Speaking the bad words

I swear.
I mean I say the bad words.
(It puts some people off.)
The chancellor of the Institute of Applied Hedonism relayed an interesting discourse recently. He asked another reader of the Tension is she had read a certain post.
She had not.
“I don’t know,” she said. “So much profanity.”
In another conversation, I was asked if it bothered me to be spiritual – and a potty mouth.
No, no and fuck no.
(I threw that swear in there for the shock value.)
I am a man.
Who wears his emotions on his sleeve.
Who has labored long and hard to learn not to swallow those emotions.
I wear on my face the day’s kaleidoscope of emotion – happiness, sadness, sorrow, anger, lust whatever. It’s expressive.
Part of that expressiveness is the certain use of expletives.
(But not so much as to make a sailor blush; I am cognizant of social situations were a fuck or shit dropped on the unsuspecting would be uncalled for.)
But real life is messy. It is about expression. I make no apologies.
I tried over the last couple of days to substitute much less offensive words for curses.
It wasn’t me.