Sunday, January 30, 2011

More explicit stuff. You've been warned,especially if you're male. Unless you're a male supermarket attendant.

Hey ladies/hey ladies/wanna ride in my Mercedes? Then SHAKE THAT HEALTHY BUTT!

Love me some Sir Mix-A-Lot. I like big butts,and I cannot lie.

First off,let me begin by wishing me and everyone else on their period HAPPY NO-MOTHERS DAY. Tis a joyful one that comes each month,particularly joyful when thou knowest that thou may have been engaging in activities that may have possibly led to parenthood. Rejoice!

I woke up to the sound of my own mother telling me frightful things. I groggily remember a 'wake up!' and 'cook!' The horror shocked me out of bed. I came downstairs to do dishes and peel sweet potatoes.

I didn't know that sweet potatoes go green when you peel them. I did not know this because I do not cook. It was interesting,this colorful-ha-yet monochromatic phenomenon. They were obviously jealous that I had clothing and they were being stripped of theirs. Neenerneenerneeeeeeenerrrrr. :p

My finger was rubbing against the potatoes a lot so I scraped off some skin. At this point I was aggravated. I was being forced to pretend to know how to cook,suffered from loss of dermis,and still had a deadline to hand in stuff in kedo 3 hours. Then I remembered I had to go into town because cybers don't open on Sunday except in the CBD. Great! Goodbye afternoon nap. Which therefore resulted in me making @queenmoraa and @arungaian wait. I hate keeping people waiting,possibly more than when people keep me waiting. In typical no-blood fashion,no underwear was worn with my pristine white shorts.

I get to Yaya and start cramping. I wasn't rolling at this point-in fact,wasn't supposed to be for at least another 36 hours-so these abdominal agonies were a mystery. I said '@queenmoraa,WHY?' @queenmoraa said, 'Tampons.' In we go to the supermarket leaving an uncomfortable @arungaian outside.

Next to the pads section,there are no tampons. More shock. We ask an attendant. He doesn't know what I'm talking about.


He refers us to a less shameful attendant who says they're next to the counter. Who the hell is in charge of this organization thing? Probably Mr. Ignorant over there.

They're not there. We look around and finally notice them in the locked glass cabinet next to the propane and padlocks. Yeah,because tampons are weapons for world domination/prison security/arson. *smh*

We pay and proceed to the bathroom so I can self-gratify but not with a cotton dildo. In the process,I burst out laughing. Why? Because the finger I used was the sweet potato finger. The one with the scraped skin. Now exposed to juices that were serving as sijui antiseptic. FUN STUFF. Instead of sucking wounds,just shove them into... (but what if it's on your elbow,you ask? You're on your own,kid.) The situation was funny to me. So I laughed. And Ann wondered exactly what was going where.

Moral of the story? THIS is why I don't cook.


Saturday, January 29, 2011

This post has been rated PG-18. It may contain violence,violent or suggestive and crude language,and nudity. Parental guidance is not advised,they should not be here.

Good grief,nothing puts me off mango season better than a mouthful of worm faeces. Here I am,happily chewing away on my mango,distracted by the Saturday nation,when I notice a graininess-that's not a word,kids-in my mouth. I rapidly spit it out and rush to the sink-the seed has little black dots pouring out of a bigger black abyss of grossness-another not-word. Thank God the dots weren't moving. Anyway according to the resident biologist,that's the waste of the larvae that are/have been burrowing into the succulent seed of my not-so-tasty-anymore mango. FANfuckingtastic. I should really start keeping critter social schedules straight. Although to be fair I should have noticed earlier. I can't freaking multitask,I know this. I also know food is a jealous god. This is nutric-not a word. I think. It should be,though.- karma,coming to haunt me. I think I feel my stomach beginning to...ack. Fucking hate bugs.

So I'm in the shower today and I'm washing my (now much shorter) hair and I'm thinking I mean really. Who needs this? It's just hair,right? Plus I'm kinda curious about the actual shape of my head. So seeing as I don't do permanent shit-read piercings,tattoos,babies-I could,and in fact should,shave. A,it'll grow back. B,it's never that serious. C,it'll annoy Pet so much she'll never ask me to comb my hair again when it does. :D

I told Mr. M about my lofty hairless future plans. He made a face. I was almost put off until I slapped myself on the inside. Was I honestly about to reconsider my Grand Poobah plans in order to be someone's preferred girlfriend? Then I shivered at my sprung soul,now a flowery,whimsical place. I've become THOSE girls. *gong*

