My Secret Shame

I have a weird predilection, an obsessive compulsion, a burning desire: I am addicted to Words Gone Wild. Whereas I might spend five or ten minutes writing a post, I’ve been known to waste more than an hour chasing down runners from the lethal lexicon. Some days, I’m about a nanosecond away from calling myself the Queen of Renouns and ordering myself a crown. I suspect it might be great fun, practically orgasmic, to spend the day lying around eating bon-bons and conjugating verbs. Sometimes I think about going on tour with The Verbinator and smiting down Twisted Linguistics wherever they are found. I am a junk word junkie.

This is not normal. I do know that. It’s the addiction, that heated rush of spotting a ridiculously twisted word that makes you go all squishy inside. It’s the joy of getting to shout, “Holy shit, look at THAT!” It’s the thrill of the hunt, and the sublime satisfaction of bagging a bad-boy word and bragging, “Ha! I defined THAT!” Oh, yeah, that'll mellow you out. I’m telling you, it’s hard to get off the colorful Twisted stuff. It’s out there, and it’s everywhere. If one supplier doesn’t have it, another one will. I am ashamed that the vile vernacular has me so firmly in thrall. I am mortified to admit that I will browse any site to get it -- but possibly not ashamed enough to stop.

You may have already noticed that yes, we have no Twisted Linguistics today. I’m trying a day of Word Rehab, giving myself over to some intense PsychoAnalysis by completely unqualified non-professionals. I expect to do some primal yelling before they give me a nice pink sedative. It’s going to bend me, twist me, and hurt me like hell (especially if they try aversion therapy on me), but I’m going to try and shake this monkey off my back. If you see me, and can get past the Word Police and their ugly flying monkeys, you could slip me some raw, uncorrected Words. Enable me!