Having only four just seems like I don't care.

There are only a few hours left of December 2009, and I figured that I owed the Internet another blog.

Just because four seams extremely half-assed. Five, however, seems significantly less half-assed.

And no one likes to be half-assed. Imagine how strange walking (and sitting!) would be.

When does wedding season stop?

I was AT a wedding on Saturday night (number 2 of 3 for November) and I got a text message from a good friend saying he proposed to his girlfriend and thus was engaged.

I'm going to need to take out a loan.

That’s more fucking like it.

As of late, the office I’ve been doing most of my work at is pretty conservative.

Very conservative, actually. There’s not a whole lot of cussing around. And when there is, it’s censored. As in people literally will say, “What the H?”

Coming from an ad agency background, this blew (and continues to blow) my mind.

We casually damned with divine endorsement, we let shit freely fly from our lips, and hell was almost a way to say hello.

But now, swearing isn’t as universal. It’s pushed under the rug where only a letter or two can escape.

I actually find the abbreviating more offensive. I mean, that poor little thought is just left dangling in the air.

But yesterday, oh glorious yesterday, someone dropped an F-bomb of Hiroshima proportions. And it felt oh-so-good.

That particular “fuck” was more shocking than they usually are. Because it was so out of place. So beautiful. So packed with raw emotion and helplessness and anger, but with a fighting spirit that the letter F on its own just can’t convey.

I felt jazzed. I wanted to reply to the obscenity. “Shit yeah!” But the looks on my surrounding coworkers, the looks of unabashed shock, stalled my verbal celebration.

So I relived the scenario in my head for the rest of the day. Every time, I’d have a more colorful reaction. “Yeah, bitches, let’s do this.” “That’s a good damn point. “I’m right the fuck with you.”

Alas, I couldn’t. And as long as I’m being aware to other’s (pointless) sensitivities, I’ll never get to express myself in the four-letter way. At least in the office.

Please don’t talk to me right now.

Most would consider me an extrovert. I like to talk. Love to listen. And am usually pretty happy when there are a few people around.

But I’m not always a walkie, talkie, machine of love.

Sometimes, I don’t want to engage in any form or level of communication. This sometimes is when I’m in the bathroom.

Yes. I’m human. I understand everyone else is human and I’m fully aware that other humans know what my human body is doing when I’m being as human as possible behind closed doors.

Even despite all of this understanding, I still consider this super-duper-private time.

So don’t talk to me.

Because I don’t want to talk to you.

It’s bad enough that stuff is coming out of the south end. Don’t make the north end have to do work, too.

Just let me be for a few moments. We can talk while washing hands.

I promise.

This is why I love being an adult is awesome.*

I ate pumpkin pie for breakfast.

And it was delicious.

(Although my sweet fiance tried to talk me out of it because he wanted me to have a healthy breakfast. And I love him for that. But I'm an adult! And I can eat pie for breakfast on a Sunday if I want to!)

*I also had it for dessert. All of this sugar is messing with my sentence-crafting abilities.