Granted,I may still go bald,but I'll think of him when I do it. I always used to marvel at THOSE chicks who wear their hearts so completely on their sleeves that it's painfully obvious to everyone around them,especially when he's not,even if he feels the much so that the blatant honesty of their emotion makes us cringe. It's like you can't stand to be around the purity that is true love,or it's just fekking annoying,innit? And you don't know why,you just resent it. THOSE girls. You know,the ones who ask if he misses you instead of waiting for him to say it. The ones who can't go on the rave without the significant other,or they'll make themselves and everyone around them miserable half the time. Hence the cringe. Now, I get it. I get being really silly and not giving a damn about anyone else and pda (to be fair,I always got that. EXHIBITIONISM. It's a movement.) and extreme and intense emotion...I get it.

Crap. I just wrote that paragraph. I'ma go back to hating on creepycrawlies before I start pissing glitter onto my blog.


Thursday, January 27, 2011

Like a virgin 3

So I have a friend who was in a relationship with a guy for 7 years,and intercourse was not the general course of their relationship. In other words,they never had sex. Various reasons other than her virginity,but the point is,they didn't.

I,too,have had relationships in which sex didn't occur - clearly. Granted,they were not 7 years long,but in today's world,longer than 2 months with no booty is apparently an achievement.

How did these men survive? Unfeeling ***** of steel? Obviously,I don't know if the guys I was with lasted that long without fooling around on the side. But 7 year friend,let's call her Lakeisha (because it's my blog,and I can make you stereotypical ghetto if I want to) told me that he did cheat.

There's a conversation I keep having about whether being in a relationship with a previously sexually active boy is logical for a virgin (and vice versa). How long could that possibly last? Is it really that serious that guys/girls just really can't live without? Did Maslow's Hierarchy of basic human needs lie about the whole you-won't-die-without-sex thing? Does that mean I am officially...a zombie?



Ps. Check out

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Number 3.

I once dated this guy. It was for all of two months,and ended because apparently he cheated on me. (later I discovered that he didn't. But that's another story) We were in primary school together. He was the guy who I always wished I was better friends with. We did start talking at some point,but we rolled with different crowds so nothing really happened outside math class. I remember watching him dance at Leaver's Bash and wondering how different he was from the quiet guy I knew,which just made him even cooler. Especially because he was a good dancer.

I also remember his dad dying when we were in class 8. By then we were in different classes,so my class didn't go for his funeral. I remember him losing weight. He went from chubby to lean in all of a month.

We went to different high schools as well. I would always send my friends to say hi to him. He rarely said hi back,though. After high school,I met him at 20th randomly one day and we hit it off again...his smile was still as entrancing as it had always been. We would take long walks and pretend to be watching Lord of the Rings,and on that New Year's Eve,I had someone to kiss who didn't want me to go home.

After we broke up,I stopped talking to him. It hurt,and I was joining uni,and I met someone else,so I just...stopped. I deleted his number,but I knew it by heart. Then maybe a year later,his mom died. I called him to offer my condolences. He avoided the topic like he was fine,so we pretended he was fine and didn't talk about it.

Another year passed. I met him at the club,drunk,saying he was sorry for everything he'd ever done to me. We made out. It was the same,it was different,but still magic. The next day I found out he still had a girlfriend,and confronted him about it. We started talking again. Three weeks later,he died. At his funeral,I didn't look at his girlfriend. The stupid pastors kept telling his sister that she would not die,that they would pray and lift the devil's hand from her family. I wanted to set them on fire,if only to bring him back.

Do you believe in Fate? Love? Curses?


Monday, January 24, 2011

What I learnt on Monday aka Alice in Wonderland

Sometimes,I look in my bag for tissue. More often than not,it's not there. Then I wonder to myself if I'm truly a girl. And then it worries me that regardless of my active and consistent rebellion against all things stereotypical and superficial,sometimes the worm of conformism and socialization still manages to creep into my skull. It's evil. I hate it.

What is this world that we choose to define ourselves by? What are these rules so ingrained in us that force us to be what we never wanted to be? And why does it take so much effort to go against the grain?

I cannot pick my battles properly. I can never tell which ones are worth it and which ones are not. My inner strength is wavery-that's not a word,don't use that-at best. Wavery passive-aggressive types don't really make the best heroes.

But it is my fight. And this is why people try so hard to 'find themselves' - so they know what they're fighting for. It is my life,my world. It is,my choice. I can choose to strain after the ideal which I may or may not ever be able to attain,that freedom to fly. That's the thing that ravens and writing desks have in common...they both fly. Fly I will. My spirit,my soul...will fly.

