I’m All Out of F*cks
Something spectacular happened this evening: my husband criticized me for panhandling my freelance writing services, dismissing my efforts as farcical at best, and at worst, setting the family on the path to irreversible ruin (public humiliation).
Here’s the spectacular thing: I calmly begged to differ and left the room. Maintaining this level of decorum felt like an out-of-body experience.
After replaying this subdued exchange on repeat — through three episodes of “Orange is the New Black” and half a frozen cherry cream pie — I found the answer:
I’m just all out of fucks.
I used to have heaps of ‘em but now they’ve somehow — pooof! — vanished.
My 13-year-old self is ecstatic, although perplexed.
Maybe fucks are like eggs in your ovarian reserve? We are all born with a finite number of fucks to give? When in you’re in your 20’s you’ve got fucks for days and are willing to sell the surplus, but eventually your reserves begin to dwindle?
Biologically I am a long way (I reckon) from menopause, and what about men, so I’m not sure this metaphor fits except I oddly like it and I’m text-typing a blog entry on Medium from my phone at 2 am in the morning — so maybe I’m not all out, and I do have one last fuck left to give after all?