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.