I guess it was bound to happen. Nairobi shows no discrimination to its victims, no fear or favour, you know, the way the government is supposed to. I'm still in a bit of denial. My phone was on for a while after. Kept calling it to see. And Airtel was refusing to pick up their phones so I could block my SIM. Not that they could really use it anyway,...could they? Damnit I may have removed my 'Ask for PIN' settings...anyhue, I didn't ati have a g on my phone. I barely ever use Zap, so there's like 2 bob on there. I wish I knew someone in the CID who could track my phone. Plus, they probs can't sell my phone coz I have a security phone, SUCKERS. HA.
The idiot bouncer at the club. Ugh. I asked him if we could search the club. His response was that he has seen me leaving the club to receive calls. WTF does that have to do with anything? That I left it outside? That it must have been stolen inside? That my locomotion rules me out from a search? Ugh. UGH. Does this happen everywhere? I suppose there are stupid people everywhere, so.
Are phones like people? If it is their time to go, it is their time to go?
I keep thinking if I had done something different, changed my plans, something, anything, I would still be with Mr. Miyenn right now. Damn these pickpockets, yawa.
Damn these thoughts I had of how muggings can never happen to me. Not that they can never...just that when it doesn't happen to you for a while, you think you're home free. Like accidents. Or syphilis.
This has taught me that:
a. Leave the club when you SAY you're going to leave the club.
b. Stop thinking that it could never happen to you.
Oh...that's it so far. As my method of coping (ha) these posts about my late phone might be a couple.
I can't believe they left the money. I mean, I'm glad they left SOMETHING, but I wish they'd've taken the money instead. Tight jeans lie to you with a false sense of 'Of COURSE you'll feel it if someone tries to steal anything.'
*sigh*
tSN
p.s. I didn't know that syphilis only had one 'l' until I did a spell check. See? Good things come to those who are stolen from. Being positive...happy thoughts...crushing testicles...
Saturday, September 24, 2011
This world is NOT my home.
Today, we mourn the loss of a great man.
Mr. Miyenn.
MM was bought in July 2010, and served as a faithful anchor to my topsy turvy life. He was always there for me when I needed him. He had his flaws, like all men do, but at the end of the day, he always made an effort to support me. Through hanging, the rave, relationships, stupid Airtel rates and network signals, dark stormy nights and trips to Karachuonyo, he was by my side. I blogged from him constantly. He was an ever-present companion on my trips to the bathroom, serving as a much smaller form of entertainment but proving to be invaluable. Clearly, however, it was his time to go.
He is succeeded by his earphones and his charger, and will truly be missed.
I am currently accepting phone donations, whether monetary or in kind.
May he rest in eternal peace, and may the toes/fingers of whoever stole him shrink to the size of the dot atop this i <<< in proportion to their brain.
tSN
Mr. Miyenn.
MM was bought in July 2010, and served as a faithful anchor to my topsy turvy life. He was always there for me when I needed him. He had his flaws, like all men do, but at the end of the day, he always made an effort to support me. Through hanging, the rave, relationships, stupid Airtel rates and network signals, dark stormy nights and trips to Karachuonyo, he was by my side. I blogged from him constantly. He was an ever-present companion on my trips to the bathroom, serving as a much smaller form of entertainment but proving to be invaluable. Clearly, however, it was his time to go.
He is succeeded by his earphones and his charger, and will truly be missed.
I am currently accepting phone donations, whether monetary or in kind.
May he rest in eternal peace, and may the toes/fingers of whoever stole him shrink to the size of the dot atop this i <<< in proportion to their brain.
tSN
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Is this world your home?
Troy Davis was found guilty of murdering a police officer 19 years ago, based upon the testimony of 9 witnesses.
-7 : that's how many of the nine original eyewitnesses have recanted their testimony against Davis.
— 0: the amount of physical evidence linking Davis to the crime (no fingerprints, no DNA, no weapon recovered).
— 3: the number of jurors who voted for death in the original trial who now believe their vote was a mistake.
