Linguistic Autobiography

After several miles of tromping through thick, slimy mud, you look up and see a magnificent large tree atop a small hill, just a few feet in front of you. Panting, you race towards the hill, and begin to climb it. Your foot slides on the slick ground, but you preserver. You reach the top of the hill, and feel disappointed. Trees were supposed to be surrounded by other plants, and by teeming with wildlife. Not this tree. The mud you have trudged through covers the hill, coating the tree’s roots. There are no other plants. In fact, as you look around, you notice that, other than yourself and the tree, there are no signs of life. You sigh, and look back the way you came. It would be hours before you arrived home. You look back at the tree. It is even larger up close. You approach it, slowly, not sure of what you will find. Honestly, you have know idea what you are doing here; you just felt compelled to come see the tree.
As you near the dark trunk, you hear whispering. There is no one else here. Who could be speaking? You look up into the branches, and are shocked to see that there are only three main branches. Like conjoined triplets, these branches twist around one another in a seamless fashion. Upon closer inspection, you notice that the branches are very different from each other. One is long with rough bark. There are a few leaves on it, but the branch still looks pretty bare. There is a strange muttering coming from this branch. You strain your ears and pull back in shock. The voice is deep, raspy, and spewing vulgarities every other word.
The second is almost on top of the first, wrapped so tightly around it, that at first glance, it looks as though it is a large, singular branch. This one is lon...

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... I become a completely different person, and not the one I am comfortable being.
It is interesting that I can only be vulgar in writing and not in speech. Or, to phrase it better, according to society, it is only okay to use vulgarity if you are writing a work of fiction. It is considered disgusting to curse in public. I do not understand it. My writing is a different from my speech, it is true, however, they come from the same place. The words I use to work on my story, write an essay, speak to a professor, and to talk with my best friend are pulled from the same giant, three-branch tree on a muddy hill in my mind palace. I am the same person writing as I am speaking. However, one is censored and the other is not. I wish it wasn’t this way. Why don’t individuals see me how I want to be seen: an educated, passionate woman, who happens to say fuck a lot?