I know this was supposed to be the hair one,but it's not aka Tales from Childhood 1

I was a wonderfully precocious child. I say this with a mixture of pride and prejudice- HA!- because I cannot count the number of times my siblings have told me I was a much smarter kid than I am adult. So pride because I had memorized the entire periodic table and aspired to be an oceanographer,and prejudice because obviously I have a biased,rosy view of my excellence.

When I was 9,and in the 4th grade,I had a deep and abiding crush on several boys. Back then I could multitask. One of these young'uns was a boy called Brian. He was amusing. He thought he was so cool. He wasn't,but he looked the part. He was the guy in the group of guys who's second-in-command to the ringleader,and knows it. Not nearly as much poise,but there was something there. Technically, I wasn't supposed to like the ringleader,because he was my best friend. I still did,though. I've never been one for rules. Anyway,he would've laughed in my face had I confessed anything so I was on to the next one: Brian.

I unfortunately was not the only lass with secondary aspirations. My nemesis was one of my best friends,Valentina. She was pretty,and cool,and also liked Brian. I don't know how we were such good friends. One day,and I can't remember how it started,we begun to exchange words over who should back off from Brian. All of a sudden we were at the swings,throwing girly punches. I realize this was not very Abigail-like behavior,considering how passive-aggressive I am now,but what're you gonna do. I was 9 and apparently,very territorial. At the end of that fight,I had a bruised lip and a couple of her braids in my hand. And my favorite top was ripped a bit. But the next day we had lunch together.

And that,ladies and gentlemen,was my first and only catfight ever. I learned
1. Don't fight when you're in braids.
2. Or your favorite top.
3. It's easier to just toss a coin.
4. Or go on to the other 5 options.
5. Girls can be great friends and still hate each other. Twisted,I know.
6. Still haven't read Pride and Prejudice.

tSN

I don't know what to name this post.

The thing with school being over is that I now have time to listen to the rain falling outside my window. Which,really,is great,because now I do things like blog in the middle of the night and check out eeeeeeeveryone's websites. And facebook pages. In fact,I actually played the numbers game. Fun times. I had to resist the temptation to send my number to the people who liked the group called 'If you send me your number,I'll punch you in the face.' I'm not masochistic. Just easily amused.

Now,The Folks have noticed how much time and how little money I have on my hands (or not,actually). I'm convinced it's a control tactic. What am I saying? OF COURSE it's a control tactic. If they don't fund my exploits,there can't very well BE any exploits,can there. Smart. Probably something to do with the age thing.

So once again we come back to the problem of funding. MUST. FIND. JOB. Unfortunately,bumming does not pay (in salary form. In a healthy development of critical analysis of daytime tv? Oh yeah.). But finding a job in this our Kenya is not easy. Unless you're a...um...and it's irritating that the system is set up in such a way that I probably have to know someone to get anywhere. What IS that? Do I have to kiss the arse of The Man to get into the very system that I so detest? Don't people realize that everyone in the rat race is still a rat? Je,huu ni ungwana? We demand justice! *waving flag. Or something.* I'm not good with systems. It's why I don't comb my hair. *next post*

So in the interest of avoiding thieving and/or selling body parts, (HA! Pun intended,if you read the last post) I've been sending my cvs out to anyone who's anyone (that's not true. I'm trying to look industrious,but I'm actually very,very picky. Which works for my laziness). And Kenyan companies...oiyoyoi. My goodness,the depth of unprofessionalism that has seeped into the job market and bloody well built a city is ridiculous. It frustrates me to no end that companies do not have the decency to reply application emails. Even to say no,so I know,so I move on. Or to say,um,you're not what we're looking for. Or no,but we do need a cleaner for the 5th floor. Anything. If I ever run my own company,I'll reply the emails. Don't look at me like that. I will. But what's the point of a secretary? Or a human resource manager? I swear,Kenya is going to the dogs because of people like these. Not the serial killers,or the farters in crowded matatus-oh no. They who do not reply emails from poor jobless sweet innocent broke girls? Far,far worse.