— 22: the number of years the family of slain police officer Mark McPhail has had to wait for an answer to the question of whether or not Davis would die for the crime.
- 3: The number of executions that Troy Davis has appealed successfully.
Lethal injection began yesterday at 10:53 p.m. (Eastern Daylight time, about 5a.m. here) after an appeal to stay his execution was denied. He died at 11:08 p.m.
His last words were
Caylee Marie Anthony (August 9, 2005 – June 16, 2008) was an American two-year-old girl who was reported missing in Orlando, Florida in July 2008, and whose remains were found in a wooded area near her home in December 2008. Her 22-year-old mother, Casey Marie Anthony, was tried for the first degree murder of Caylee but was acquitted. She was, however, convicted of lying to police officers.
Caylee lived with her mother, Casey, and her maternal grandparents, George and Cindy Anthony. On July 15, 2008, Caylee was reported missing to 9-1-1 by Cindy, who said she had not seen Caylee for 31 days and that Casey's car smelled like a dead body had been inside of it. She said Casey had given varied explanations as to Caylee's whereabouts and finally admitted that day that she had not seen her daughter for weeks. Casey fabricated various stories, including telling detectives the child had been kidnapped by a fictitious nanny on June 9, and that she had been trying to find her, too frightened to alert the authorities. With the child still missing, Casey was charged with first degree murder in October and pled not guilty. On December 11, Caylee's skeletal remains were found with a blanket inside a trash bag in a wooded area near the family home. Investigative reports and trial testimony altered between duct tape being found near the front of the skull and on the mouth of the skull. The medical examiner mentioned duct tape as one reason she ruled the death a homicide, but officially listed it as "death by undetermined means".
The trial lasted six weeks, from May to July 2011. The prosecution sought the death penalty and alleged Casey murdered her daughter by administering chloroform, then applying duct tape, because she wanted her freedom. The defense team, led by Jose Baez, countered that the child had drowned accidentally in the family's swimming pool on June 16, 2008, and that Casey lied about this and other issues because of a dysfunctional upbringing, which they said included sexual abuse by her father. The defense did not present evidence as to how Caylee died, nor evidence that Casey was sexually abused as a child, but challenged every piece of the prosecution's evidence, calling much of it "fantasy forensics". Casey did not testify during the trial.
On July 5, the jury found Casey not guilty of murder, aggravated child abuse, and aggravated manslaughter of a child, but guilty of four misdemeanor counts of providing false information to a law enforcement officer. With credit for time served, she was released on July 17. The verdict was greeted with public outrage, and was both attacked and defended by media and legal commentators. Some complained that the jury misunderstood the meaning of reasonable doubt,while others said the prosecution relied too heavily on the defendant's allegedly poor moral character because they had been unable to show conclusively how the victim had died.
Humans scare me.
-Sourced from this article in Time and Wikipedia.
tSN
-7 : that's how many of the nine original eyewitnesses have recanted their testimony against Davis.
— 0: the amount of physical evidence linking Davis to the crime (no fingerprints, no DNA, no weapon recovered).
— 3: the number of jurors who voted for death in the original trial who now believe their vote was a mistake.
— 22: the number of years the family of slain police officer Mark McPhail has had to wait for an answer to the question of whether or not Davis would die for the crime.
- 3: The number of executions that Troy Davis has appealed successfully.
Lethal injection began yesterday at 10:53 p.m. (Eastern Daylight time, about 5a.m. here) after an appeal to stay his execution was denied. He died at 11:08 p.m.
His last words were
I'd like to address the MacPhail family. Let you know, despite the situation you are in, I'm not the one who personally killed your son, your father, your brother. I am innocent. The incident that happened that night is not my fault. I did not have a gun. All I can ask ... is that you look deeper into this case so that you really can finally see the truth. I ask my family and friends to continue to fight this fight. For those about to take my life, God have mercy on your souls. And may God bless your souls.
