Okay, I know it’s cliché complaint but seriously, when did it become cool, or even okay, to be an inarticulate slob?
The richness of the human languages that exists is probably the sum total greatest thing that humanity will ever achieve. Change it, mold it, suit your fancy.
Be sloppy in your spelling, grammar, punctuation. Make up words if you have to, but don’t ignore language. Don’t let it shrivel up and fall like the atrophied tied-off testicles of a just-castrated sheep.
The right words make your heart melt.
I love you.
I think about you all the time.
I’m so proud of you.
Or freeze.
I don’t love you anymore.
I don’t care about you anymore.
We regret to inform you.
But more then that is the eloquence with which it is said, the nuanced elegance which can be infused into trite compliment to make it, well, not trite.
Yes I adore you but more than that is the thrill that runs the short circuit from my gut to the soft dip at the base of my throat as I watch the long, flat planes of your muscles glide across, parallel, perpendicular to each other in motion, reflecting the dark gold of the lowered light in an otherwise darkened room.
But I preach.
You should be your own Jesus.
I’m a crazy fucking bitch waging a personal vendetta perched atop my very own mound.
And I believe! Yes it’s true praise the Lord, I believe in what I’m preaching.
But if you bastards know what’s good for you you’ll go find your own mounds.
‘Cause nobody gets my sense of humor so go fuck yourselves.
Amen.
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