20nothing.com

I have been advised on numerous occasions to get insurance.
“I don’t need it,” I insist. “I own nothing. What are people going to steal from me? Ideas?”
With no assets to my name except an overpriced brain, my ideas and words are literally all I have. And I give them away for free, to anyone who will pay me in attention , on a regular bases. I don’t think that there is a premium for that.

I first discovered that I liked words when I realized they could get me what I wanted. Not being a violent person, I never resorted to physically getting my way (until much later in life and in a very, very different way), so I learned how to talk and convince people that giving me what they had and I desired was the right thing to do.
“You have a way with words,” RG has uttered in, surprisingly, disbelief, considering he is the one who taught me how to talk. “You have an answer for everything don’t you?”
“Only because you seem to have a question for everything.”

Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to abbreviate a single syllable of the English language (foreign tongue was fine to bastardise). If I said “ya” instead of “you”, it was asked why I thought I was entitled to invent new words or misuse others[?]. The suppression of linguistic imagination resulted in a later life love affair with creating new words. And then, to justify my right, insisting that it always existed.
“I checked,” I have been told, “and ‘fucktabulous’ is not in the Oxford dictionary.”
To keep in line with my upbringing, self-penned words are always articulated in their purest form, with respect for each vowel and every consonant. Because, really, you don’t want to mumble when saying “fucktarded” upon a first meeting.

I was recently informing my girl friend about my luck in meeting The Prettiest Boy In The World [official name].
“What does he look like?” She asked. “Who would play him in a movie?”
I was auditioning Paul Newman in my mind for an answer but needed a description until I made my final decision, which was going to take a while as the moment Cool Hand Luke gets in my head, nothing is articulated for at least nine minutes.
“He is beautifuk,” I wrote.
“Ohhhh! Lucky you!”
“Whoops,” I corrected myself. “That K was meant to be an L.”
Then….a lightbulb went off over my head and I had a language orgasm.
“How the Hell have I never thought of that word before?” I wondered. An adjective such as ‘Beautifuk’ encapsulates the very meaning of my life and defines just about everything that gives me oxygen. In fact, no other words are even necessary.

Being in a different country means that people are interested in what you say because of how you say it. Just speaking is more impressive than actually redefining English. As an Australian, you become a one-trick-pony putting a shrimp on the barbie whenever introduced to a new person.
“I love how you speak,” I was told. “It gives me goosebumps.”
I am a dangerous person to be told I can get what I want by How, not What, I say.

With my redefined power as a cunninglinguist, which always makes up for not having big boobs, I ventured out in public armed with my new, extensive, vocabulary and accent to accentuate it.
I tried desperately to introduce my new favorite three syllables at every given opportunity.
“How are you?” Beautifuk.
“Why are you in LA?” Beautifuk.
“What did you do today?” Beautifuk.
“Pardon?” Someone who appeared to have actual respect for sounds asked. “What does ‘beautifuk’ actually mean?”
I feared that it wasn’t going to translate internationally.
“It can mean anything you want it to mean,” I explained. “Positive or negative, it can encapsulate just how beautiful you perceive something to actually be.”
“Well then,” he smiled. “You are very beautifuk.”
Evidently, saying the word doesn’t get you everything you want. Or him laid. I’m not that fucktarded.