
The only person who has ever called me the f slur is my husband, but to be fair, he has also called the following it too: an open cabinet door that he tripped on, his crutch that fell, a rolly chair that was an inch too far, a bottle of hair dye that didn’t work, himself, his brother, his dog, his other dog, my dog, a sock that his dog ate a hole in, the heating when it went out in the middle of winter, and a mouse