Things I'm Sorry For, Colourful Language, and Definitely Not Fudge

The average length of a sentence is 14-16 words.  Unlike in some other aspects of life, we think shorter is better. When sentences average out at 14 words long, comprehension estimates fall at about 90% for most readers. At 43 words, the vast majority of the time, a mere 10% makes it through our gelled, ombre-bleached, beanie-topped heads (I’ll adjust the hat I’m wearing indoors and not bother hiding anything.) Most of us don’t use incredibly long sentences very often. They’re popular with those who casually discuss the involvement of endoplasmic reticulum stress in flavonoid-induced protection on cardiac cell death caused by ischaemia/reperfusion over expensive bottled water. Or among students chugging their third 5-hour energy, who are just dying to tell you about the many ways in which an in-depth analysis of the development of the relationship between the two secondary characters fundamentally alters the underlying meaning of the materialistic metaphors that persistently arise in the first half of the third act of the play.  Or in the rants from that friend of yours, whose relationship is “open” but kind of only on one side because she REALLY REALLY likes him but also he wants to keep things casual and he’s MOSTLY broken up with his ex, probably, but, like, it’s okay that they still hang out every Friday night, right? This is when you take a sip of tea and slowly nod.

So, long sentences are out. The paragraph-long run-on that you furiously scribbled on the back of some math homework or stopped in the middle of the street to tap into your phone in a wild frenzy in a moment of inspiration may be impenetrable, albeit striking. Fourteen words is optimal for comprehension, and yet we seem to reserve this nice, user-friendly middle-ground for sentences doomed to spend their days constrained to Word documents in 12 pt Times New Roman. To small-talk about real estate prices while stuck in a waiting room. We dress them up in business casual, remind them to bundle up in some political correctness- it’s a cold world out there- and send them on their way. We save them for boring. When it’s not chilly out, when we’re all hot and bothered, when striking isn’t enough, when we want our words to penetrate, we don’t even muster a measly dozen.

For someone who dreams to write Real Books, I wish my report cards from early English classes had as many A’s as my bras- writing is always close to my heart and there for support after all. This girl liked to throw fragments into her stories. A lot. If my middle school english grades were a copy of Playboy, they’d fly off the shelves. All the D’s. Whether I agree with those teachers is a story for another time, but I’ve realized I throw fragments into the sentences I say aloud, when I’m not dressed in a suit in front of a powerpoint, the sentences I say to the ones who probably listen the closest, would drop my english grade straight to an F. Victoria’s Secret doesn’t even carry that. I’d say we make a perfect pair, but I’ll give you two words and just leave it at that.. “Love you,” “Thank you,” “I’m Sorry,” and although I want to slink off to hide behind a shelf for admitting i, sometimes, “Fuck you”, or “Go Die.” And trust me, no-one’s kissing me to shut me up like they do to the girls in the movies. I’ll give a hundred dollars to Save the Whales, but I’ll be stingy with what’s free. Either blurted out casually, without looking up, before running off, or lashed out angrily before I storm out. Like a person trying to litter inconspicuously. Dropping, and then walking away. Two-word sentences with four letter words.

I know some people who describe swearing and cursing as “colourful language,” and it sounds so charmingly proper to put it that way. I’d so very much love to call someone out for their “colourful words” while working on an embroidery sampler or while sitting in a fancy restaurant and ordering some vegan version of foie gras, I unfortunately disagree with it. All colours have a place, somewhere. I have dozens of paints in so many different hues, and while some of them, like some people and some tasks in my life, are not my favourite colour, I’ll need them to complete the picture. According to Motivational Mug I Got For Secret Santa™ I’m supposed to “Live a Life of Colour.” Maybe there’s room in that life for calling someone a “bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkeyshine”, and I’m sure there’ll be a time and place for that, there isn’t a Crayola crayon for “Fuck You” or “Go Die.” I think. Who knows what kindergarteners use these days.

Perhaps words are more like tastes. Sure, not all tastes are wonderful, but avoiding unpleasant ones is generally the accepted way of going about it. The very taste of bitter was evolutionarily created to warn one of poison, or potential deadly harm. Perhaps I ought to take some advice from a 1930’s etiquette manual I have and taste my words before I spit them out. Then, switch over to a phrase from Disney’s Ratatouille: “If I don’t love it, I don’t swallow.”

Now, I should stop right here and remind myself that I’m no “goody two shoes.” I’m wearing fuzzy socks, I curse like a sailor, and I have dictionaries of Russian obscenities on my shelves. But, I’ve dropped my fair share of four letter words on those whom I love this year. Another favourite two-word sentence of ours is “I’m sorry.” I can always drop an f-bomb, I do love the smell of Napalm in the morning, but I also dropped a plate yesterday. Out of sheer sleep deprivation, after a very loud word that wasn’t “Oh Fudge,” I said to it, “I’m sorry.” The plate is still broken. I never want my mom, or my friend to be. No matter how much of a boil-brained bloody bastard I may think them at the time.