That worm. That bulbous,despicable exists for a reason. Perhaps contrast. Perhaps to show us what to fight against. Perhaps...because it must. But it does. And worms...turn into butterflies. (so to speak) So they can't be all bad...right?
I'll get by. I will survive. I will not cry. Much.

In other news,I cut my hair.


Friday, January 21, 2011

The Other Man

This has never really happened to me till now (or my goldfish memory is working overtime). My girlfriends are always talking about how right when they get into relationships is when all these guys start stepping to you. Nope,never me. In fact,usually,I never even notice other guys. He put a ring on it. I like my ring. But now...

I keep meeting these guys who are pretty cool. It irritates me because I'm wondering where the heck they were 3 months ago,when I was single and searching (footloose and fancy-free. Young and restless. Knots Landing.) But there's this one in particular...let's call him Shark.

Shark is appealing. And attractive. He's muscly,and cute,and funny,and witty,and dangerous (if you couldn't tell from the pseudonym). I enjoy talking to him. We can talk for hours. He lives around,so sometimes we chill. He laughs at my jokes. (see? Dangerous.) He walks me home. He keeps a respectful distance because he knows about Mr M. We have a fun friendship.

And he wants me.

I told him I have Mr M. I bring him up constantly in conversation. But Shark's ignoring me. He's probably just biding his time,waiting for us to break up or for me to slip up. He pushes the boundaries further and further everytime we meet up. I know I'm not going to do anything,and I've told him as much,but am I a terrible girlfriend for staying friends with him? He's a cool person. I mean,Mr M is Airtel,the amazing network that I will probably never leave who dishes out great loving. *Barry White voice* Shark is Yu-the afterthought who's a possibility if the main network messes up.

Which is not the best of situations. It seems almost mean to still have options when you're in a relationship. And he's not really an option. He's an if-I-wasn't-taken,maybe. That's ok...right?


Thursday, January 20, 2011

Fears that Bind

When I was a child, I was scared of things that moved in the dark, but not the dark itself. I was scared of the coat hanging on my wardrobe that would somehow morph into a bloodthirsty child-eating monster when the moon was high in the sky and the lights were off. Curtains would transmutate into deadly shadows of gloom that sucked your soul out as you slept in fear on your bed, and worst of all, not you, or your mother, or your screams, could stop it.

To me, these seemed reasonable fears. But they changed with time. As I grew older, my fears became whether or not my best friend was friends with me because of who I was or because, being in a foreign country, the number of kids to play with was very limited. (Later, she told me it was the latter. But we actually became good friends. Ouch, nonetheless.) I was competing for her affection anyway, but thankfully, for the formative years of our friendship, I was either oblivious or wilfully ignorant of her true feelings towards me.

Then I really grew up, and everything changed. The world of boys was a bunch of whole new fears (that I didn't really pay attention to until much, much later. Honestly, I was the boy-crazy precocious child who was always giving the Valentines instead of receiving them). And the further I got away from my childhood, the easier it was for me to ignore my fears. The Sleeper Effect, some call it in Journalism, where the further away you get from an event, the easier it is for you to forget it. Could that be the reason bad things keep happening, don't have a quota? Because human beings forget the lessons they learn from tragedies and need to be taught again and again about the sanctity of life?

The thing I'm still scared of is locusts. Can't stand the things. I suspect that I get hypertension when rainy seasons begin, because I'm incredibly anxious about whether or not it's going to be locust season. I've been in Kenya for 10 years, and only 2 of those have been Locust Years, and both times, I have spoken to God considerably more than any other time of the year. I feel like throwing a party when it stops raining. One man's meat, etc. I literally do not walk on streets or get near building that are known to have locust infestations. I did not enter Nakumatt Lifestyle for like - how long was it? 2 months? - this year. Because the locusts there were a nation. And it took a while for them to completely die out. The easiest way to make me hate you for life/make you a voodoo doll is to run after me trying to scare me with a locust. It's cruel. I will come back and haunt you when I die. I kid you not. *breathe*

But I'm scared of life. There are too many variables. Everytime I watch the news or read a blog (like's most recent post) or hear a story like the one I'm about to tell, it makes me never want to leave the house -or just die already. No one ever thinks it'll happen to them, then it does. It scares me.

My friend Michael was driving his 5-series in a well-known Nairobi suburb at about 10:30 p.m. He had his friend Jack and Jack's wife and two kids in the car with him. Out of nowhere, a car rammed into his bumper. When he stopped, the car pulled up in front of him, blocking the road. A man got out and begun to fire at them. He fired 6 shots, straight at Michael. Jack jumped out of the car and put his hands up. Michael turned his head to reverse the car. He then crashed into a transformer. The lights went off. Jack ran into the bushes. Michael sped away to the nearest police station.

