Bear Bare and Fuckton

I ate too many of those tiny, chocolate peanut butter cups and I miss my friends. Such is the plight of woman. 

I can handle a lot of sadness, dear reader. Like, a fuckton. 

Side note: It was very funny to me while typing this that “fuckton” is not an issue for spell check. No red squiggle–not even a blue. That’s silly to me, and convenient as hell. 

The first google response for “fuckton” is, “fuckton (plural fucktons) (vulgar, slang) A large amount. Synonyms: see Thesaurus: lot.”

“see Thesaurus: lot.”

Nailed it. Semi-official unit of measurement. That makes me stupid happy. Anway-

I can handle a fuckton of sadness. I suppose we all can, right? We have to be able to handle immense amounts of sadness so that we don’t all off ourselves and annihilate the species.  

Side note: Species is correct. But specie? Is “specie” a word? Surely not–that doesn’t seem right. Hold on.

“Specie (noun) Money in the form of coins rather than notes.” 

Everyone but me probably already knew this. Oh well. “Don’t you know there’s a shortage of specie?!” is very funny to me. If I had known that word last year, you bet your ass I would have been using it. Dammit. 

It’s alright. I’m sure there’ll be another specie shortage, and an even greater shortage of species to match. Excellent. I’ll have my chance soon enough.

Okay, so. A fuckton of sadness–I can bear it.

Do you ever think about how fucked up the English language is? Like, supremely fucked. How were we even communicating before written language? Bear and Bare? Like, come ON. 

The verb bare means “to reveal” or “to uncover.” Right? I bare my soul to you here, dear reader. My bare, huge, naturals. You get the idea. 

And the correct expression, “bear with me,” means “be patient with me.” 

What if we didn’t have this written distinction, and I said “Bear with me.” but you heard, “Bare with me.” and just like, started stripping? Naked, impatient people, everywhere.

Jesus Christ. So, I miss my friends, right? They’re in New York and Boulder and Denver and Chicago and fuckin Prauge and I really could just use a cig on the porch with a couple of them. They could bear a fuckton of my soul baring, and I could do the same for them.

Then we’d round up our goddamn specie and buy twizzlers at the gas station across the street and watch some dumb movie until we all got tired of it and went back to chain smoking and laughing until our stomachs hurt. 

I miss my friends, and I ate too many tiny, chocolate peanut butter cups tonight. But, dear reader, I’m happy where I am. I have this cool little life I’m building. What I’m asking is that you bear with me while I figure out exactly how it’s going to look. 

I love you, dear reader. 

A fuckton.