Playing With Words

There's something intriguing about offensive language. Maybe it's the giddy thrill that goes with 'forbidden' fruits, like middle-schoolers snickering behind their hands at a "dirty" word. Maybe it's the catharsis of someone saying those words that circle in the back of your head but, for any number of reasons, never escape your lips.

There are songs in my iPod that I like more because of that edge. Radio edit version? No thanks.
There are jokes that are only as funny as they are risque.
There are speakers who are questionable at best and yet, even as I cringe, I admire them all the more.

I understand the power and appeal of the offensive.

What I don't understand is why people don't seem to understand the difference between a well-timed shock and carelessness.

In my writing class today, I found myself speaking up about questionable language that had been used in a couple of the pieces. Both times, I wasn't upset at the words they'd used or the assumptions they'd made. I was worried, though, at how readers would see them. Neither of the authors seemed to be trying to offend and I wanted to offer an alternative view, cautioning them that people with different backgrounds or experiences might read things in a way they weren't expecting.

Both times, I was immediately corrected by classmates who thought I was trying to get the authors to change their pieces. "Don't take that out." "You shouldn't care if people are offended." "It didn't bother me." So quick to jump in, I'm not sure they actually understood that I didn't have a problem with the word choice. I just thought others might.

I get it. I really do. We like offensive language and, honestly?, this world is already way too PC. But I wasn't advocating for Disney. I was asking for some consideration.

Words are such powerful things. You can inspire nations, incite riots, or soothe spirits with little more than well-chosen words. We communicate whole ideologies in songs, essays, blogs, and facebook statuses. We can, in essence, move mountains.

With that realization, it seems like asking for some thought about language isn't out of line. Shocking language comes at a cost. You will offend. And if you have something important to say (or even not so important), driving away half your audience is going to sort of spoil the show.

It's not about political correctness or worrying about offended sensibilities, though personally that's something I can't help but do. Rather, it's about intention. The true thrill of the shocking is that ability to say something powerful and edgy and make it stick. Make it mean something. If someone offends on accident, it's all well and good to blame the one who took it too seriously, but it doesn't change the fact that the message was lost.

I'm not saying I want to see prettified communication.
I'm not a fan of being PC.
What I am saying is, if someone is offended by your writing when you didn't intend for them to be, take it into consideration. Don't just brush it off. Maybe you seriously need to be more thoughtful with your word choice. It's impossible to anticipate all of the ways your words could be taken and you certainly don't need to bend to every wilting flower's whim...but it doesn't hurt to realize they're out there, either, whether that changes what you say or not.

And if you're going to offend, do it on purpose, with a merry "fuck off" to anyone who minds.

Because if you're going to piss someone off, you might as well do it with flair.

Edited for moar irony... this is the point where I wonder how many people I managed to offend. Lol.

I really should have been doing work. I really meant to. But the poem was insistant. It's more sad than I would have liked, but ah well. No worries. I am well... though I'm not sure what to think of this one... o.O?


I can lay back and watch the clouds pass overhead,
silky shadows against a moonlit sky,
and wonder about how many stars are there, anyway.

I can trace the lines of trees
and dance among the drifting leaves of fall,
never faltering as I tiptoe through the steps.

I can muse about the future,
talk of nothings and whispers and dreams
or embrace the silence happily.

But let the watchful eyes place me in their gaze
and I stumble in my dance, forgetting how to count
the rhythm and the stars.

Let them calculate my measure and my motive
and the fear becomes too strong,
until emptiness steals my words away...

And I am alone

Bah... I'll never get this to be long enough... we'll here's the next part. :)


I’m usually a closer. Most of the other employees at Common Grounds complain about the late hours, especially since the closers tend to have the most work to do, but I prefer it to earlier in the day. There are fewer customers, and you can take your time. There’s no pre-opening rush to try and get the store ready on time. Mostly, I’m the only one who feels this way, though Lizzie gets it a little, I think.

“I’m a night person,” she tells me, wiping off the milk that has dried on the espresso machine. “I don’t mind closing.”

I nod, since I am too.

“Besides, some of the most interesting people come in at night. Like that lady who came in last week and ordered six espressos. I make up little stories in my head sometimes about that kind of thing. Like maybe she’s addicted to caffeine and she sneaks out of her house at night to ease the cravings.”

“You’re crazy.”

Lizzie grins. “Maybe.” She looks around the empty shop, then back at me. “I’m gonna make a hot chocolate. Want any?”

“No.” I watch her as she moves away from the register. “I think you’re the one with addiction.”

She laughs. “I’m a chocoholic.” She tilts her head. “Do you think they have support groups for that?”

“It’s called counseling.”

“Eh, too boring. Besides, I like my addiction.”

“Denial.”

“Nope. Acceptance. Hot chocolate can solve any problem.”

I look out the window. “Not any problem.”

“Any problem.” She nods. “You’re too pessimistic.”

“I’m a realist.”

“That’s another word for pessimist.” I shrug, and she sighs. Then she tilts her head and gets that deep, concentrating look. Like she’s about to say something profound. Only, it usually means that she’s about to ask a question. Which she does. “What’s something that makes you happy?”

