Cyberbully

Cyberbully: (v) to bully online by sending or posting mean or intimidating messages, usually anonymously

 Vices are depleted of all virtue.

If we don’t believe this, we tend to make excuses for errant behavior—even contending that such actions have a time or place.

This is why bratty, snotty, cynical and ignorant continue to live on, although they were exposed as useless long ago.

Bullying has also proven to be both unpleasant and ineffective.

It is unpleasant because the one doing the bullying is left with a sour, stale taste in his or her mouth, and ineffective because after a brief sense of victory, every bully is eventually identified and eliminated.

But now we have the Internet.

It’s the perfect platform for those who wish to be bullies but fear being punched in the nose by a superior force. They can now hide out behind what is usually a not-so-clever tag or handle.

I am convinced that most human beings prefer to be considered nice but have found the upkeep on such a profile daunting, or perhaps boring.

I, myself, will occasionally get in the presence of those who twist my last nerve and try to stomp on the weakness of my good grace.

I immediately realize I have a choice.

I can become offended, infuriated or disgusted, using my language tools to devastate them with some unrighteous retort.

Or (now, please listen) I can walk away and realize that within thirty feet of my departure, they are barely on my mind.

Sometimes occupying the same space is the best way to turn yourself into an asshole—if you’re occupying that space with someone who brings out the bully in you.

The purpose of the Internet is to create communication, not destroy it—to connect us to one another instead of rubbing each other the wrong way, producing friction and pain.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Custard Pie

Custard pie: (n) a pie made with custard

Some time ago, back when the only thing open in the middle of the night on a freeway was a truck stop, I was traveling—so sleepy that I decided I should stop at one of these establishments with my friends and get something to eat.

We were in the middle of Dixie.

Apparently had not received the notification that the Civil War had ended—because when we walked in with our long hair—a bit grimy and road-weary—the whole place fell silent.

Just in case you do not understand my meaning, this profile was not selected out of respect, but rather, to communicate shock at seeing “a bunch of hippies,” as they would have called us, stroll into the restaurant.

When I have encountered this kind of prejudice, I’ve always found that the best choice is to stay positive, don’t frown back at them, and keep your conversation within your group. Pretty soon, everybody is eager to get back to their own grits and corn beef hash.

This night was no different.

Except all I really wanted to have was just a piece of pie.

When I think of pie, I have visions of blueberry, cherry, maybe apple—but none of these were available because it was the middle of the night at a truck stop, when most people have turned off all their pie-eating instincts.

The waitress explained that all they had left was “custard pie,” which she said remained because “nobody ever orders it.”

I did. I wanted a piece of pie.

It came, and it was a rather feckless confection—a creamy, white color with just a bit of cinnamon dancing on the top.

I ate it and I loved it.

I treasured it so much that for the next several weeks, I ordered custard pie everywhere I went.

I bought one at a store. It was delicious. Some of these pies were not as good as others, but such is the travail of life. But overall, they had that gentle custard taste, with a hint of vanilla and great sweetness.

I was so enamored with custard pie, I decided to study up on how to make one for myself. I got all the ingredients, put them together, did everything according to the recipe, and ended up with a pie pan that never became solid. It still tasted all right, but it was runny.

I was so disappointed.

I never made nor did I really ever eat custard pie again.

Perhaps that’s a formula for life I should consider.

If I have a vice or if I know of a vice, if I try to do it myself and end up doing it poorly, maybe it will cure me of desiring the vice.

 

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Courteous

Courteous: (adj) polite, respectful, or considerate in manner.

I do not want to be cynical, but I have given up on the concept of trying to call out mankind’s better nature.

My voice is hoarse, my throat is raspy, and my mind is boggled from the many attempts.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

I think the approach needs to be different. Rather than trying to convince people that being courteous makes them excellent folk, what we should do is infuse into their awareness that being courteous keeps them from having to deal with bad shit.

For I will tell you—when you are self-centered and discourteous, you will inevitably offend someone and find yourself embroiled in an argument, feud or ongoing hassle.

These kinds of struggles take energy, time and close the door on the possibility of you being free of the interference of others because they offer their opinions openly about what an asshole you are.

