Bad words, Being (over) 50 and Possible Hermit Tendencies




Bad words, Being (over) 50 and Possible Hermit Tendencies


I’m saying bad words at work.

I’m saying words which would raise my eyebrows if I heard someone else using them.

I would be angry with my daughters for even KNOWING what these words mean.

But I’m saying them nonetheless.


Rather loudly.

In several languages.

I had a beautiful fairytale vision of growing up and becoming Nice.

Even tolerant.

I looked forward to maturing into the fine wine of patience and understanding…..

The reality? I am more like sharp, gritty vinegar. Not even a good brand…..

Strictly clearance aisle.

I suppose its working with people that is my problem. I seem to have a charcoal artists eye for people. Black or white.

No….before you start pounding out those emails (sorry trolls) I am NOT talking about ethnicity.

I am talking about good and bad. If I like (tolerate) you. Or not.

At 20 years old I was “feisty” and “sassy”.

At 30 I was busy and into Mom Speak, much like everyone else I knew. I don’t really remember having any conversations that deeply affected me one way or another.  The general concern was the price of milk, fees for band uniforms and rotas for market days……

And socks. Where do socks go to die? (Cerebral  we weren’t….)

At 40…..hmmm, not sure. Kind of betwixt and between

At 50? I have all the patience of a mousetrap. SNAP!

Am I alone in this? Is it just that nice people get nicer and ……

Well, you can fill in the blank.


About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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