I practiced my sassing in the bathroom mirror in all seriousness until a grin and a giggle escaped in spurts. Watching unfiltered laughter chase after the string of bad words exiting my ****** mouth. Lethal darts trailed by curls of silk ribbon.
Insulting my reflection wasn't nearly as satisfying as racing around on my bike letting filthy words fly into wind that tangled my hair. As far as I was concerned there were too many things to curse at outside, where I belonged. Less spankings, more freedom.
It's fair to say I was an active *******, never waiting around for reactions.
This was my first time trying on the four letter word sweater. I certainly didn't know how to wear it. Felt funny, the way your stomach feels when it drops. I liked this swearing business. I liked it a lot.
My days were rich with aimless curses tasting of cotton candy and I fancied myself quite the sass master. Telling chattering squirrels that they were "stupid *****" as they spryly leapt limb to limb. I was filled to the brim with pleasure found in profanity. I rode on towards the frosty haired couple driving my way. I considered ditching the bike to run laps around the snail paced Pinto while chanting all of my favoritest swears. But they were "old *****" so I left them to that.
I continued to grace cats, curbs, and cars with cross words, smiling all the while. It felt good Real good.
I told off every ****** thing on my block several times a day. My seat melded to heinous purple bike's. Handle bar tassels whipping my wrists, shaming me. Beads on my spokes telling me they were sick with the click and clack of my wheels turning, covering every inch of that dead end street.
One day I rode swiftly down a retired grassy path behind my little house towards the majestic tree that had cradled me in its branches many times. It's massive leaves had raised the hair on my slender arms as I hung with my crown upside down, legs halved over steady limbs.
It had met my mother as well. Her gentle voice coaxing me from its arms for supper, sitting pretty on our back porch, petting our fat grey cat and pondering things beyond the tree and I in the early evening glow. Upon my approach I can only assume that the tree was pleased to see me despite my new found nastiness. Wise enough to know that it wasn't a "dumb *******" and that it wasn't going to "go to hell"
and neither was I.
So it moved from an ancient position and proceeded to lace its twiggy paws into my hair, yanking me and my deep seated smugness promptly off the old bike. Contrary to my prior endeavors mastering the casual cuss, I opened my mouth finding curses replaced with crying for my mother, who couldn't hear me, resting 40 miles away through 6 feet of still soft soil.
Rooted in the same dirt, both my mother and the tree. Silently vowing to love me well. Keeping each other company in sediment whispers, echoing.