Michael begun to notice that he couldn't see clearly. Then he noticed that he was bleeding heavily. By the time they got to the police station, his shirt and trousers were soaked in his blood. A bullet had lodged in his head. He told the police that an attempted -whatever that was- had just taken place. The police said they didn't have a car.

Let's have a moment of silence in disbelief at the idiocy that is supposed to serve and protect Kenyans.

He told them to use his (now banged-up) car. They said they had to report the case...or the car use...they had to report something or the other...basically, they stalled. So he got in his car and drove himself to the hospital, because he was now bleeding copious amounts. He got to hospital, starting to stagger and suffer from hypothermic shock (that's the one that you start to freeze after an accident, right?). They refused to treat him until he paid 130,000 up front.

Another moment of silence, but this time in sadness for the elitist service that is healthcare in Kenya.

I'm scared for the people who can't afford insurance, but even more so for the people who can't even afford heathcare. What is their future, what is their fate? Who is their champion...and what has our system become if doctors must be paid before they fulfill the Hippocratic Oath? Or rather, what has the system become if it forces them to be like this? Most do we change it? If indeed it can be changed...

I'm not sure if I have hope in Kenya anymore, but could it be that this is state of humanity everywhere? Have we become a race so cruel, so selfish, that we cannot separate our carnal, primal needs from what is life...I mean, sure, you start with terrorizing girls with locusts, but what do you become once it becomes a habit?

I just watched For Colored Girls. My verdict on that movie is still out. I like the twists in the tale (gory and disturbing though they are). I'm not sure if it's actually a good movie, or if it just preys heavily on the emotions of its watchers...either way, there are a lot of important isssues in there. Like how men treat women, and why women allow them to. Sometimes I think women give men too much power over themselves, all in the name of looking for love or being scared of being lonely. Yeah, well, it's never that serious. Sorry, being lonely is better than being dead. Anyway, the movie made me scared of men again. (men, sex, children...)Women really should not have to go through some of the things that they go through which we all know, so I may not list down, unless I get carried away oh look like now.

The thing that scares me most is dishonesty. Dude can be 'in love' with you, texting you, calls you every day meets your family, marries you, and dude is raping your little sister. I am scared, scared. It's a scary world out there. I'm not too sure how to conquer your fear for something that won't go away, that you can't prevent. I mean bla bla bla men will always be men...but can women never tell? Aren't we blessed with some female intuition that tells us something's up, or do we also wilfully ignore the blatant signs? ARE there signs?

Can women tell, and do women ever tell each other - are we our own worst enemies?
I know I am. My boy has been cheating on his girl since they got together, and it's been like a year, and I haven't told his woman. I probably won't, either. Sure I can say it's not my place, it's none of my business, I tell him to just break up with her...but still remains, do I owe it to her to tell her? And knowing women, she might stay anyway. Are we that starved of lives? Is it worth it?

Lots of questions, lots of length, I know. Congratulations if you got to here. :o) Watch For Colored Girls, if only for some perspective.

I love me some Janet Jackson,though.


Monday, January 17, 2011

Like a virgin 2

In my head- I wanna be a freakin bad...

Again,the naivete. So. Isn't sex expensive? The other day Mr. M. and I went to get tested. There's a VCT centre at Phoenix House in town on 5th floor. Apparently,VCT is no longer free. Or at least,there,it's 150. Is that the kawa going rate? *sigh* Back when I was in school,it was free. They used to beg us to go get tested,and give us glow-in-the-dark wristbands that said Jijue. Or something. Guess they wanted us to preach the importance of being tested in the dark as well.

Condoms. Does anyone actually trust Trust? I speak from an oblivious point of view,but I don't think I've heard anyone ever buy Trust condoms. In fact,they're more likely to use the free ones from the school dispensary (wow. School twice in one posts. Detachment issues?) than Trust. Ok so that leaves us with Contempo Casuals which even I would avoid after that whole oh,oops,one of our brands is ZERO PERCENT EFFECTIVE. WTF? Yes,I still remember that. And will continue to do so. Which leaves Durex. Depending on how many times you...,like,on a daily? weekly? and how many times y' many packs does that average? (lol cigarettes) And how do broke students (yup. Definitely detachment issues.) afford that? You know what,maybe it's a sign. Maybe people shouldn't be having sex if they're too broke to.

