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The Highly Specific, Yet Oddly Relatable Wisdom of “F*ck You”
Just a few more years
I was in third grade the first time I heard about the f-word. I wasn’t allowed to use it, but it didn’t matter because I didn’t want to. The fact that it was a bad word made me ashamed even thinking of using it.
I remember covering my ears once when I heard my grandpa utter it after hitting his fingers with a hammer. Classic. Grandma curtly reminded him to watch his manners in front of me.
In eighth grade, I was much more mature and used it daily to upset my parents, but not my teachers, because that would have gotten me expelled. It would have been a step too far in my rebellion against my parents’ authority.
Teenagers’ “logic.”
High school and college included a lot of f*ck yous and mes, but I reserved them for friends and classmates. I had too much respect for my teachers. And also for my parents, who were paying most of the bills and could decide to stop now that I was a supposedly responsible adult.
It’s only when I started working full-time after college that I learned the power of a good f*ck you.
During our first one-on-one meeting, my manager pushed my boundaries. She wanted to…
