Language is a living thing. It changes and ebbs and flows and dips and swivels and marvels and moves and morphs and no matter how much whining and petty sniping and griping you may do in an attempt to cage it one place, there is NO FUCKING STOPPING IT, my friends. That’s the way it’s always been, and further, the way it always should be. From the very second grunt of Australopithecus, humans have made language their bitch. It exists to serve us, not the other way around.
You see, no matter how much you may try to cram “The Elements of Style” up my scandalous icehole, I’ll continue to use language exactly, precisely, LITERALLY how I goddamned well please. You know why? ‘CAUSE IT’S MINE, BITCHES. I would never presume to tell an artist that he can’t use a particular off-color color for his endless sky, or a guitarist a certain thundering chord in her latest song about the heartless boy who broke her heart — so why on earth would some soulless, passionless, meathook motherfucker think he can tell me or any other writer how to wield the tools, techniques, and materials WE use?
So, if you got a problem with what I write or how I write it…I beg of you — I BEG OF YOU — PLEASE unfriend me now and then hurry scurry back to your pointless, pathetic, uninteresting little life of CONTRIBUTING NOTHING OF VALUE TO THE UNIVERSE.
FUCK OFF, lady!
With tender kisses upon your triflin’ buttcheeks,