This convention paperwork
is for the birds. But the
birds are mine. So. Well,
here I am, once again, in the
middle of a conversation
in which all words are neutral.
I remember political correctness.
I was arrogant enough to be in-
credibly annoyed by it, this im-
perative residue of bigotry; of
any civil rights progression.
“Aren’t we over the need
for this nonsense? Aren’t we
well beyond this?” I would
argue. I certainly believed
that I was. “And who wants
homogenization, anyway (ex-
cept in milk…)?” Today, that
naïveté churns my gut. Love
exists and exits as if it were
too invaluable to even knock
on your door. Not every word
is a lie (another subject), a con-
descension; every utterance
does not derive from malicious
intent. These tits were made
for walking, I surmise. And
every single word is one
hundred percent neutral.
Period.
