Tag Archives: shut up

Curt

Curt: (adj) rudely brief in speech or abrupt in manner.

“Shut up. And if you’re not speaking, get the hell out of my face.”

Every single day of my life I sit here writing these essays—pouring out words from my heart, tumbling from deep in my soul.

And what do you do? Damn it, you peruse them. Or if you do read them, you’re only interested in catching grammatical errors.

Screw you.

Yes. That’s what I said.

You and your horse you rode across the wilderness…or whatever that street lingo is.

I’m a sensitive fellow.

I am in need of affirmation.

Have you ever met an artist who isn’t? Even though it is extremely pretentious to refer to oneself as an artist, I shall do it on this occasion, just to make my much-needed point.

You think you’ve earned the right to be a critic instead of basking in the warmth, the tenderness and the glory of the progression of thoughts I offer, using words as the boxcars of my train of thoughts.

Now, could YOU have come up with that previous sentence?

Your response: “Well, I wouldn’t. It’s silly. It’s affected.”

Well, screw you.

I don’t need your appreciation.

I don’t care if you ever read another thing I ever write.

Go surf the Internet.

Be a beach boy looking for the best wave.

I don’t care.

Of course, I do—but I can’t let you know.

So I have decided the best path is to follow the entire mass of present society and appear to be angry and apathetic. Or is it apathetic and angry? Which one makes you mad and which one disconnects you from the mainstream of the motherboard of life?

So this may be my last posting—though probably not because I still have time left on my WordPress contract.

But if I didn’t, you would be without ME tomorrow. So what do you think about THAT?

Too curt for you?

(The preceding was only for dramatic effect. Any feelings hurt in the process of production were unintentional.)

 

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Blab

Blab: (v) to reveal secrets by indiscreet talk.

Dictionary B

It has taken me too many years to learn to shut up.

All through my youth, I was enamored with the power of my own speech and the intelligence of the insights I possessed.

I was prepared, at the drop of a hat, to comment on hat dropping.

I felt it was my duty.

I thought it asserted my individuality.

Yet too much talk is a premature revelation of the limit of one’s intelligence.

It also quickly reveals hidden prejudices.

And it fills the room with the fragrance of one’s verbiage–overwhelming those all around with the noxious fumes.

I was guilty of blabbing.

I got too comfortable, shared secrets that were meant to be holy and made them common.

  • I wanted to be smart.
  • I yearned for acceptance.

And then one day, I discovered the power of well-selected silence.

I could still have the thoughts bouncing around.

I could have an inner giggle over a humorous idea that popped into my head.

But I didn’t need to make it public domain.

There’s too much blabbing in America … and unfortunately, all the speaking does not seem to increase the hearing.

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Bedding

Bedding: (n) coverings for a bed, such as sheets and blankets.Dictionary B

Scratchy or warm?

I remember that was my choice when I was a little kid in dealing with my bedding.

My parents had these old blankets that were off-white with colored stripes, which reflecting, I would swear were probably removed from the backs of horses and brought into the house and thrown on our beds.

They were woolen, itchy and sometimes smelly–though I’m sure that odor was attributed to them due to my dissatisfaction.

But since I grew up in a frigid environment (which certainly has a double meaning) I would eschew my horse blanket for half the night, and then, due to shivers and quakes, grab it and tolerate its coarse texture to eliminate freezing.

This, of course, makes the emphasis on “bedding” which we see in today’s society ever-so-much more humorous to my experience.

Unbelievable as it may seem, I have even sat in patience around a table, listening to a lengthy conversation of people discussing the “thread count” of their sheets. Ignorantly innocent, in one of these initial pow-wows I even asked what they meant by thread count.

Thirty minutes later–dazed, bewildered and sleepy–the explanation finally mercifully ceased.

I wonder what the thread count was in my horsey bed-throw? I’m sure no one in my family would have known nor cared.

The attitude in my household on the issue of bedding was similar to the approach to every matter of personal comfort:

“Shut up and be glad you have it.”

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