I'm beginning to think I should've done med. Or law. Before you (and I) laugh,think about it. The job security is great. Because then I would know I'd get a job immediately after. AND I'd have a 'Dr.' next to my name after my FIRST degree. Plus,it sounds good with the ladies. (like that awesome instruction manual on the back of Axe 2-in-1 Shampoo and Conditioner: Wash. Attract. Repeat. :D) This mambo of cvs...inaniwaste,jo. I should sijui start my own business,no? And the thing that bugs me most #NARCISSISTalert is that when I become famous because I'm so awesome and talented,they'll be begging me to work for them. Nasty buggers.

Pet thinks they won't hire me anyway,because of my hair.

tSN

check out www.thegreencalabash.com. One of my personal favorites: Bringing Baby Home. :D

The beginning of the end of the beginning...of the end.

I finished school today. I did (to my knowledge) my last undergraduate paper ever. Now,ceteris peribus,it was my last paper,but maybe I'll get another degree. Or do a Masters. In which case,it's back to term papers,damnit.

The paper was pretty good. It was an art paper,so there were pictures of naked men I had to identify. That's never bad. Unless they're lewd flashers. I was flanked by JnttNemo and Nigmwa,and we all finished about the same time and sprung out of the exam hall jubilantly. Yup,I just used that word. Do you hear the harps?

Am I the only one who feels pressure when people walk out of the exam room,and you're not done? Even one person,really. I just feel a crap-I'm-not-done-hurry-you-slowpoke kinda uncomfortable feeling in my hand. It starts twitching like it wants to write faster and/or slap me.

The melancholy tone you think you hear in this post? You're right. I mean ok being done with term papers,don't get me wrong,is really,really awesome. But now,ati,I have to grow up. I'm out of excuses. I have to-GASP-start looking for meaningful employment/start a serious hustle *coughprostitutioncough*/ get married. Like,I have to come up with a useful contribution to society and The Folks. Who comes UP with these things?

I have to look for internships from stupid Kenyan companies who don't reply to your emails,even to say no or your cv is laughable,go get another degree. My supply of pocket money from school stops! *voice breaking* no more loose shopping trips or skiving school because that's where you're supposed to be so that's where you're not...no more excuses like groupwork for coming home late...no more conning The Folks for school trips that don't exist...which I never did! See? I'm SO not ready for the real world! I like cocoons and denial. They're really quite comfortable places to be.

There's culture shock coming my way. A devirgination of my pampered,school child self. There's no protection! Sigh. Maybe I'll just become like that chick from Girlfriends and get 6 degrees because I'm scared of getting a job. Plan? YES!!

I guess,on the plus side,no more Thika Road.

The Nice Watchman

No,this is not the title of a fairy tale.

Quick digression,pills are annoying. The ones that you have to pop out. They fly everywhere sometimes. Very annoying.

Onto the take of our valiant hero! *cue theme music of the heroic persuasion* Usually I can't stand that particular breed of human. But sometimes,one comes along to make me change my mind. For instance,the one from my limber and youthful days when skiving the digz to go for the rave was commonplace. Story for another day. But he never told on me,and always kept an eye out in case Dad was having a late night and chose that moment to show up,when I was pausing like a...well,errant daughter before the headlights about to meet inevitable doom.

The keys were in the Merc. Roger and Mr.M. decided the best way to do this would be to try and jimmy the windows down. But that would ruin the piping...thingy. The next option was to jimmy the lock. Natsing. Then,through the boot. Fortunately the boot's opening and closing had nothing to do with the key. So Roger climbs into the boot to find the catch that'll pop the backseat forward...natsing. But then he randomly pops the speakers out. So now the plan becomes to build a contraption flexible and strong enough to push through the speakers,down the seat,hook the keys and carry them out.

3 hours later-well,it felt like. It was probably like one-,natsing. We've tried branches,hands,sticks,second opinions and prayer and the keys have thumbed their noses at us like booyah,who's the chicken now and other mocking chants. Then a watchman walks by. Who we ask to go get us a hanger from the residential area he watches. Which he does. Which doesn't work. So he gets a longer wire. Mr.M. twists it into a viable rescue tool. Roger climbs into the boot,pushes the wire through the speaker hole...and gets the keys right when the owner of the car is round the bend.

Nice watchie. Roger needed a full body massage after that which I clearly could not give him. I took out my gratitude on Mr.M. Clearly fate knew he just needed to come. So lunch was my treat,the next day. Paid for by my niece,because he had taken her through the wire. With a wire. Ha.