Caylee Marie Anthony (August 9, 2005 – June 16, 2008) was an American two-year-old girl who was reported missing in Orlando, Florida in July 2008, and whose remains were found in a wooded area near her home in December 2008. Her 22-year-old mother, Casey Marie Anthony, was tried for the first degree murder of Caylee but was acquitted. She was, however, convicted of lying to police officers.
Caylee lived with her mother, Casey, and her maternal grandparents, George and Cindy Anthony. On July 15, 2008, Caylee was reported missing to 9-1-1 by Cindy, who said she had not seen Caylee for 31 days and that Casey's car smelled like a dead body had been inside of it. She said Casey had given varied explanations as to Caylee's whereabouts and finally admitted that day that she had not seen her daughter for weeks. Casey fabricated various stories, including telling detectives the child had been kidnapped by a fictitious nanny on June 9, and that she had been trying to find her, too frightened to alert the authorities. With the child still missing, Casey was charged with first degree murder in October and pled not guilty. On December 11, Caylee's skeletal remains were found with a blanket inside a trash bag in a wooded area near the family home. Investigative reports and trial testimony altered between duct tape being found near the front of the skull and on the mouth of the skull. The medical examiner mentioned duct tape as one reason she ruled the death a homicide, but officially listed it as "death by undetermined means".
The trial lasted six weeks, from May to July 2011. The prosecution sought the death penalty and alleged Casey murdered her daughter by administering chloroform, then applying duct tape, because she wanted her freedom. The defense team, led by Jose Baez, countered that the child had drowned accidentally in the family's swimming pool on June 16, 2008, and that Casey lied about this and other issues because of a dysfunctional upbringing, which they said included sexual abuse by her father. The defense did not present evidence as to how Caylee died, nor evidence that Casey was sexually abused as a child, but challenged every piece of the prosecution's evidence, calling much of it "fantasy forensics". Casey did not testify during the trial.
On July 5, the jury found Casey not guilty of murder, aggravated child abuse, and aggravated manslaughter of a child, but guilty of four misdemeanor counts of providing false information to a law enforcement officer. With credit for time served, she was released on July 17. The verdict was greeted with public outrage, and was both attacked and defended by media and legal commentators. Some complained that the jury misunderstood the meaning of reasonable doubt,while others said the prosecution relied too heavily on the defendant's allegedly poor moral character because they had been unable to show conclusively how the victim had died.
Humans scare me.
-Sourced from this article in Time and Wikipedia.
tSN
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The cycle continues.
She gave me my first perm.
I was sleeping over at her house,babysitting S and Y (C wasn't even born yet). They were getting perms or doing their hair or something...my 8 year old memory is rather fuddled. She asked me if I wanted her to do my hair. I nodded,excited at the novelty of not breaking combs and blowdriers. In about an hour,there I was,looking like the girl on the Dark and Lovely box (not really). Now that I think about it,that was a great name for that. Down with LSBs? Not so much. Just yay,let's do this black beauty ninininis. My mom must have been so annoyed when I came home with - well,slick,smooth,black,white-like hair.
She's the reason I like brown rice. For some reason,everyone hates brown anything. (I draw the line at brown ugali,though. Trauma from when I was a child and Mom told me it was chocolate and I took the hugest chunk,and the biggest - first and last ever - bite) Not me. I'm all like,whoop,brown rice this and brown porridge that.
She had the most radiant smile,and remains one of the women whose examples I would quote as people who look freakin amazing with short hair. She was gorgeous.
I ushered at her funeral service today. It was weird,of course. Death never really feels like death,never like it's going to happen to you,or those around you,as if you live in a bubble free from the things that bother other humans. Like you're special,or somehow immune. I'm of the opinion that God should just make those whose time has come die in their sleep,instead of through intense pain.
I was looking at her husband. You never think,when you're saying your vows to someone,that that 'forever' bit isn't true. Or you hope you're the first one to go,selfishly,so you don't have to be the one to carry on,to raise the children you made together,to put the love of your life in a dirt grave.
