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F-bombs and Freedom


Day 276

Valentine’s Day this past year was shitty.  Literally.  My dog had explosive diarrhea first thing in the morning.  She hit every single carpet from the kitchen to the front door. Good morning, Mom!

I was 14 days sober at the time and just about everything felt like the end of the world. Cleaning up crap by myself at 6am on Valentine’s Day had me this close to throwing myself into the creek.  Instead, I threw all four carpets over the deck…all of them, until I was “more sober” to deal with dog poop.


There was no way to drown the mental tally of being a 25 year-old, single, unemployed, alcoholic on the stupidest Hallmark holiday of the year (without relapsing) so I went to an early morning meeting I’d never been to before.

In real life, as in when I don’t have a delete button, I curse like Ozzy Osbourne.  It is very unladylike but it makes me feel better…so why the fuck not.

I unleashed f-bomb fury to the room full of strangers, and felt a little better afterwards. I read somewhere that cursing relieves pain.  Seriously!

A stunned silence was left in my wake. Then a badass old man with a classic knobby cane, and a grey beard with character to boot shared.

“I noticed that some of you all looked a little taken aback by this young lady swearin’,” he said, holding his hand up in my direction.  “But you know, shit, I love it!  ‘Fuck’ is my favorite word, right after freedom!”

There was a roar of laughter and suddenly everything was much lighter. So my dog had a rough morning.  It dawned on me that it could’ve been worse— could’ve been the white carpet, or if it weren’t for AA I’d be waking up the day after Valentine’s Day with a hangover that no swearing would fix.

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