When I was in the sixth grade, I made a new friend. She and I began to hang out a lot. Spending time together at recess turned into play dates and play dates turned into sleepovers. There was something different about my new friend that made her stand out much more than the rest of the kids in my grade: she swore.

I remember being in the car with my father, hearing such words escape his mouth into the tight atmosphere of the vehicle for my prepubescent ears alone to absorb. I was told by both him and my mother to never say these things. I thought that I had to reach a certain age to be able to curse, like a rite of passage or a bat mitzvah of some sort. But upon meeting and getting to know my new friend, my assumptions were immediately debunked. I thought she was so cool for saying “fuck.” So, naturally, as any impressionable 12-year-old would, I began to follow suit. It shocked my parents and even got me in trouble in class. I had learned how to curse from my new friend, but I was never taught how to control it (that I had to learn all on my own through a slow, painful, and mortifying journey).

The night our friendship came to be rocky is a bit fuzzy to me, like a dream from which I recall important plot points to but not the details. For some reason I cannot (and frankly, do not want to) recall, I had written something on my bedroom wall in washable magic marker. There wasn’t much, as that was a familiar no-no from pretty much everyone’s childhood, but it was still noticeable. When she came to my home for a sleepover and saw what I had done, she wanted to add her own sparkle to my masterpiece. My stupid 12-year-old brain thought it was a fantastic idea and watched her work. Little did I realize until it was too late: she had grabbed a Sharpie instead.

My parents were absolutely livid. I don’t remember what I told them, but I do remember feeling horrible. I was told to stop being friends with her immediately, and that they wouldn’t allow me to continue being influenced by her. After that, and after I told her what my parents had said, we just slowly drifted apart. Much to my misfortune, eight years later, the Sharpie still remains on my wall and the cursing habit still remains in my vocabulary.

My foul mouth has followed me all throughout high school and into college. One time in high school band, I suggested a "swear jar" to help us fundraise for our end of the year field trip, to which a trumpet player responded, "Watzl, you'd pay for the entire trip's expenses and we'd still have some extra spending money left over!" It’s become so etched into my identity that my friend even bought me Royal and Panarese’s "Creative Cursing" as a present this past Christmas (don’t get me wrong, Caileigh, I still get great laughs from the book!). At this point, it’s just a bad habit. It’s come in handy when making my friends laugh and getting my point across in arguments, but aside from those miniscule moments, it just embarrasses me, whether I notice it or not. I’ve received stern talking-to's from my parents and even my academic advisor. Eight years later, I’m finally realizing that I need to cut back. I guess I thought I was cool, swearing up and down like a truck driver. I felt grown up using these words. I now realize that actual grown-ups see it as quite the opposite.

Recently, I learned that “Weird Al” Yankovic, a huge idol of mine since I was in middle school, is an alcohol-shunning Christian, which explains why he doesn’t use profane lyrics in any of his songs. If he can abstain from cursing and still be absolutely hilarious, who says I can’t?

I’m going to be a high school teacher someday, and the last thing any school’s administration needs is a profane math teacher. I’m going to work on my habit. Erasing eight years of damage isn’t going to be easy. But if I can’t scrub it off the wall, no matter how much force I use, at least I can still paint over it.