“Should something?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know.”

“C’mon… not even fuzzy little bunny rabbits?”

“I’m not really a fuzzy bunny kind of guy.” And then she laughs, because it’s true. And I laugh, because I hadn’t meant it to be funny, but it’s good to make someone smile. I’m not really happy, but it’s a break from the monotony. I still like the blankness, but there’s something to be said about laughter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I’m wide awake, still,” Lizzie says, staring at the clock. We’re finishing up alone, since the other guy who had been helping us had to duck out early. Something about a party. “I don’t feel like just going home.”

“So don’t,” I say.

“But what could I do? Steak ‘n Shake is too expensive.” She sighs and I just shrug.

“Denny’s?”

“Nope… too boring.” She gives me a considering look. “Hey… you tired?”

I shake my head. “Not really.”

She claps her hands together and gives me a mischievous smile. I’m not sure whether to be worried or amused. “I have an idea.”

“This should be good.”

“Let’s go bowling?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

I shake my head. I’m thinking she must be pretty desperate for company if she’s asking me to join her, but I don’t say so. “Bowling is an old lady’s sport.”

“So? We’ve got that covered.” That impish smile of hers widens. “I’m a lady, and you’re old.”

She catches me off guard with that one. “I’m only a year older than you.”

“Exactly. C’mon Gramps.”

And then, next thing I know, I’m agreeing to go. Not because I want to, because I’ve never really had any desire to bowl. Just because it’s something to do. And maybe I’m not in such a rush to get home tonight, either.

Bah... I missed posting yesterday. That's kinda sad. Still, it was worth it. There was too much else that needed taking care of.

I did get a little written on my NaNo. Not my goal, but it's a start. Here's what I have so far:

“Careful, Katelyn. I think you’re turning green.” Lizzie is standing by the cash register, smiling at Katelyn. Katelyn was leaning on the counter, watching the couple holding hands in the corner, but she straightens up quickly now, pouting at Lizzie and me.
“They’re taking forever.”
“Oh, is that why you were gazing at them so longingly?”
“I was not. Besides, they’re disgusting.” She tosses her hair and I can’t help being impressed. I didn’t know someone’s nose could get that high in the air. “Look at her? Who wears that in this kind of weather?”
The girl at the back table is wearing a lime green halter top that seems to be held together with strings, though it’s hard to tell from where I’m standing. Not really suited for the pre-winter chill outside. Her boyfriend seems happy enough, though, and I figure the scalding looks Katelyn is shooting at her back are enough to keep anyone warm.
I stop contemplating the girl’s clothes, or lack thereof, as I notice Katelyn’s disgusted look is now directed at me. “Men…”
I shrug, but Lizzie laughs. “She’s just jealous, isn’t she Josh?” But she doesn’t wait for me to answer, just laughs and continues. “So’m I. I wish I had a figure like that.” She spins around suddenly, like a top, her short, frizzy hair creating a light brown cloud that frames her face. She brushes it out of her eyes with a casual flick of her wrist and smiles at me.
Katelyn rolls her eyes. “I just want to go home.”
“We can’t close for another half hour,” I say.
“Well, if they’d leave we might be able to go home early.”
“Nope!” Lizzie breaks in cheerfully as bells chime softly, the door swinging open to admit our next customer. “Good evening, sir.”
The man gives her a weak smile, his watery eyes darting to the menu above the counter. “Hello…” He clears his throat. “I’ll have a cappacino.”
“What size would you like, sir?”
“A small.” He looks back up at the prices and licks his lips. “Well… make it a large.”
“One tall cappacino. Anything else for you today?”
“No.” He’s fumbling to get his wallet from his back pocket. “No, that’ll be all.”
“That’s three dollars and seventeen cents, please.”
The man nods, finally freeing his wallet from his pants. He hands Lizzie a five dollar bill. Opening the cash register, she puts away the five and pulls out his change, counting it into his outstretched palm. “That’s one dollar and fifty,” two quarters go down, “seventy five,” another, “eighty three cents back.” The money clinks in his grip as she drops a nickel and three pennies into his hand.
The man nods and moves down the counter, watching me as I make his drink, like he’s afraid I’ll poison it, then turns his gaze on Katelyn when I hand her the cup.
“Whipped cream, sir?”
“No.” He takes his cappacino from her.
“Have a nice day, sir.”
He pauses, then nods. “You too.” His watery gaze slips over the tree of us and he shuffles out the door.
Katelyn gives an exaggerated shiver when he’s gone. “He gave me the creeps.”
I don’t really react, but I’m thinking that I can understand. He seemed a little psychotic. Not that it’s all that rare, but it’s not comfortable either.
Lizzie tilts her head, her expression thoughtful. “I wonder what makes him so jumpy?”
“One too many shots of caffeine,” I say.
Lizzie laughs. “Maybe we shouldn’t have sold him the cappacino, huh?”
“Maybe.”
“Finally!” Katelyn’s emphatic whisper makes me look over. The couple has finally abandoned their table. I look back at the counter when they link hands. I’m not interested.

:) God bless, to anyone reading this. May His peace be with you.