A Poor Choice of Words

They called him "The Preacher"

Well, actually the other characters in a Vonnegut novel called him the preacher.

But they called him "The Preacher" because he never used swear words. They would ask him all the time: "Hey Preacher, Why don't you use swear words?"

And he would answer: "Because one day, there will come a time, when your life depends on you understanding exactly what I'm saying to you."

That was war.

And good fiction.

But there was a secret reason "The Preacher" never swore.

The secret reason was something his grandfather told him many years before: "Son, when you use swear words, you give people who don't want to listen to what you're saying, an excuse not to."

That was peace.

And good advice.

And I noticed I've been swearing a lot. Swearing under my breath. Swearing at bad drivers. Swearing for joy. Swearing in defeat. Bursting from my day dreams with swear words. I even noticed that the "F" key on my keyboard has gotten just a slight bit dirtier than the other letters as if I've been hitting it so hard recently that more oils from my finger tips have rubbed off.

And I'm pissed off most of the time.

Not "flat tire" pissed off, I'm talking "kicking puppies" kind of pissed off.

I think I've lost my cool.

Which sucks.

Because I pride myself on my cool. Soft, mellow, water under the bridge, kinda cool. Say what you like, I'm just gonna slip on a pair of shades, toss in a little early Steve Miller Band and let you all fight it out amongst yourselves, kinda cool.

I was up above it.

And now I'm down in it.

To quote Nine Inch Nails.

And every night I toss and turn with rage against the machine and every morning I feel like Sid Vicious standing over a dead Nancy.

Problem is is that I'm just a bit too young to be cantankerous and way too old to be punk. I'm at an age where there is nothing cute about me.

So last week I wrote about something that was really getting under my skin. Something that was driving me up the wall. An episode that was driving me to distraction and I wanted to toss it off my shoulders by throwing out from my soapbox and let the masses deal with it so I could get some peace.

Writing is catharsis and I thought if I let it all fly with reckless abandon I would feel better.

But I didn't.

I just felt sorta mean.

And then I got an eloquent e-mail from a loved one. No blame. Just advice. No hate. Just wisdom.

May god bless you all with that kind of love. If there is a god. If there is love.

See, my stepson is having a tough time.

And he's not handling it well.

Because who does?

And he is having the same reaction to his situation that I am having to mine.

Except he's not getting to the part of Sid standing over a dead Nancy. The heroine hasn't worn off yet.

He just continues to rage. And his rage is getting the best of him, as mine is getting of me.

So I wrote something that I thought was funny and ironic. Cause he is in pain, and his pain is causing me pain, and if he wants to rage, I can rage louder, longer and with an older man's vocabulary. So lets look on one another as master and pupil. Cause I get it. I'm cool.

But the written words didn't convey that.

Cause I've lost my cool.

And the concept of surgical comedy splashed upon the paper like hatchet inspired gore.

I'm sorry.

We all deserve better.

So, Taylor, since one day your life might depend on your understanding exactly what I say, here it is:



I love you.

It gets better.

Much better.