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  • Bad Words

    It is very unfortunate to see how casually bad words are spouted publicly these days.

    This response to an answer on Quora made me viscerally angry.  Is this an “I know them when I see them” sort of filter, or does this man have a list of all the “bad” words?   In any case, how dare he levy such a judgment against any element of speech between sapient beings!  The sanctity of free communication must be inviolable.

    What could he mean?  Rather than launch an attack beneath the blanket of a hundred other forgotten comments, I decided to break down what these allegedly “bad” words could be and came up with a few categories of words that might be considered … well, that should be used judiciously.

    Slang is a bucket of junk words.  When hungry for expression, we could invest time and energy to cook a feast of colorful and evocative verbiage, or we could reach for the slang bucket.  It’s not wrong to grab a handy snack occasionally, and sometimes their peculiar flavor lends pleasant spice to conversation, but those making a habit of their consumption will find themselves fat and lazy.

    Swearing in its modern sense is a more potent subset of slang.  The first must have been blasphemous, followed by references to acts deemed evil by the targets of blasphemy.  They weren’t evil in and of themselves, as if the configuration of their letters invoked some dark magic, but they threatened the validity and power of  the people and ideas that were thought to hold together a society.

    Insults are direct derogatory references to some human characteristic such as ethnicity, sexual orientation, intelligence,  or attractiveness.  These can be the payload of exclamatory epithets targeted directly at an individual, or they may inhabit the stage of dubiously humorous speech.  Contrary to swearing, these words tend to target an unempowered class of people.  They steal from the poor to give to the rich.  Impugning the dignity of others makes us feel better in comparison.

    None of these words are “bad”.  Their mere invocation does no harm.  When directed toward an individual, insults can be hurtful, but is the act of typing “nigger” or “cunt” to be considered downright evil?  There is no vocabulary of epithets against the white male, so I’m left to imagine what a black person or female might feel when encountering the words.  There must be a sense of diminishment involved, or an affront at the thought of attempted diminishment.

    But, back to me– am I “bad” by proxy just for thinking them?

    Before I started cursing, I saw these words carved into my drafting table in high school: “shit fuck fuck you”.  I couldn’t stop repeating the string.  First in my head, then aloud as I walked home alone.  There was some dirty poetry in the cadence of the swearing.  I loved it.  It was a nonsense phrase that hurt nobody, but I derived no small pleasure from the dulcet iniquity of its repetition.

    That innocent anecdote aside, there have been times in traffic I’ve uttered “nigger” in my head to a slothful pedestrian of African descent, but certainly less often than “fat-ass son of a bitch”, and practically fading into silence when compared to the cacophonous symphony of “cunt” heard during my divorce.  In the fevered moments of an invective harangue, we use words appropriate to the person and attributes of our target.  We aren’t (necessarily) meaning to belittle an entire race or gender or way of life, but we’re wielding words as weapons used when one is in verbal combat with those aggregate entities.

    Like fire against trolls or water over witches, the usage is meant only to vanquish the one under the bridge or on the broomstick, not to launch a holocaustic assault against all and the gentler of their kind.

     

     

     

     

     

  • And Now For Something Obliquely Different

    My evening begins with Tinder.

    Ron right? r you free to hook

    up for coffee sometime? u

    seem like my kinda guy. 2

    many weirdos on here tho so

    im gonna delete.  Anyway u

    should text me at 123 456 7890

    Spokeo is my friend.

    Pittsburgh burner, registered to a

    male.  Multiple priors.  At least

    you’re a fellow Pennsyltuckian.

     

    Yeah, too many weirdos.

    Tried to get taxes done tonight.  Found out the 401k (early-withdrawal due to previous employer closing its doors and the split with the divorce) still haunts me.  Probably didn’t withhold enough for federal, let alone state.   Appointment was at 7PM.  Waited til 7:10, then told the cute receptionist I still needed my 8332’s from my ex-wife, and wasn’t sure I’d brought a credit card with any digital money on it, and I’d reschedule.

    Forgive the missing entries of late.   I haven’t returned to the comfortable numb of potent potables.

    I won’t.

    Started a new playthrough of Dragon Age: Inquisition last night.  Female Qunari Mage, Nightmare Difficulty, w/Friendly-Fire.  Don’t expect it will hold my interest long, but I did destroy the Pride Demon in the first major rift-closing battle with nary a casualty.

    I’ve been drinking SodaStream tonic mix, slightly past its freshness date.   Kinda like liquor– if I drink it while spinning madly in place like an autistic child raised by Oompa Loompas.  Maybe it’ll ferment.

    I’ll be getting a screening for the full array of social maladies tomorrow morning.  Making sure they include HSV this time.  Both of them.  All of them.  Every goddamned HSV in existence.  I’d rather have HIV.

    I don’t suspect any dirty creatures have taken up residence in my dark shadows, but it’s nice to pick up those papers without being asked to come into the doctor’s office for a private one-on-one.  If he doesn’t want to talk to you, it means you’re not afflicted.   Ignore the inscrutable measures and ratios, write “Great job!” in red ink on the cover sheet, slap on a few gold-star stickers, and frame it for mounting in the boudoir.

    My drug-doctor has some degree in “Sexology” hanging in his office.  Maybe I could be a “Sexographer”.

    Might spend a half-hour tonight applying for a loan from LendingClub.  Their denial responses are so polite.  It’s like a friend telling you to go fuck yourself for your own good.

    I’m tired.  Of everything.

    I see the girls this weekend.

    That’s all that matters.

     

     

  • A Moment of Clarity

    For an “alcoholic”, there is only one problem– alcohol.

    At that first AA meeting, when I raised my hand and said, “I’m Quinn and I’m an alcoholic”, I bargained with myself that it was some sort of truth.  Major regrettable events had transpired which, without alcohol, would have been mere forgettable incidents.  I have problems associated with alcohol, like a racist has problems associated with race.  So, I’m an alcoholic, right?

    No, I’m not– and I won’t call myself that again.

    I’ve never liked the term “racist”, either.

    This “alcoholic” thinking is dangerous.  Instead of calmly evaluating and confronting anxieties, one turns them into opportunities to triumph over this demon they’ve concocted as their nemesis.   That bottle of vodka is your Moriarty.   You dreamt that he beat your mother when you were a kid, or maybe he was a priest you remembered touching you in your private place.  Nevermind reality.  It’s a matter of degrees, and even then it’s inconsequential if you’re substituting fighting your real problems with defeating an imaginary enemy.

    I went to an SOS meeting today– day six of sobriety.  The longer I’m sober, the less I think it really matters.

    Surely, I lose control when drunk.  Surely, I make bad decisions.  With sex.  With driving.  Probably some other things I either can’t remember or on which I’m taking the Fifth (750ml), but many I recall slapping myself over in the shower the morning after.

    How could I have been so stupid?  Why would  I have risked that?  What was I thinking?

    I was stupid.  I was reckless.  I was not thinking.

    Being drunk cranked up the volume, but it was my tune, and it wasn’t booze singing it– it was me.

    Walking down the stairs of my empty office building tonight, going home late as has been lately, that “alcoholic thinking” popped into my head, and I had to shake it out in disgust.  I’ve got real problems.  A lot of them.  I don’t want to live.  If every cell in me wasn’t screaming to continue its miserable life and I could just flip an “off” switch, I’d be long gone by now.  Living without a will to live is a problem.   Not even wanting to want to live is a problem.  “High-functioning sociopathy”, “depersonalisation”,  “generalized anxiety”, “severe chronic depression”.

    Alcohol makes those problems worse, but alcohol ain’t my problem.