Verily, good sir or madam, thou dost prate most fervently upon the shifting sands of our mother tongue, as though words were graven in stone and not as leaves upon the bough, blown hither and thither by time's unceasing breath. Dost thou reckon that our forebears spake as we do now, or that their forebears afore them did hold to one unchanging tongue? Nay, the speech of men is a river, not a pool, and he that would seek to dam its course doth but wrestle with the tide.
Perchance thou art vexed that words, once stout of meaning, have waxed wanton in their ways, yet is it not meet that a living tongue should grow, as doth the mighty oak from acorn's smallness? Consider well: the word 'silly' was erst but 'blessed' and 'fond' was once 'foolish'; shall we then chide our ancestors for their own misdeeds of meaning? Or perchance thou wouldst have all frozen in place, like unto a fly in amber, where naught may flourish nor take new life?
Prithee, cast aside this peevish lament, and instead embrace the dance of words, which in their merry capering do but mirror the hearts and minds of those who wield them. Thus, if 'awful' no more doth strike awe and 'nice' hath grown mealy of purpose, let us not gnash our teeth, but marvel at the humours of tongue and time.