oops.

I remember being warned by someone who has lived in the Balkans for 8 years to be careful once my language level gets to a certain level. He was referring to, er, speaking my mind (drat - telling people off). I suppose I've come a bit of a way language-wise from the time I screached at oogling teenagers, "I do not have a dog!" (instead of "I am not a dog"). Eh. So being careful is good advice, indeed.

Then why does it feel so, gah!, satisfying to shake my fist at a litterbug in a passing car? Litterbug chucked a bottle, and I punched the air with one hand while the other was still on my handlebars and squacked, "Get back here, you destroyer of beauty!" Yeah, that (or something close enough) is what popped into my mind and rushed out my mouth.

I know it's built-up rage over a long time of walking by garbage piles, and I shouldn't direct all of that pent up energy toward one unsuspecting goober who wasn't educated by Smokey the Bear and Sesame Street on keeping the world beautiful. I also know this is something that has been a button-pusher since middle school when a Big Kid threw a plastic Sprite bottle out the bus window on a stretch that I had recently cleaned up with my 4-H troup. I didn't know what to do, so I went back and sat next to him with a furious huff. I taught him...just like I'm sure Destroyer of Beauty will think twice, too. I wish.