Being an usher is weird for me. I don't like people,nor do I particularly enjoy associating with them. So having to hand out programs,and not cry,and find them places to sit...weird. I keep getting into these situations - sijui bridesmaid,sijui emcee.
The church was packed full in an hour. Maybe it's because I was brought up Adventist,but it does not make sense to me to come to church in jeans. A jean skirt,I can forgive. Skinnies and untidy hair? #iCANT. It's a funeral service,not a pool hall or sijui a road trip. Camaaaaaaaaaan. Nobody had better come to my funeral service in jeans. You heard - read - it here. I may haunt you. Which will be hard,because ghosts don't exist,but whatever. Which of course,gets me thinking about my own funeral,and how I'm going to convince someone (namely,said mother) to cremate me. I have faith.
RIP,Aunty.
tSN
I was sleeping over at her house,babysitting S and Y (C wasn't even born yet). They were getting perms or doing their hair or something...my 8 year old memory is rather fuddled. She asked me if I wanted her to do my hair. I nodded,excited at the novelty of not breaking combs and blowdriers. In about an hour,there I was,looking like the girl on the Dark and Lovely box (not really). Now that I think about it,that was a great name for that. Down with LSBs? Not so much. Just yay,let's do this black beauty ninininis. My mom must have been so annoyed when I came home with - well,slick,smooth,black,white-like hair.
She's the reason I like brown rice. For some reason,everyone hates brown anything. (I draw the line at brown ugali,though. Trauma from when I was a child and Mom told me it was chocolate and I took the hugest chunk,and the biggest - first and last ever - bite) Not me. I'm all like,whoop,brown rice this and brown porridge that.
She had the most radiant smile,and remains one of the women whose examples I would quote as people who look freakin amazing with short hair. She was gorgeous.
I ushered at her funeral service today. It was weird,of course. Death never really feels like death,never like it's going to happen to you,or those around you,as if you live in a bubble free from the things that bother other humans. Like you're special,or somehow immune. I'm of the opinion that God should just make those whose time has come die in their sleep,instead of through intense pain.
I was looking at her husband. You never think,when you're saying your vows to someone,that that 'forever' bit isn't true. Or you hope you're the first one to go,selfishly,so you don't have to be the one to carry on,to raise the children you made together,to put the love of your life in a dirt grave.
Being an usher is weird for me. I don't like people,nor do I particularly enjoy associating with them. So having to hand out programs,and not cry,and find them places to sit...weird. I keep getting into these situations - sijui bridesmaid,sijui emcee.
The church was packed full in an hour. Maybe it's because I was brought up Adventist,but it does not make sense to me to come to church in jeans. A jean skirt,I can forgive. Skinnies and untidy hair? #iCANT. It's a funeral service,not a pool hall or sijui a road trip. Camaaaaaaaaaan. Nobody had better come to my funeral service in jeans. You heard - read - it here. I may haunt you. Which will be hard,because ghosts don't exist,but whatever. Which of course,gets me thinking about my own funeral,and how I'm going to convince someone (namely,said mother) to cremate me. I have faith.
RIP,Aunty.
tSN
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Of youth who don't live in Amsterdam
In view of Kenya's recent tragedy, I traipsed down to Bomb Blast Memorial Park to offer my pure (awesome) blood. Upon reaching the front of the line after standing for 2 hours, I may or may not have been disqualified from donating.
Why might I or might'nt I disqualified,you ask? Well,I'm not saying I was or I wasn't. I may or may not have given blood. But if I was disqualified,it may have been because of the section on the form that said 'Have you,in the past 12 months,partaken of any non-medicinal drugs such as marijuana or cocaine?' If I was disqualified. Which I'm not saying I was.
All I am saying,however,is,whatever the answer was to that question on OTHER people's forms,the question is grammatically incorrect,therefore how can one really answer it correctly? Like,cocaine may be non-medicinal,but it sure is healthy. It'd probably HELP whoever got it from my blood or anyone else's,if they had cocaine in it. Sure helped Scarface,from what I could see in that Lonely Planet video (LOVE me some Michael Bolton).
