The Broken Flush On A Potty Mouth

What makes people curse, take others down with a fine F gun work? Some look for an answer in repressed emotions while others blindly advocate the underlying merits. In the scalding hemisphere of violence, the burning coal of verbal abuse is a key contributor. Youngsters endorse swearing in the peak of their rebellious years, professionals foul-mouth each other over hijacked accounts and boss’s leash. The reasons could be anything but they aren’t good enough to cradle vulgarity.

I am student of profanity; had my first lesson imparted at the tender age of 5, the mind fed on the nutrient of sewage, tiny roaches swam in spit bubbles. Apes that carry epithets swing freely on easily available branches; they scratch every back in the pack, and sometimes scatter the lice on foreigners. That’s how it works. An indecipherable word of mouth slowly becomes the only word you understand. “My impressionable nature got me nuked”, this is all I can say in my utterly stupid defense. I wasn’t asked for my consent and was forcefully placed under the carbon paper, the fragile and indelible words stayed behind and so did the ulcer on my tongue.

For egotistically obese and morally malnourished, the liberating four lettered word is a drop of sense on the soil of confusion. People burn etiquette with one hand, but the other, fiercely guards the blanket- the protective cover that safeguards their false pride. During those sessions of inner jousting, the question that constantly hammers your head is How weak am I?, What is that one thing that defines my insecurity? and Will I ever open my door to criticism? If you are a critique in pursuit of a new crash dummy, you better swerve away. With me in the picture, the intended impact always bounces back to the wrong court. The initial signs of a seismic disaster gets the cat up and clawing.

Sometimes, the fidgeting mind wonders, “What is it that causes an allergic reaction to truth?”, “Why do we fight reality with the objective of defeating ourselves?”, “Why do we hide our scars under full sleeved sweaters and over stretched turtlenecks?” Why…..

On an ending note, allow me to draw the blinds, drive the screws inside the pesky neighbor’s eyes, rechristen Christ with a new middle name, forget that I too have a mother and live happily ever after beside the ass in my hole.

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