In this world of strife and woe, I have encountered many types of fucks. Pity fucks, hate fucks, sensual fucks, drunken fucks, non-standard fucks, make-up fucks, cozy fucks. You name it, you can fuck that way. But we often “fuck” in a quite another way altogether — and I’d wager more often. For various reasons, we suddenly just erupt with a “fuck” to describe the immediate state of life. It’s this, the drier, more verbal fuck that I’m concerned with in this post.
There’s the exasperated, emotional “fuck” that usual results from interpersonal trauma. As in, “You left me at the ball with that stain on my suit while you were off with Pamela, when you knew that the only reason I went to the ball was to be with Pamela in the first place. Fuck!”
And there’s the awed fuck, like when you come across something astonishing — or, often, astonishing it its grisliness — like a car accident or a raging house fire, when the sheer grandeur of the event wells into an emotion that bubbles forth from your lips with a simple, declarative “fuck.”
And there’s even a disdainful “fuck,” spoken under your breath to an understanding bystander when the single last person you felt like seeing that day walks into a room. “Oh, fuck.”
We use it a lot, you and I. (And I say that knowing that anyone who reads this journal on a regular basis would be the kind of person who would let the word fly as freely as they would shed skin cells.) At the moment, however, one version of “fuck” stands out among all others. That’s the self-defeated “fuck” — the one you use when you realize that you can’t go out on Saturday night because you have to be at a mandatory 7 a.m. meeting at work the next day. And there’s nothing you can do about it. And you know you’re gonna be a wreck. So you resign yourself to a night of sobriety, slippers, tea and overdue bloggery. On a Saturday. Fuck.
Go shed some skin cells, you.