Because when things hit fans,and something goes wrong-which,OBVIOUSLY,it can-it's going to take moolah to fix. Jus sayin. Mr. M. thinks I'm being ridiculous,and pessimistic,but seriously. The going rate for a gyna is about 2k. Because once you start,you WILL have to start going,whether your vag is fine or not. (clearly speaking to the women here. Which also brings me to,are y'all supposed to split the sex bills?) If it's not fine,there's drugs,tests...not cheap. A simple UTI can run up to 10k in medical fees. When you go to the VCT centre,do you get checked for the other stuff as well? (first off,DO you go to the VCT centre? Not going...can also be incredibly expensive. In the long run.) No? So there's that too. Say you randomly feel scared of cervical cancer (you know,the number 1 killing cancer of women in Kenya. That lil thing.) which is caused by a virus called HPV,which is passed on through sex (but also epithelial-ie skin-on-skin contact). It's a freaking STD that causes cancer. The vaccination is 21k in Kenya. If you've already had sex,there's no point in getting it,but you do need to go for regular pap smears. SEX IS EXPENSIVE! (bottom line :o)

Clearly,chicks have more to worry about. And maybe because of my state, *refer to title* I overthink things. Or do I? Correct me if I'm wrong. Is sex expensive? Do people think about this stuff? How the hell do one night stands happen,or is paranoia an exclusive club? Hit me up...


Sunday, January 16, 2011

A case for typewriters

In my head: Me and Mr. Jones-Amy Winehouse. Kwanza that first line.

Back in the simple days,typewriters were used. None of this blogging-Twitter-viruses nonsense existed. All you needed was a ribbon,and some ink. (who's read Misery by Stephen King? Ribbon,ink,blood,potato potato...)

Nowadays,I need a freakin computer science degree to understand Drumsticks. Viruses? Why? Has she been sleeping around? No? Then...why? Is there a cure? Yes? It costs how much? But no flash disks have been in her port? Sigh. The circular arguments drive me mad. :o(

Why isn't the world of technological know-how simpler? I know I sound 36-hehe-but honestly. I feel like I'm rapidly approaching that awful stage where the last time you heard the word ram was on a nature trail. Today I was looking for an application I downloaded when I was using wireless for the first was nowhere to be seen. I frantically called everyone I knew who'd ever been near a computer. They all told me different things. Laptops are such temperamental unnecessarily delicate things. Nothing like Nokias. Why is there always a different solution? Kwani they're human? Anyway. I was told I may-or may not-have a virus. So I'm like but I have Microsoft Security Essentials. Which,apparently,is bullshit. Go figure.

I'm not too good with challenges and all that nonsense. I like comfort zones,I like easy things,and most of all,I like sleep. So unless it has something to do with freebies or Latino men,count me out if it involves effort. Computers involve neither,but all of a sudden I'm rudely shoved into a world where I need them? Kinda sucks. Especially when I could be doing other useful,constructive things. I need money to pay people stupid sums to do this stuff. It doesn't make me feel smart. Math,makes me feel smart. Computers make me feel ungainly,in an adolescent sort of way.

Maybe it's a good thing that Murphy's Law decided to toy with me. It could be much worse. Cheeseburgers could go extinct. Calvin and Hobbes could never have been created. Denzel could have an asymmetrical face. Who knows. *shrug* Screw typewriters. Pen and paper,anyone? Power of the PEN,not the DOT MATRIX PRINTER,DAMNIT!


Saturday, January 15, 2011

Like a virgin

This rare and unusual state often allows for much random and sometimes naive thinking. Forgive my innocence and confusion for future posts.

There are some things I wonder about the whole sex thing. For one,sex isn't really that serious. Perhaps I only think this because I speak from the other side of the divide. My point is,if you absolutely had to do without it,you wouldn't die. Lack of action is not a terminal disease. So why the heck do people act like it is? Smh. Ok,I think that it shouldn't be the make or break factor in relationships,which it too often is.

On the other hand,sex is kinda serious. Especially for chicks who are practically incapable of emotional detachment unless they're trying really,really hard. So if it's serious,all the more reason to wait,right? And if it's not that serious,all the more reason to not have to have a reason to not have to be doing it...right?

Thursday, January 13, 2011

How tSN became know the drill aka who the eff is Mengo??

Maybe,just maybe,I'm shallow. I mean,I was looking at the other candidates like pahahahaha,you have nothing on me. But honestly,not everyone-in fact,no one-walks about with IQs taped to their foreheads. So I was judging-yes,judging-based purely on how they look. Does this make me shallow-or perceptive? Aha! Potato? Potato?

