This Post is Explicit, Bitches

            I’m not much for acronyms.  I’d attribute that to a woefully dreadful job at one of the most tightly micromanaged corporations ever.  (If you’ve been there, you know what I’m talking about.)  Also, Facebook.  Facebook has ruined whatever redeeming qualities acronyms ever possessed.  So a combination of prolonged exposure to confusing overuse and unbearable misuse has left me with this knee-jerk negative reaction to most acronyms.

            That is not to say I don’t routinely (and enthusiastically) use the terms being substituted by the more commonly used acronyms.  And I don’t mean that I phonetically say the acronym—that is ludicrous.  Seriously.  That.  Is.  Ludicrous.  Why do people do that?

            By “more commonly used,” of course I’m referring to the WTFs and FMLs.  Often I find myself LMFAO, but since I don’t narrate my own non-verbal actions in real life quite as frequently as on Facebook, I don’t actually say, “laughing my fucking ass off!”  I just do… metaphorically.

            More than ever I’ve found the full-version abbreviations come out while I’m in Grenada.  Why?  Because the sorts of experiences you have in Grenada are so profoundly unexpected, your otherwise sharp mind is reduced to sawdust and you just say the first coherent statement that encompasses your dismay: What the fuck?

            The problem is America did not prepare me for Grenada.  Not at all.  Shame on America in all of its grande macchiato, $0.99 bargain bin, refunds with a smile, recognizable snack aisle, McFlurry, four-lane highways, even sidewalks, responsible pet owners, legal mace and adult toy store glory!  So I came to my foster home island with this bizarre idea that communication was a two-way street.

            This is a basic interaction you might expect when going to New York’s Finest Bagels on campus (some slight hyperbole included… for no charge!):

Hi!  Do you have deli cheese?

We have cheese.

Okay.  Do you have provolone?

No provolone.

Okay.  Do you have mozzarella?

No.

How about cheddar?

[nod]

Okay.  Do you have yellow or white?

[nod]

Great!  Can I have a quarter-pound of yellow cheddar?

No.

No?

No yellow.

Uh.  Okay.  What do you have?

Cheddar.

Right.  Do you have white cheddar, then?

[nod]

Let me get a quarter-pound of that.

No.

What?  Why?

Can’t sell a quarter-pound.

How about a half-pound?  Can you sell a half-pound?!

[nod]

Great.

[blank stare]

How much?

[mumble]

I’m sorry?

[incoherent] Monkey paw.

Wait.  How much?

No cheddar.

What are you talking about?

Sold out.

But you just said—

We’re closed.

You’re 24 hours!

Next!

            I’ve been here long enough that I’m starting to wonder if that is a normal conversation.  Maybe my turning and walking away dazedly, stringing what-the-fucks around me like Christmas tree lights is the wrong reaction.  Maybe, in Grenada, I just made a friend.  My response probably should’ve been a high five.  Do they high-five here?

            IMHO, IDK.  Prob, but TIG.  I mean, YOLO, k?  LOLs!

Buffy