Crass, Crude, and Raunchy: It's Not My Fault

First of all, I'm very pleased that I amuse my family with my willingness to talk about the crass, the crude, and the raunchy. Sometimes I find that I don't always use my filter.  I'd like to blame it on my husband, but let's face it:  I was like this way before I met him. Since I won't can't take responsibility for my lack of self-control regarding my smutty stories, I must find a culprit for my coarseness. 

This culprit was incredibly easy to find since I delve into it quite religiously and have for as long as I can remember.  No, no, no, I'm not talking about booze here people.  Believe me I do not need to imbibe to speak freely or filthy.  I'm talking about fiction.  You see - I've been reading since I left my mother's womb I can remember.  I was so pathetic in love with reading and literature that in elementary school (starting in 4th grade) my librarian would call me down when new books came in.  Why, you ask.  Oh, yeah, that's because I already read every book she had. Before you start making assumptions, let me state that this only included the genres I was interested in (science fiction, fantasy, historical fiction . . . You know - maybe I should've just written the only genre that I wasn't interested in: non-fiction). 
Well, anyway, that's how I remember it.   (I'll address how reading altered my reality and my memories in a later post.)

So, how did my reading influence my inability to discriminate appropriate conversational topics?  Sit and think about it for a minute:  when you are constantly deluged with information it becomes second nature to want to disuss it.  Not only do you want to discuss it, but also you are able to discuss it because you've lost a sense of reality.  Please don't get me wrong:  I'm not saying that I'm solely reading romance novels when all they do is talk about some handsome guy's quivering member.  Quite honestly, I don't even enjoy reading novels like that (okay, maybe I like them a little).  I'm just saying that when you read Are You There God, It's Me Margaret at the age of eight (maybe nine) you start to think it's okay to tell your dad you'll meet him in the car in a few minutes because you have to change your tampon.