I wanted you to be able to start your day off right. Today’s guest post comes from Christine Knapp from I’m Sick and So Are You. This girl gets it, y’all. She’s dealt with serious physical pain and laughed in its face, while still being honest about how much it sucks. She’s our kind of people. When you’re done reading, head over and give her a little sugar (she just moved to The South, so she’ll have to get used to things being overly sweetened now).
One day, sitting in the very last seat of the very last table in the very last row of my middle school history class, I heard someone call, “Is there a Christine in the class?” I sheepishly raised my hand. “Oh good, could you come with me?” I followed closely behind, having to double up my pace at times, while the middle aged man introduced himself as the assistant principal.
I had never before been in trouble, nor had I been an academic scholar and I sure as hell had never won anything, so I didn’t quite understand why I was being called into the assistant principal’s office. After we hurried up the stairs and rushed past the secretary, he offered me a seat in his shoebox sized office. I scanned the pictures of his generic family while he smoothed out a few pages of notebook paper.
“I found someone reading this note during school hours and I confiscated it. I wasn’t going to read it, but a few of the words caught my eye.” As he held up the note I could see that it was my handwriting. It was a note that I’d written the previous day and stupidly signed my name to before handing it to my very best friend. It contained every profane word known to mankind. That note would have made a sailor blush. I sat motionless while he picked up the phone, called my mother at work, and read every last one of those words to her. I fucking hate that guy, to this very day.
For the life of me, I can’t remember the exact thing that caused me to unleash my profane fury, but this was middle school, so it could have been pretty much anything. Perhaps it was the time I got my period all over my beige jeans. Or, maybe it was the time my crush, Brian, brought me into a room with all his friends and made me think he was going to ask me out on a date so they could all laugh at me when I figured out he was just pulling my leg. But, then, it could have been the time the giant bully in my science class threatened to punch me and made me cry. Seriously, fuck middle school. Middle school is the worst.
It doesn’t matter what happened to trigger my angst, although I pretty much figure it’s the fact that I was wearing beige jeans. Beige jeans are rage inducing. The reality is, in some situations, only the word ‘fuck’ will do. Now, you might want to change things up a bit and use one of its many variations. You’ve got your fuckwad, nutfuck, and motherfucker (my personal favorite), but there needs to be a fuck in there somewhere because sometimes fuck is the word you’re looking for.
When your neighbor calls the cops on you the very first day you move into your apartment you’re not going to ask “What the heck?” No, ma’am. You are going to look at your husband straight in the face and say, “What the fuck is wrong with those people?” Then, you might want to shoot the bird toward the floor and whisper ‘fuck off’, strictly for therapeutic reasons.
You don’t describe the pain you feel after waking up from a surgery where they removed a tumor, some leg muscle, and chipped away at your hip bone as pretty uncomfortable. Nuh-uh. You tell it like it is. That shit fucking hurts. It hurts like a motherfucker. Better still, it fucking hurts like a fucking motherfucker. I can tell you, from my personal experience, it really does.
Fuck is the only thing that’ll get you through stubbing your toe on the coffee table, banging your funny bone on the kitchen counter, and knocking your head into the car door. You’re sadly deluded if you think ‘ouch’ is going to cut it under those circumstances. When it’s hot, you’re not making love, you’re fucking. When it’s not, well you might need to get the fuck outta there.
Fuck isn’t dainty. It isn’t subtle, doesn’t have soft edges. Fuck is pungent and boisterous. It busts down the door in lieu of knocking. It’s often inappropriate, occasionally awkward. Fuck isn’t wary or leery, it’s not timid. It’s brave and bold and when all else fails and fudge and heck and dang aren’t cutting it, fuck will see you through because sometimes only fuck will do.
Now go visit her blog and peruse and muse.