Like any good Canadian, you hate the C-word; you don’t dare breathe it and to hear it is like nails on a chalkboard. But as weeks pass by on your travels, that grind fades into white noise in the background. Maybe it was the three weeks you spent in London hearing phrases like “This is my friend Timothy; what a proper cunt – but I do adore him.” Perhaps you became brainwashed without even knowing it.
It’s months later and you’re back home in Canada. You catch yourself saying it ten times a day. Your friends use you to deliver it for them: “Hey, can you please call him the C-word for me?” And then comes the day you accidentally say it in front of your mother. You’ll swear it just slipped out, but that doesn’t make it less awkward.