adj 1: harsh or corrosive in tone; "an acerbic tone piercing
otherwise flowery prose"; "a barrage of acid
comments"; "her acrid remarks make her many enemies";
"bitter words"; "blistering criticism"; "caustic jokes
about political assassination, talk-show hosts and
medical ethics"; "a sulfurous denunciation" [syn: acerb,
acerbic, acid, acrid, bitter, blistering, caustic,
sulfurous, sulphurous, venomous, virulent]
2: of a substance, especially a strong acid; capable of
destroying or eating away by chemical action [syn: caustic,
adj 1: sour or bitter in taste [syn: acerb, astringent, sharp]
2: harsh or corrosive in tone; "an acerbic tone piercing
otherwise flowery prose"; "a barrage of acid comments";
"her acrid remarks make her many enemies"; "bitter words";
"blistering criticism"; "caustic jokes about political
assassination, talk-show hosts and medical ethics"; "a
sulfurous denunciation" [syn: acerb, acid, acrid, bitter,
blistering, caustic, sulfurous, sulphurous, venomous,
gaseous chemical element, 1790, from Fr. oxygène, coined in 1777 by Fr. chemist Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier (1743-94), from Gk. oxys "sharp, acid" + Fr. -gène "something that produces" (from Gk. -genes "formation, creation"). Intended to mean "acidifying (principle)," from Fr. principe acidifiant. So called because oxygen was considered essential in the formation of acids. The element was isolated by Priestley (1774), who thought it an altered form of common air and called it dephlogisticated air.
Part of me feels I should be apologetic. People from my past would assure me that the need to apologize is founded solely in my unresolved codependency. It is fascinating how the sensation to apologize, the feeling of remorse, the sense that perhaps I did something wrong. I laugh. One friend told me that the sensation of guilt was caused by too little B12 vitamin. I told her I was always under the impression it was caused by doing things wrong. Of course, if I want to live an amoral existence, free from the ravages of guilt, I have been assured I am already getting plenty B 12 from my carnivorous diet.
Apparently my thinking transcends (or maybe undermines) the more basic psychologies these days. I guess the basic thoughts are that guilt is a feeling that comes on, like a cough or a fever. It is the evidence of dysfunction. In this time when I have been counseled on how all folks have different truths, perhaps my truth- that truth where a person feels guilty as evidence of inappropriate behaviour- is an idea with which I can, and more importantly, should, let go.
Anyway, today, I had a friend explain to me, I am vitriolic in my discussions on The Secret, that cash machine produced by Rhonda Byrne. I love the discussions connecting me to acid. My soul lights up with the excitement over the dual life of oxygen, and the thrill that I should be classified as such. I had already once been called acerbic. My guilt comes when I know I should be ashamed for not wanting to climb into this Brave New World, this veritable preschool where we will stave off all negative thoughts without ever taking time to establish the parameters of what is in fact a negative thought. Where is Aldous Huxley at a time like this?
I am thrilled that, as we discuss this oxygen, that we comprehend my vitriolic comments, it is indeed the cowardice of these Rhonda Byrne drones that drives up my oxygen levels. I see how the oxygen fires up my blood, and at the same time oxidizes and tears apart paint jobs, cooking oils, potato chips, and the connective tissues of The Law of Attraction practitioners. I do not believe that positive thinking, and The Law of Attraction protects anyone from entropy, protects anyone from the ravages of time, as manifest in the form of free radicals in the blood . Ahh, but even they can eat up blueberries, and drink green tea if their newfound religion permits them.(Non skeptics know that antioxidants in these foods will help them live longer without reading books about imagining what we want)
So, am I vitriolic? Is there a silver lining to this cloud? Can we find some solace in skepticism as we resolve to stop building houses on sand? Or, are we going to join this lemur parade, drink some Kool aid, and let Rhonda Byrne show us where the edge of the cliff is?