Was I born in a gutter?

I was just looking over some of the ludicrous language I used in the last few posts on the other blog. It's gutter language! Did my parents raise me in a barn, I hear you ask? Did they raise me in a gutter? Because fuck the language is terrible. I often find this is what I do when I write. I just swear. I don't know why. Deep down I think I am insecure. Deep down I'm that kid sitting in the library, by himself, enjoying himself. Enjoying his own company, because he is happy in his own mind. Sometimes I think the swearing will make me a cool kid. I don't know what my parents would think of this language. I must be honest maybe I got the habit from my parents. I don't recall them ever swearing though. I never hear them swear. It's quite odd really. Maybe I did not pick it up from them then.

I must have picked it up from my semi-delinquent friends. Maybe it's the language picked up from long hours spent bronzing my sculpted rock solid Greek God body in the sun at the Church yard, eating cucumber and crack sandwiches and smoking crystal meth. I think that is the reason.

But I would not trade that language for anything.

For that would mean the end of those great days spent in the Church yard, getting high, feeling the nice grainy texture of crack cocaine on my palette...the smell of fresh tik...the daisies growing in the yard...the crack whores coming to steal our drugs...the smell of success.

No, I would not trade that feeling for the world.