Recently I discovered peekvid.com, a gem of a Web site which allows you to watch episodes of your favorite television shows. Instead of wasting time by going to class or the bathroom, I sat at my laptop revisiting the entire sixth season of “America’s Next Top Model,” collapsing in laughter at Jade’s frustrated cursing during a commercial shoot for Cover Girl.

Until suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore.

Yes, Jade’s ugly, conceited and illiterate, but other than that, she’s me. Well, I’m not a 26-year-old pug trying to break into the top model charade.

What she and I do have in common is that neither of us has mastered the art of the euphemism. While many, when angered or startled in polite society, whisper “darn,” or “fudge,” I can’t help but scream “Oh @#$%, you scared the @#$% out of me you @#$% hole.” Whether I’m at home, church or the aquarium, my words remain the same.

While some were born without limbs or rhythm, I was born without a filter between my brain and my mouth.

My self-censorship “problem” extends far beyond cursing. I lack subtlety and tact. As much as I’d like to envision myself as some sort of seductive, innuendo-using sex kitten, I know that I’m not.

Sitting outside Biever Hall the other day, I was pretending to listen to a guy babbling about going to class and receiving 10 bonus points every time he successfully completed an assignment.

But you see, he wasn’t really talking about his academic achievement. He was verbally disguising his sexual conquests as something conventional. Although unoriginal and not funny, his anecdote was tactful.

If I had to describe the same scenario, it would be more like: “I just had amazing sex and had two organisms.” However, I would not be describing this scenario because it has been quite awhile since I have participated in said scenario.

After recently running into a high school friend and commenting on her newly-purchased breast implants, she replied “I’ve had some assistance in that department.” Genius.

People like her take for granted the ability to say things like “pitch a tent” or “break wind” and for understanding the double entendre behind them. Naturally I’ve heard those phrases, but instead of laughing at the like everyone else, I sit confused, wondering who’s camping and if the wind can be repaired.

Yet as I sit typing this column, I can’t help but wonder what is so wrong with being forward. While I may not be able to hold a conversation with the Pope or be shrouded in innuendo, I can be proud that I am honest, uninhibited and clear. I’m not ashamed to be explicit and am just as comfortable discussing sex as I am 17th century English literature. (Not that I’ve read any examples of 17th century English literature.)

What you see is what you get.

So, judge this book by its cover, because I guarantee that it’s one hell of a page-turner.