I try to be a friendly person. I try to be nice. I certainly can’t claim to be the nicest person on the planet and I can’t claim that I like everyone I meet, but I do try to be at least nice.
Even when it’s downright painful.
I’m not always tactful, and sometimes the filter between my brain and my mouth malfunctions, but I’m rarely rude on purpose.
Even when I really, really, want to say something ugly.
I’ve bitten my tongue until it bleeds sometimes, but I’ll keep snark and insults behind my teeth where they belong.
Most of the time. Some still slips, through. I usually feel very bad about it when it does.
My point is… I try. I try very hard.
Now, you all know that poem about “when I’m an old lady, I’m going to wear purple.” Since I fully intend to remain fashionable when I’m an old lady, I’m going to adopt something else. When I’m an old lady, I’m going to say whatever the hell I want to, whenever the hell I want to, to whomever I want to. Filters be damned. If your panties are in a wad, I’m going to call you on it. If you’re evil and bitchy, I’m going to tell you to your face that you’re an evil bitch. If I don’t like you, I’m not going to waste time talking to you. I’m not going to listen to whining, or BSing, or excuses or anything else.
I’m just not. Not. Not. Not. I’ll happily wear my label as a curmudgeonly, mean old bat.
It will be good for my blood pressure.
Once upon a time, I decided that 40 would be the cut-off date for this. My 40th birthday present to me would be freedom: freedom from other people’s crap and attitude problems.
Unfortunately, the Geek has evilly reminded me that I’m closer to 40 than 30 these days, and did I really want to declare myself an old lady at 40?
Darn him and his rational, reasonable approach to things.
It looks like I can’t be a curmudgeonly old bat just yet. I guess I’ll keep being nice, watching my mouth, biting my tongue and working on that tactful thing.
But it gives me something to look forward to, right?