May 13, 2009
I can remember the first time I swore. My childhood playmate, Todd, and I had heard the words we knew were somehow dangerous. So we gathered rotting apples from the front yard of my grandparents home and then hunkered down behind the bushes. As cars passed, we stood up and threw the apples at the cars and shouted some kind of cuss word. I don’t even remember which ones. Probably things like “damn”. I can remember the fear I felt, doing this terribly wrong thing. I can remember the power I felt, doing this terribly wrong thing.
I don’t really feel anything when I cuss now. It’s usually an accident, more than a choice. The power of the words has been lost in repetition and familiarity.