One sharp-witted lass came to the interview garbed in jeans and a bright purple exhibition top. *sheathing my claws now* She was the only other lass in flat shoes. I wasn't sure if that bode badly on the impression I was giving. *shrug* Desiderata: There will always be greater and lesser personns than yourself. Everyone else-or rather,the ones I saw,looked to be of sub-standard aptitude...which was important,right? Seeing as it was an aptitude test. Ok,now,for real,I'm-mostly-done being catty.

The offices were impressive. We were called into the conference room where a jovial supervisor handed us the test. And for the next 1 and a half hours,that's what we did. Now. Fantastically for me,most of it-indeed,three quarters of it-was grammar. My forte.

UNFORTUNATELY. There was a current affairs section as well. I am the first to admit that my blondness knows NO BOUNDS when it comes to current affairs. I am the first also to see the irony in this. Anyway. After the test I was assured that I was not being blonde,most people who are on that current affairs ish didn't know either. I hope there were several like me who also wrote that David Rudisha broke a Usain Bolt record,because honestly I could've SWORN I've heard @Nigmwa say that...

To be fair,though. How many of you know who Mengo is? Or Wilbrod Slaa (a quick second went by when I thought they were talking about Wilbroda,and maybe that's her full name...or summat)? Jean-Pierre Bombo? Robert Gates? Well,I didn't. I mean really,why can't they ask something like what do Bruno Mars and Whitney have in common? Those questions are biased. That's my story. I'm sticking to it.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

How tSN became a part of the Rat Race. 2.

So having betrayed the entire afro-rebel society in one swift brush stroke,I left the house with my cavalier attitude in tow and a distinct uncertainty regarding my future. You must realize,these brush strokes were not enough to make me blend in with the part of society that makes an effort. They were merely enough to make me look...windswept. Ha. Like I left the house neat but the elements,especially that of surprise,absconded with my well-put-together look.

The matatu,of course,was smelly,and then,of course,got stuck in traffic. This was a problem for several reasons. *rewind* I had half a cup of tea,a slice of bread and a slice of mango as I left the digz. This is NOT sufficient fare for one looking to conquer the world,get a job etc. So I was hungry by the time I got to the interview. Which meant my stomach could start rumbling at any given point. Two,since there was *barely any* no food in my stomach,there was plenty of air. When I get nervous,I get flatulent. Do the math. Three,when I get nervous,I ramble,and offer needless,senseless and continuous information;about myself,about the weather,about the interview,about my Uncle Michael who once lived in Scotland and happened to spot the Loch Ness get the drift. So rumbling,rambling,and gassy. *forward to matatu ride* In a matatu. Stuck in traffic. Late because of a non-existent breakfast. It was a morning made in heaven.

When I got off the jav,it was 9:03. I was supposed to be there at 9. The way I figured it,I had a 10 minute window of opportunity before I started looking bad,so I proceeded to run *walk very fast* In short,praise Whoever's In Charge for African timing,because I got there before anyone of authority showed up to take us to where we were supposed to go.

This (brush? :D) stroke of luck must've been induced by the prayers of Mr.M. before this interview. You see,he's a praying man,well acquainted with Whoever's In Charge. Fortunately for me,you see,because all things were working for my good. And will hopefully continue to do part 3.



ps. Please check out HilARious stuff.

Monday, January 10, 2011

How tSN became a part of the Rat Race.

There's something incredibly sweet,and deep,about a man who prays with you,for you,and about you. Dude,regardless of how you feel about The Man Up There,the fact that a man can tell him about's bigger than just meeting the folks. That's some heavy duty stuff right there.

So miracle upon miracles,a company called me back. I'm growing up! World,are you ready? Now get this: I applied for this job in March last year. Yup. Like,2010. MARCH. Like,10 months ago. My blog wasn't even crawling yet. Lol. So they call us-a few chosen few- back for an aptitude test. I casually don't think about it. I even consider not going. I mean seriously. A company that calls you back 10 months after the fact,when's your paycheck gonna come in then?

Anyway. So the morning of the test,I am incapable of dragging myself out of bed. Nothing new there. I snooze for about half an hour before necessity drives me to the shower. Then,I have to decide what to wear. ACK! I'm not the most test/interview-savvy person in the world. The last few interviews I've gone in for I was in jeans...or...jeans...the quandary I was in was deep and unforgiving. I glanced at a pair of linens and almost convinced myself that my image could pass those...then decided on straight official-looking pants. Ok,now a top. Good grief,people do this every day? Maybe I should just stay home. (me trying to coerce myself into more sleep) finally,something that hides the funny crotch fit of the only pants that seemed appropriate. What to carry? My usual hippie knit-bag? Or a more demure,professional looking-gag-handbag? The handbag won. My cv? Didn't feel like. Pen? Check. Notebook? Check.

