It’s DELICIOUSLY cold out

I don’t like the word ‘delicious.’ There’s something gross about it. I hate the sound, particularly the “ish” sound in the second syllable. It sounds wet, and reminds me of salivating mouths of people who get excited about food in the same way that dogs do. It also sounds like the kind of word that a boring, middle-aged housewife who fancies herself an artist would use. I can picture this person now very clearly, and I’m sure I’ve seen them read their terrible poetry at sad little boring, middle-aged housewife poetry nights that take place in coffee shops and are attended by only a small handful of similarly depressing people. They wear scarves that are deep red because they think scarves and the colour red are synonymous with art and passion. Passion is another word I don’t like, although I don’t feel quite as strongly about it as I do delicious — delicious is the worst.

I particularly hate when people use delicious in anything outside a food context, like I did in the title of this post. “The pace of the film Roma was delicious,” you might say if you wore a deep red scarf and were a pretentious fucking idiot. Sorry to any of my friends who like to use it that way. You’re not an idiot. It just drives me mad. I know that’s my problem, not yours.

Man, writing here is a lot more difficult since my epiphany about not being so mean to people. Being mean is how I amuse myself. It’s probably a defense mechanism for cripplingly low self-esteem or some deep-seated self-loathing. I don’t feel like exploring that right now.

I still don’t like the word delicious. But it’s cold out today, and I like that.

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