family thought; I knew obligatory society rules would protect me from permanent outcast status and eventually they'd come around to seeing what I see or at least agreeing to disagree. I couldn't grasp of a world in which the elders that I respected thought of me as a bad person, and I adapted my outlook to fit the sort of person I felt I ought to be.

Entering college was the cliche eye-opening experience in which I began to cautiously engage in various behaviors I'd previously thought of as despicable: I smoked, I swore, I drank (underage!), I lied. Each transgression was worse than the next as time wore on, until I couldn't see myself as a good person any longer. After graduating college, I'd fallen into a depression wherein I felt myself to be a worthless human being, living in my parents house and unable to find a job with my expensive degree. It culminated to a head one night as I cracked open a fresh bottle of Sapphire gin and proceeded to dump the contents down my throat, one martini glass straight at a time; I stripped myself naked and locked myself into the bathroom. My parents, understandably worried, broke down the door and spent the night praying over me, willing me to live through the night. I've wondered why they didn't get my stomach pumped considering the nearly-lethal amount I'd consumed on an empty stomach. My Irish cast-iron stomach failed me, for the first time in nearly 20 years. The following days were black, but I no longer had the courage to care if I died nor the energy to blot out my life. Ironically, I lost the last shreds of my faith somewhere along the lines when I realized there was nothing waiting for me at the end of my life, only the memories of what I've done with the life I have.

It wasn't long after that I met the man I fell in love with (with help from my friends at Evilslutopia.com) and eventually married; in many ways, he's been my reason for living and the force that propels me through my days. Because of his support and unwavering love, I found it in myself to face the dreams that I'd long ago schucked to the wayside in favor of modeling my life after a person I couldn't be and began looking for the me I wanted to be. I've embraced my vulgar and intellectual sides equally, realizing that the intense pleasure I get from a well-executed swear word is as valid a reason to continue as is the intense pleasure of a great roll in the hay or my love of collecting outdated idiomatic phrases.

So if in my vulgarity I offend, I hope you find diamonds in the rough elsewhere. Or else, there's the door. It's a small "x" on your screen that allows you to vacate the premises.

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