My hair. I admit,I was afraid. I mean there's rebellion,and then there's salary. So,good people. I caved like a spelunker's dream. I folded like a bad hand. I conformed like a politician. Sigh. I picked up a brush-GASP-and brushed just the tips of my now sprouting dreadlocks. Yeah. I am no longer a rebel. Or rather,I am no longer a good one,lol. Part 2 of this sad tale will be told soon.


Saturday, January 8, 2011

The way to go

In my high school chapel sits a piano that marks generations upon generations of adolescent girls who have traipsed through its sanctified walls. My name is scratched into the piano lid,right under my cousin's...because I could. Mostly to leave a legacy; to prove that I was here,that I indeed existed,and the only thing that can etch out my memory on the sands of time-or wood-is,well,fire.

Everyone wants to leave a little bit of themselves behind. Hence children. *choke* I attended a funeral service the other day that was remarkably enjoyable. Dude who died was young,but the family was so strong. Making jokes,the whole shebang. Some guy said 'People don't leave this earth when they're ready,or when we're ready.' Wise words,man. I have a fear of the finality of death. Hey,no one said phobias are rational. Worrying about it isn't going to make it go away,or make me feel better,but I do it anyway. Like,that's it? It's over? We're done? Really? And I don't even see it coming?

I've often wished I lived in a fantasy universe where when you're born,you get your birth certificate and a death card,telling you when you're going to die. Honestly a little preparation time would be nice. Finish up unfinished business and whatnot. Some people die virgins,you know.

I want to be cremated. My people have a tendency to overdo the whole mourning-while-feeding-the-entire-village thing. In fact,I have half a mind to conduct a funeral service now,a wake while I'm...awake. What's the point when I'm dead? I mean,really. It'll be an even better celebration of the life I have lived...and when better to celebrate it? Fishing for compliments,you say? I say,practical and useful self-esteem building while I can still hear you. Potato potato.

Live because you can,while you can. There's never a guarantee,only a guarantee of an end. Nicki Minaj- Everybody dies,but not everybody lives.

RIP Sid.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Get your act right.

@abbakidenda and I were having one of our deep conversations-we do this ALL the time,Miles Davis was even playing in the background,lol-and we got to talking about 4 groups of people who annoy us most. Naturally my reaction was 'I should totally blog about this!' So I am. :o) and yeah,I get that these people probably have deep psychological problems that are the root cause of their various conditions. Sorry,still over it.

Remember the fool in high school who had been everywhere,done everything and always had a bigger story than yours to tell? (much like Tyra. Woman can't let people tell their own damn stories.) Nothing is more irritating than a pathological liar. Especially when they get busted. Especially when they continue to lie even after they're busted! Why do these people feel like they have to do it? I get lying to your parents lol but why the unnecessary ones like to your friends? Or people who were at that party that you claim you were at? No you did not take a picture with that celebrity. Did you do your hair last night just so you could say you were at some runway show yesternight? S. M. H.

Alcoholics. OVER IT. Why. Why why why. I can get liking the taste. Ok I'm lying,I really can't,to me alcohol tastes awful. So I guess the feeling is addictive? Whatever the reason,when it crosses the line of social drinking or drinking at the rave to everyday can't-function-without-it ruining-your-life and wasting your money,it's dangerous. Even more so when you refuse to acknowledge that you have a problem,repeatedly,and thus continue to spiral. If there is blood in your alcohol and you are a hazard to yourself and society,you cannot keep blaming whatever you're blaming (ha!) for your flask fetish. YOU HAVE A PROBLEM. Stop burying your head in the sand and grow the f* up-your problems aren't going to be dealt with like that.

I do like whores. I mostly support all types. I don't see the problem with making an adult decision with what you're doing with your Lil Missy/Junior. However. When it becomes irresponsible,I have a problem with it. Yeah,I'm judging. *shrug* Stop acting ignorant like cow dung never hits fans,because that's-well,cow dung. Do you really think something nasty isn't going to get to you? Or that all sex is love? How many people do you think you're going to sleep with when your nethers look like they've been corroded by acid? Uh huh. That's what I thought. Play the field,but for the love of Pete,play it safe.

*sigh* perenially suicidal folk. Yeah,I said it. You're not going to do it if you've been telling everyone about it for 6 months. (although yeah,pay attention,it's a cry for help) But honestly,it's selfish to put that on someone else,especially when it goes on...and on...and on. Emotional turmoil,the end.

