It’s that time of the month again! The wonderful time of the month when it’s my turn to post a little something for the fantastic collaborative blog with the terrible name, Pooping Rainbows.
Considering the staggering amount of time I spend talking, I actually spend a surprising amount of time creating a perfect imprint of my teeth along the edge of my tongue.
I have what might be a bad habit of keeping quiet when I’m hurt or angry. I can probably count on one hand the number of times when I’ve told someone that I was really angry at them or that their treatment of me was not ok, but if I ever run out of small talk, it’s a good bet there’s something eating away at me, which, really, still gets the job done, although maybe not as quickly as just coming right out and saying it. But I like to think that most of the things I leave unsaid don’t cause too much harm.
“Sippy Cup” I can’t explain it. I just LOATHE these two “words”? One compound “word”? I think it’s just because it seems to always be said in a cloying baby voice. Or maybe it just has too many ps. Anyway, don’t want to hear it. Don’t want to say it.
“Girls” when referring to myself, my friends or any other female over the age of 18. This one is more recent. I remember my mom occasionally correcting my dad on this one when I was younger, and I never got her insistence on it. But I get it now. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy being a girl, but I’m a grown-ass woman who pays her own rent. Being called a “girl” at this point, especially from older men just feels like a patronizing pat on the head. Not a fan. Although, if Ryan Gosling decides to end his relationship with whatshername and “Hey Girl” me, I might be willing to turn a blind ear at least once.
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