No Shit! You Don't Say!

I swear.  There.  I said it.  I curse.  If When I get mad enough I can make a sailor blush.  I'm also a Christian woman.  There's a great deal of pressure (from within and without) to keep my verbal rants in check.  I know God doesn't appreciate it when I spit out a "shit" or a "damn" or the mother of all satisfying curses: the "f" word.


My mother certainly doesn't approve.  She made it very clear when we were kids that only those with limited vocabularies use profanity.  Granted, her audience had no business cursing like little heathens in their grade school classes,  although I did hear her let fly the occasional "damn."  She would immediately apologize.  I do, too, when the kids overhear.  (Let this serve as proof that our kids follow our actions, not our warnings.)


I've tried to give up swearing over the years.  I've even given it up for Lent before.  Quite successfully, I might add.  Not a nasty utterance until after Easter.  Other times, I'll restrain my tongue for weeks and months and not a vile peep emerges.  Then I'll stub my toe or accidentally turn white shirts pink or Darling will (certainly never on purpose) rankle me beyond imagining and the sleeping sailor speech hurtles out.


Finally, science has caught up with me.  Turns out cursing as a response to pain actually increases one's tolerance to the painful situation.  Well, hell.  I knew that!   Here's the abstract. 


Now if someone would only do a study to prove that cursing adds color and clarity to storytelling...


~ G