The people that nearly made the list are The Pimp,who thinks that all women want him and his lines are fresh,and The Person Who's Always Late. WTF? Have you no watch? GRRRR.

Am I being too harsh?


Tuesday, January 4, 2011


I love bathrooms. Preferably clean ones with jacuzzis,but I'm not ├╝berpicky about the jacuzzi. The bathrooms is the one room in the digz that fulfills all my basic human needs. Other than the obvious,bathroom duty (doody! Hehe) releases endorphins that quite frankly are only comparable to orgasm,particularly if we're talking after a long-ass road trip. You fulfill social needs as you toilet tweet. Literary needs are covered when you're reading magazines on the john (so sad that someone's name is a euphemism for perching on the stinker. Among other things). Plus,there's that unbeatable alone time. Most people aren't rude enough to make you leave the lav or work on a time card. Unless you're related.

Marriage isn't necessarily one of those things that I'm planning to do,but if I was,twetiquette would be very important to me. I'm not going to move in with just anyone,especially anyone who leaves the seat up (dead horse,that) or leaves a box of tissue on the roll,and doesn't feel obligated to put another roll on. This is why I support come-we-risk ninininis. I can't possibly know all your flaws unless I live with you. For all I know,you may be hiding a Will Ferrel obsession,and I can't have that.

But what about those things that are filed under irreconcilable differences? Those things that twetiquette classes can't change or reverse? Like let's say you're dating someone who comes to family weddings and rescues you from overenthusiastic men and everything's good until you realize he wants tiny versions of him afoot and you have absolutely no intention of procreating anyone's lineage...compromise is all well and good,but you can't exactly have half a child,can you?



ps. I really hate it when reggae artists take any song and just put a reggae beat on it like all songs are meant to be reggae. ESPECIALLY when it doesn't flow. UGH.

P.p.s. If you sprinkle when you tinkle,be a sweetie. Wipe the seatie.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

The Hair One

A wise man who was probably an old,seasoned warrior with white hair and war scars to boot-why aren't wise old men ever young?-once said that a wise man-not in referral to himself-or maybe! I don't know. I'm not him.-not only knows when to fight,but which battles need to be fought.

I'm going through a stage of random post-adolescence that has all the signs of adolescence which is generally a worrisome trend for my growth curve where I rebel against most forms of order and organization. For some,this means quitting your job. For others,this could be wearing colours (@colourme_bad). For me,it means not combing my hair.

I cut my hair because I don't like hair,and yet don't have the guts to go bald. I have let it grow into an untamed mass of glory because,like sulfur-crested cockatoos and randy 22 year olds,some things are meant to be free. As you can imagine,dear reader,not everyone agrees with me,LEAST of all my conservative mother who is convinced that my do has damned me to unemployed hell and has already crossed the line of issuing ultimatums. Unfortunately-something parents refuse to realize-the quickest way to make an adolescent/post-adolescent/rebel-without-a-cause-just-finished-uni...person is to forbid them to do it.

It's amazing how much chaos the thought of disorder throws into people's little bubbles of reality. The reaction is usually 50/50. Some people absolutely love my hair and thus proceed to cut their own. Deaconesses at church,however,keep offering to buy me combs. They've clearly been fraternizing with @ArcherMishale.

I don't get why it bothers people so much. Even more so,I can't understand why people feel like my hair gives them leeway to tell me incredibly rude things. Like my hair makes me look unfeminine-is that a word?-and I'll never get married. Because,of course,that's the be-all-end-all of what I want to do with my life,and I'll be thrown into an abyss of confusion and dire despair if I'm not married by the wizened age of 35.

At first,it was the convenience of not combing my hair,then it became me wanting to piss stuck up prudes off,they who shiver at the concept of coloring outside the lines. My middle finger at propriety. Sticking it to conservatism. You get the picture. But then I had an enlightening conversation with @ekwasa-yes,I too was surprised,and among the things we talked about was conformism. Maybe the reason I was doing this was because so passionately against-or afraid-of being one of the other robots. He made of see that you don't have to be scared of conforming if you're comfortable with who you are,because you have nothing to prove.

I like to believe that I'm many kinds of amazing,so this shouldn't be a problem. I think I'll make a deal with my mom-if I can't get a job this month,ok,maybe,maybe, *shrug* I comb my hair. (if I can though,it's totally over for all forms of parental control. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!) And to satisfy my apathetic nature,I'll get a nipple ring. Or something.



ps. So many times I nearly pressed the Closing Browser button. *wiping hypothetical sweat off brow*
ps. Happy New etc.