I don't like to curse too often. Correction: I do, but I like to keep it under control. I'm afraid I'll end up making it a habit, and since I'm going to be a teacher, I can't have that happen. But when I do, it's because I'm so unbelievably infuriated, that waves of anger crash into the poor sap that decided to cross my path at the worst moment. Within my mind is a storage container for my choice words. I call it the Disney Vault. The concept, like how Disney releases their movies, is that I bring out my vulgar vocabulary from a limited time only and then store it back in the "vault" so that it doesn't lose its value or sting. It still remains just as thunderous and powerful as it was the first time I said it because I haven't overused it as I often do with my words.
I kept my mouth devoid of most curses until I was 18. Like I said, I can normally control my anger, but one day, I finally snapped.
My boyfriend of six months drove to my house one day last spring. He seemed distant, and insisted we sit outside. That's when he told me he didn't want to continue the relationship. Naturally, I cried, and asked what went wrong, confused and heartbroken.
"I just don't feel like you're treating me special."
That's when that minuscule, thin string separating my sanity from insanity snapped.
Just a week prior I had spent eight hours making a three layer cake for his Eagle Scout Ceremony. I went to his absolutely terrible tennis matches, told him good morning and good night, put up with his illogical dieting habits. Guess I wasn't treating his majesty like the princess he thought he was. But bitches were wrong. I'm the damn princess and damn well deserved a prince that wasn't a prick.
I wanted to throw my chair at him. I wanted to claw his eyes out. But I knew what the moment really called for. It was time for the diamond edition vocabulary to be released in high definition.
"This. Is. BULLSHIT!" I roared. He widened his eyes in surprise, taken aback by my language. He sat awkwardly and then announced he was leaving.He tried to hug me, but I showed the cock-sucking ass munch just what I thought of that by shouting "Do NOT touch me!" I watched him scamper away into his forest green Honda CRV like a bitch.
The next day I got in the car with a shoe box in the passenger side and pulled up into his driveway. I left all of the things he gave me on his front porch and kicked it over. I left thinking "Suck it, you little bitch!"
Gretchen's writing normally does not contain the language shown above. But when it does, you can find it on her website and regularly on Quail Bell Magazine where she is an assistant editor and staff writer.