It's difficult to tame my tongue when people drop French words into conversation and mispronounce them. Someone of my station expects a certain level of party discourse and if things fall short I am reduced to scanning the less than impressive decor in a home.
In my intellectual group settings I sometimes have to stifle myself, listening to the insipid, shallow, sinkhole ramblings of participants as they explain their bourgeois goals. I have to restrain myself from interjecting excerpts from my poetic, tense, dynamic, thought provoking, life changing flash fiction stories the masses are clamoring to read.
But I hold my tongue because I am disciplined. Shockingly, I live alone. A complete mystery. I have noticed a trend lately, one which finds me talking to myself. This is harmless at home, but uncomfortable in the urologist's office, where I whisper a chronicle of my last visit.
I notice my gracious hostess has run out of cookies at our morning writing group. I hold my tongue. We are across from a cemetery in the middle of nowhere, unable to run off to a convenience store for munchies. Two health nuts have failed to supply raisins and nuts. I am perturbed, but I tame my tongue. I will wait until I am alone with the hostess, whereupon I will launch into stinging castigation, painful and probing, which, coincidentally, best describes my last visit to the urologist.
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