As for Mary Jane,EVERYONE knows it's medicinal. They prescribe medicinal marijuana in several hospitals. It's legal in lots of countries. Are you telling me that AAAAAAAAAAALL those citizens of those countries,and every old person with a pain problem can't donate blood? That's a pity - for them,of course.
Anyway,whether or not I was disqualified,it still doesn't make sense. I mean,I called up 2 doctors and they have no idea why that would disqualified anyone who had marked the 'yes' box. And they would know,right? I just feel sorry for all those people who were turned away for lighting up a joint that was probably,like, || that big. Dude told someone weed takes 7 years to get out of your system. So they can't donate for 7 years. Really? That seems like an injustice. And y'all know me. I'm all about championing rights and stuff.
But seriously. It really was probably like || that big. Smh. Poor thing. I felt so bad as I watched he-him walk away,after waiting for 2-so long. *coughs* *no jointo*
tSN
Why might I or might'nt I disqualified,you ask? Well,I'm not saying I was or I wasn't. I may or may not have given blood. But if I was disqualified,it may have been because of the section on the form that said 'Have you,in the past 12 months,partaken of any non-medicinal drugs such as marijuana or cocaine?' If I was disqualified. Which I'm not saying I was.
All I am saying,however,is,whatever the answer was to that question on OTHER people's forms,the question is grammatically incorrect,therefore how can one really answer it correctly? Like,cocaine may be non-medicinal,but it sure is healthy. It'd probably HELP whoever got it from my blood or anyone else's,if they had cocaine in it. Sure helped Scarface,from what I could see in that Lonely Planet video (LOVE me some Michael Bolton).
As for Mary Jane,EVERYONE knows it's medicinal. They prescribe medicinal marijuana in several hospitals. It's legal in lots of countries. Are you telling me that AAAAAAAAAAALL those citizens of those countries,and every old person with a pain problem can't donate blood? That's a pity - for them,of course.
Anyway,whether or not I was disqualified,it still doesn't make sense. I mean,I called up 2 doctors and they have no idea why that would disqualified anyone who had marked the 'yes' box. And they would know,right? I just feel sorry for all those people who were turned away for lighting up a joint that was probably,like, || that big. Dude told someone weed takes 7 years to get out of your system. So they can't donate for 7 years. Really? That seems like an injustice. And y'all know me. I'm all about championing rights and stuff.
But seriously. It really was probably like || that big. Smh. Poor thing. I felt so bad as I watched he-him walk away,after waiting for 2-so long. *coughs* *no jointo*
tSN
Rated AM (i.e. if you are in possession of sensibilities, skip to the next post)
We all go through that phase at some point in our lives. Well, most of us anyway. Save for those few who were fortunate enough to wind up with that perfect combination of genes, after generations and generations of Mother Nature’s dice rolling, of exchange of dominant and recessive roles between the good and the bad genes, that subconsciously sought after mix of superior and dominant genes that gives us, well, something close to me. The contemporary Alpha Male. Yes, I see you roll your eyes, like here we go, but let me stop you. I actually am serious. I AM the alpha male. I am that seemingly unidentifiable man all men want to be. I am that man you want to be, or your boyfriend wants to be, or your brother, uncle, and yes, even your father. Wants to be and wishes he were. I am the quintessential male. I am Mother Nature’s ultimate goal. Evolution is a quest for perfection, and I stand at the end of that quest. I am the closest thing to god you will ever meet.
I digress. So I shall backtrack. I started off talking about a phase. Even with my near perfection, I too went through that phase, albeit very briefly. That unsure phase of your life. That bit where you’re uncertain of everything. You don’t quite know what you want. Or how you want to achieve what you want. You’re funny looking. Things are not quite in proportion yet. And there’s one other thing. What was it. Oh yeah. You’re a fucking retard. Make no mistake, mine was fleeting; blink and you would have missed it. Most of the people in my life cannot even identify it. But nonetheless, I went through it. Which takes me in the direction of my subject. Women. Even in that phase, I still seemed to do quite alright in that department. I mean no doubt I had the usual blustering nerves that plagued most of us, but I got by. Then the fleeting period passed. I blinked. Almost literally. And my world changed.
