An old-fashioned Texan was brought in by corporate to get a handle on expenses at the newspaper and act as a spy on the publisher and his presumed successor. I hated that guy. With a passion. One thing I hated about him was that he was such a straight-laced man who looked askance at anyone who cursed, particularly women. (What the fuck, right? Asshat.) I could go on and on about encounters that I had with him, but suffice it to say that I had to dial it back a bit.
I took to wearing a rubber band on my wrist, which I would snap when I felt the urge to curse. (And snap twice when the curses inevitably slipped out.) It was actually a great relief -- for a bit at least -- when the third publisher came in after the first one and then the presumed were each given the heave-ho. He cursed up a storm in that first meeting executives had with him. At the end of his spiel about what his intentions were, he asked if there was anything anyone had to say. "I just want to say how fuckin' happy I am to have you here," I said, taking utter glee in knowing that asshat would soon be shown the door.
Apropos of that intro, I am at a point where I am in need of a rubber band again. Not for cursing. As if. Even my Argentinian colleague and close friend has stopped cringing whenever I spew. That's a testament to how I can wear a soul down.
No, I need to keep snapping that rubber band to stop me from giving unsolicited advice to people whom I think really need not only a good sprinkling of advice, but a good shaking as well. It is not my place. Also? There's a degree of selfishness in my desire to want to say something.
So, instead, I'll just use that band. Snap!