At the age of five, I was a massive purveyor of cherry sundresses and colorful pastels — the picture-perfect image of a kindergartener -- so it was a surprise when I used some rather colorful vocabulary around my parents out of the blue.

Just moments earlier, my older brother had dropped something in the garage and in his annoyance, he said the most unwholesome word “shoot.” I, being the responsible younger sibling that I am, corrected him immediately: “He said a bad word! He said a bad word!!!”

He defended his honor and denied my claim. It was then that I realized my mistake.

“Oh, it’s not ‘shoot;’ it’s ‘sh*t!’”

At this point, all hell broke loose. (Oh, sorry: “h*ck.”)

Upon being questioned, my tiny five-year-old self-explained that I had picked up quite the vocabulary from Pop-Pop, my grandfather, the conservative ex-New York State Trooper, udge, and father of seven. This was when both my parents pinched the bridges of their noses and regretted what I expect were many of their lives’ decisions, up to and including my conception.

It took quite a bit of explaining for me to understand that some words cannot and should not be said in certain company and by certain people. Years later, I still didn’t understand why some words couldn’t be used; if they existed, shouldn’t I be able to say them?

This thought process carried me to high school where quite the colorful assortment of expletives was added to my list of daily phrases.

Then my parents said, “f*ck it” (quite literally). They just gave up lecturing us.

It goes without saying that I used every word I could get my hands on (even some in German and Farsi) to express myself in the best way I possibly could through the most angsty period of my life. Edging further into my college career, however, the magic and power in those words almost seemed to fade. They became a part of everyone’s vocabulary to the point of desensitization; fewer and fewer words packed that desirable punch.

I have been using swear words more sparingly ever since then, only pulling out the “f-bomb” to prove a point or express my frustration. That and, of course, when I run into a chair and break my toe. I had been doing it for years without even realizing it, but apparently, swearing has been medically proven to reduce pain. Richard Stephens from Keele University said it best in his latest paper “The Effect of Swearing on Strength and Power Performance”: “We know from our earlier research that swearing makes people more able to tolerate pain. A possible reason for this is that it stimulates the body's sympathetic nervous system—that's the system that makes your heart pound when you are in danger. But we have yet to understand the power of swearing fully. Swearing seems to be a form of emotional language.”

That brings me up to my next question: do people who swear on the regular like to have a different type of emotional release, or do they simply like to live their world more colorfully?

Either way, I know that I still like to spike my life with the occasional bomb being dropped.

So screw it; let’s get our swear on.

...in the appropriate locations, of course.

Some occasions where it would be considered inappropriate to swear are the following: a funeral, a funeral where you are giving the eulogy, in your professional emails, if you are on the phone and you hear the *click* of a wiretap, in the confession box (Jesus also has ears), outside of the confession box (Jesus still has ears), when you run into a chair and DON’T break your toe, in an article to be published online (wait, sh*t uh--) —

And of course, never, EVER, in front of your grandparents.

That sh*t never ends well.