Backstory. Allow me to indulge myself. I am fucking brilliant. I put it like that for emphasis. You see, there is brilliant, then there is very brilliant. Then there is fucking brilliant. I am the latter. My current career of choice is in the manufacturing industry. Strategy and policy. This decision was made after I blinked. However I say current because it shall not be my last, and neither shall my next one. That’s right. Fucking brilliant. Digressing again. Apologies. Upon blinking, my life quickly picked up pace. Mentally, financially and inevitably, sexually. I started to notice an improvement with the ladies. I seemed to develop a far greater appeal than before. Now, this has little to do with looks, although, for the reasons stated at the very beginning, I am, naturally, a good looking fellow, a fact that helped me through my blink. But now things were different. I exuded something…..seemingly unique. So what was I to do? I indulged the effect. Throughout the remainder of high school and my campus years, I indulged. And wound up with very interesting early sexual encounters. Very interesting. But those are stories for another day. I came away from those experiences with two things:
One, I learned that my Midas Touch had nothing to do with my latter, if you can call them that, successes. I am in my early twenties and already making very good money. Driving a beautiful Chevy Camaro. Cabrio of course. Obstinately confident. Bla bla bla. You know. The usual story of a late thirties, early forties chap. Except I am in my early twenties. The work of my brain. But today I am talking about the work of my dick. So let us proceed.
Two, my Harem began to amass. In leaps and bounds. Where shall I start…
Angie. My sister’s best friend. Younger sister. Angie is one of those girls who just oozes sex appeal. Little. No. Scratch that. Tiny. And boy could she fuck. Fuck. After I blinked, I would go out with my sister and Angie. And noticed she would give me the eye. So I thought it only fair to give her the Dick. She’s that all important iPod Nano shag. You know. The oh-so-portable-one. The one you can lift up and pin to the wall and fuck her brains out without breaking a sweat. Yes. That one.
Marla. My sister’s friend. Elder sister. Similar story. Clubbing together, got a little too touchy on the dance floor, one thing led to another, and bam. Or should I say bang. My first experienced shag. She taught me so much about mind blowing sex that I came to the conclusion what I was having before her was not sex. Guys, you gotta get a more experienced lover at some point. The things they can do will blow your mind. Marla gave me my first experienced blowjob. Not that biting, slobbing, saliva rubbish most girls do. She Sucked Dick ™. She literally sucked the cum out of me. And swallowed. My body convulses just thinking about her. And the best thing about it, she loves every second of it. It turns her on incredibly. And she knows her body. And she is….wait for it…the ever elusive…..squirter. Yes. Admittedly, it is a feat we have only accomplished thrice (really due to the fact that it is faaaaaaaaaaaaaar too much work), but each time leaves me in utter awe. Been like four weeks Marla…..where’d I put that number…
Fiona. Primary school best friend. Turned instant fierce lover once I blinked. In a steady relationship throughout (not with me of course), but can never quite say no to me. She is that apprehensive shag. Like, she knows she shouldn’t be doing it, but can’t quite help herself. Like, no, no, no, no…..yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, YEEESSS!!!
Ciru. Gotta have a Ciru. LOL. Was a neighbour. Kept running into her as I walked my dog. Ciru is a giver. The submissive type. Nothing boosts a man’s ego like a giver. She spreads herself, all wet and eager, for me to take her as I please. And she has a serious case of that thing some girls have, um….instant wet? Only takes a touch and she is all lathered…beautiful.
