I seem to vacillate between—and mix in odd ways—the profane and the profound. I admit, it can be a tad startling, even for me. These two are . . . well, kind of polar opposites. And yet, I often flit from one to the other in the space of a heartbeat. This little tendency of mine freaks a lot of people out, but even those who are used to me (and you all know who you are) still get taken by surprise every so often.

Of course, when it comes to writing, this leaves me in a bit of a spot. I want to write something profound, something meaningful and serious that will stay with my readers. But I can’t quite seem to manage that, because to do so is to deny my sense of humour (such as it is), and that is an important part of my personality. (I mean, the tags “humour” and “pottymouth” exist here for a reason.)

The crux of the “issue” lies in my life experiences, I think. The profound comes from my rather unfortunate amount of experience with the shitty side of life—violence and abuse, hatred and death. Ugly stuff, that, and it tends to make one really think about what matters and what doesn’t. The profane—in other words, my sense of humour—arose in the face of the ugliness as a way to cope. Which, you know, might be why I’m having a bitch of time trying to peel them apart. *head-desk*

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

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