Some days through a string of lessons, I’ll get super passionate about meeting your childhood survival tension with understanding or setting yourself free to make crazy noises, and I’ll drop an f-bomb or 12.
It’s my favorite one — It’s got that terrific fricative at the beginning, all manner of ways to shape the vowel, and ends with the fireworks of a voiceless velar plosive.
People say it’s uncreative and base.
It’s like Froot Loops.
My mama wisely didn’t buy them. (She was also on the front of the whole wheat bread train; I envied Greg Varney’s white-bread-no-crust bologna sammies in 4th grade.)
But once I had more agency over what was part of my complete breakfast, I couldn’t get enough high fructose corn syrup, chemical color, and questionably sourced grain circles down my gullet.
I’ve eased off of the cereals that leave an itchy film on your hard palate, but I still partake in regular profanity.
I also pray. I mean listen. When I’m stumped, I’ll get quiet, close my eyes, and I’ll see if any info bubbles up in my guts, some guidance on what would be most helpful for you.
Sometimes I’ll tell you how I follow Jesus, but that’s normally to clarify why I believe the greatest power in the universe is born of vulnerability. Or the only explanation I got of how the blind blunders in my life have somehow turned to gold.
There’s a long list of whys because it connects to everything for me.
I used to go to this psychic in Studio City, and every time I walked in, she’d laugh and say Jesus was with me again.
I’m so grateful I never could shake him.