Yes—take a moment and realize that being courteous is not the “noble path,” but rather, simply the opportunity to live a private, selfish life, where you don’t have to hear other folks explain to you why you should be more courteous.

So to sum it up in a nutshell:

Be nice

So you don’t have to pay the price

Of constantly being reminded of your vice.

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Complicate

Complicate: (v) to make something more difficult by causing it to be more complex.

It is very sinister that men have succeeded in attributing feminine qualities and responsibility to negative emotions.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

For instance, a worry-wart rarely has hairy armpits.

“Picky” is associated with those who smell like flowers.

And of course, “nagging” could never be done by the sons of Adam.

Men, as a gender, roll their eyes to make it clear that women are the culprits who complicate matters.

Even though the federal government is predominately inhabited by those familiar with the urinal, and there is no other group that complicates matters more through this alleged check-and-balances among the executive, legislative and judicial branches–even though this is true–women are still portrayed as the villains for insisting on working from a check list before going on vacation.

It may surprise you that red tape has no female origin. It is a term that came about by the minutia generated by the army during the Civil War in order to accumulate useless information.

“Complicate” has no gender. It is a nasty vice which always tries to remove the hope from faith so love will die.

 

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Chain Smoke

Chain smoke: (v) to smoke continually, especially by lighting a new cigarette from the butt of the last one smoked

I never saw my dad smoke a chain. Yet this is what my nine-year-old mind tried to envision when my mother yelled at him and told him he
was nothing but a “damn chain smoker.”

I was aware that my father smoked cigarettes. Actually, he rolled his own. I think he saw it in a movie Western and thought it was cool, manly, and decided to take it up as a practice.

So he bought the tobacco, the papers and pretended he was the Marlboro Man.

He smoked continually. After the passing of time, he mainly smoked so he could keep from coughing. Yes–the absence of the smoke filling his lungs was such a shock to his system that he desperately needed to inhale the tobacco to make him feel normal again. For every morning in our home began with a coughing fit, lasting about twenty minutes.

I knew it was over when the smell of cigarette came floating through the house and I arose from my bed, and walked to stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, around the little speckles of my papa’s spittle.

I was the son of a smoker who decided never to smoke.

I was the son of a mother who spent a lot of time bitching, only driving her husband to more rolling and lighting.

 

Smoking is a vice.

Chain smoking is committing suicide–one drag at a time.

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Certain

Certain: (adj) known for sure; established beyond doubt.

Punctuated by a smirk and a chin tilted to the heavens, certainty is one of the great human vices which loves to be touted as a virtue.

Matter of fact, without being certain, people become suspicious that you do not have confidence in your own code.

I can tell you, my dear friends, I am certain of this: I will try with all my heart but often fail–with the same heart. Since failure is inevitable and the only way I can truly discover how to do things better, I have gradually learned to embrace it, if not relish it.

Some people are certain they’re going to heaven, yet no one of a certainty is claiming a destination for hell.

Yes, “certain” is always something to our advantage, which fails to take into consideration the needs of others.

So I am on a mission–a vigil, if you will. As a “Knight of the Well Rounded Thought,” I am looking for evidence to disprove what I find to be certain, knowing that if my belief can withstand such scrutiny, it is well worth my passion.

 

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Byword

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Byword: (n) expression summarizing characteristics

What do people think when they hear my name? That’s damn important.

Even though we try to play down the significance of public opinion, since none of us live an isolated existence, people’s idea of us are pretty important.

Am I so mixed up that those who know me find it difficult to pinpoint a continuing virtue or a clinging vice?

Am I constantly reinventing myself to such an extent that no one is sure what I treasure?

Even though we extol the value of choice, it is actually a blessing. Many times we get no choice. All we have is the overwhelming evidence of how we selected to be known, punctuated by countless irrefutable examples.

What is my byword?

  • Is it selfish?
  • Dull?
  • Is it aging?
  • Kind?
  • Indifferent?
  • Is it oblivious?
  • Gentle?

Each one of these words has attended a master class of achievement.

Frankly, no one assumes we’re oblivious–we have to prove it through our complete mental absence.

No one assumes we’re kind unless we have extended kindness.

No one insists we’re old unless we’re constantly complaining about our pains.

So here’s my advice: pick a profile and profile it daily.

 

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