A true vice of mine is the habit I possess of complaining about everything, even jokingly. Recently I considered an anecdote I was told as a child, used in that case to discourage explicit language. It told the story of a young man who took to sprinkling his dialogue with curse words every now and then, offending old and young alike. When his father approached him about it, the adolescent retaliated stating, "But, Pop, it's just a little bit—what harm could it possibly do?" And the dad was like, "You're right." Then, supposedly, the dad went into the back yard and DUG UP some age-old dog poop, BAKED IT into brownies, and OFFERED IT to his son. Just as the son was about to take a bite, the dad warned, "OH BTW, I put some dog poop in there. But just a little bit—what harm could it possibly do? Also, this is normal parenting." Anyway, it was supposed to be some kind of metaphor that didn't work for me, because I use profanity all the fucking time.
HOWEVER, coming back to it years later, it did make me think about this bad little tendency I have to complain. I've noticed that complaints are kind of like that dog shit, in that no matter how little and seemingly innocuous they may be, they taint situations and make them lesser. So I'm trying to cut way back. I mean, I'm a hella cynical and negative person, so that's going to be extremely hard for me, but . . . .
Ah shit. Whatever, goals.
Zara top and skirt