We wield a lethal pen and a vicious tongue that over the years I have found even time cannot tame. Rather, time has acted as the whetstone on which these traits have been honed and focused to a pinpoint laser edge that causes much devastation when left unchecked. Perhaps the further erosion of these sharp and jagged slabs of granite from the falling tears they have caused will one day yield a smoother, more humane river rock that will cease to tear at the feet of those who remain to traverse across the fields upon fields brimming with the leftover boulders we have left in our collective wake. Boulders that once was the vicious ammunition that cut effortlessly through the defenseless flesh of our enemies – an unceremonious tribute to the words that once meant something to us; a tribute to the unrelenting grip that words will continue to have on our delicate souls. It is not enough to be cognizant of the fear we instill in those nearest – those that are most affected by the reckless slinging of mud, pregnant with shrapnel, in all directions. Rather, we should first be required to dance in that mud. To roll around in the pits that we so very often leave uncovered for friend and foe to fall knee deep in. A required ritual gateway of adulthood – to play in the harnessed arsenal of all of our anger, our sadness, our failures and losses where these words are born. To feel what could have been had the drivel dripped out, had they hit their marks – to bathe in the desperate and destructive words we might have used before we realized how much better it feels to leave them unsaid, to lay down our guns and close our mouth. To maintain the bridge between self and friends, self and family, self and the world full of strangers. Words have always had the power to make or break our relationships – you can’t put them back where they came from once they have been unleashed on the world like the weapons we too often make them out to be. Use them as the currency of the frugal.