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Arm and shoulder fucked up again. Will have to learn how to type with my nose.
By God, it feels good to say that. Well, type it anyway. Fucked up. It's childish, I guess, but after, oh, call it seven years of minding my p's and q's around these chillens, I would love to start swearing full-time again.
That's one thing everybody should know about me. I like to swear. I LOVE IT. My mother, who objects if I wash my hands in the kitchen sink, who takes offense at the slightest breach of elevator etiquette, who has been known to crochet a doily--my MOTHER swears like a sailor.
But me? No, I'm not allowed. I'm tongue-tied, sometimes, just trying to summon up the gee-willikers and jiminy christmases and fee-fi-fo-fudges necessary to camouflage my discursive instincts. And most of the time, it's not even the kids I'm trying to protect. Oh, sure, I try to keep things wholesome around them, for the most part, but they've gotten old enough now that the occasional slip on my part doesn't find them repeating me for three months. No, it's the damn goody-two-shoes(es) I'm surrounded by! They don't swear, so I don't dare! It's horrible. Like wearing shoes that are too tight. I feel like I can't trust anybody! It's like the fucking Handmaid's Tale!
Anyway. My mother is my mother, and I love her, and I never say the F-word in her presence (unless I am quoting someone else--which I learned from her--and even then it is more polite to say "effing" unless the original speaker's vehemence was pronounced, in which case, it is acceptable to use the actual word, as long as it is uttered sotto voce). And her 76th birthday is tomorrow, or today, depending on how D-land time-stamps this entry. Happy birthday, Mom. Nobody will ever love me more. I told her I wanted to get "Mom" tattooed on my bicep, and she was just...appalled. Oh well.