Stella. I made eye contact with Stella’s arse at a corporate function. She was in a tight little red outfit that absolutely killed all the men in attendance, and later that night, I took the concept of attendance to a whole new level. I attended my ass off. LOL. She was my first one night stand. She broke my one night stand virginity. I am ever so grateful, Stella, *sob sob*, you taught me so much. Stella is currently my go to blow job girl. I mean, that girl can suck a dick. And not just randomly, and guys, I know you will bond with me here; she will work at your dick like it’s a fucking job-on-the-line assignment and the fucking deadline’s running out. If she put half that effort in her work, she’d be fucking CEO by now. First time she gave me head, she sucked the sperm out of every last orifice in my testicles. And then swallowed. That day, I knew this one’s a keeper. You absolutely MUST have a PHD equivalent blow job girl in your harem. And, to add icing to the cake, Stella’s a screamer. Goddamn. Shakes me up just thinking about her.
Ciru’s best friend. Yeah I know. How cliché. But gotta do a best friend right? At this point I must say, you ladies are your own worst enemies. So I don’t really know how these things work with girls, perhaps Ciru went on and on about how I *brushing my shoulder* laid the dick down, perhaps her best friend had always liked me, who knows. Who cares. Long as she fucking, right?
Phyllis, Mary, Laura, Virginia. My workplace girls. My boss is feeding me on more fronts than he knows. LMFAO. And to show my sincere thanks, I cum all over his kitchen. And his boardroom table. And his bathroom sink. You get the picture. Perhaps morals amongst working class girls are decaying (so says the whore ) but fucked them all within the second out of office encounter. Two on the first. The amount of sex I have within the office premises is ungodly. And I have identified two more prospects. One on our offices on 8th floor, another on 15th. To be honest they are the last workable prospects in the company.
It’s unbelievable. Really it is. I honestly do not know what it is with me, but most women seem to be attracted to me. They cannot help themselves. If I was female, I probably couldn’t either. I have gotten overtures from mothers, wives, girlfriends, sisters….you name it.
Now the most beautiful thing about my little harem, each and every one of my girls is at my beck and call. My women are house trained. They await my call. And when I call, they fucking come running.
This will probably come off as very pompous, but I am not one to sugarcoat. I am telling you like it is. Like I said, I must be the so called Alpha Male, because there simply cannot be any superior to me. Gentlemen, I apologise in advance, as I suspect little of this has gone down well. But take heart. We cannot all be me. Just don’t bring your girlfriend around me.
And to close, there’s a saying I saw somewhere in the bible that could prove to be of some comfort to you. It goes:
A. M.
I digress. So I shall backtrack. I started off talking about a phase. Even with my near perfection, I too went through that phase, albeit very briefly. That unsure phase of your life. That bit where you’re uncertain of everything. You don’t quite know what you want. Or how you want to achieve what you want. You’re funny looking. Things are not quite in proportion yet. And there’s one other thing. What was it. Oh yeah. You’re a fucking retard. Make no mistake, mine was fleeting; blink and you would have missed it. Most of the people in my life cannot even identify it. But nonetheless, I went through it. Which takes me in the direction of my subject. Women. Even in that phase, I still seemed to do quite alright in that department. I mean no doubt I had the usual blustering nerves that plagued most of us, but I got by. Then the fleeting period passed. I blinked. Almost literally. And my world changed.
Backstory. Allow me to indulge myself. I am fucking brilliant. I put it like that for emphasis. You see, there is brilliant, then there is very brilliant. Then there is fucking brilliant. I am the latter. My current career of choice is in the manufacturing industry. Strategy and policy. This decision was made after I blinked. However I say current because it shall not be my last, and neither shall my next one. That’s right. Fucking brilliant. Digressing again. Apologies. Upon blinking, my life quickly picked up pace. Mentally, financially and inevitably, sexually. I started to notice an improvement with the ladies. I seemed to develop a far greater appeal than before. Now, this has little to do with looks, although, for the reasons stated at the very beginning, I am, naturally, a good looking fellow, a fact that helped me through my blink. But now things were different. I exuded something…..seemingly unique. So what was I to do? I indulged the effect. Throughout the remainder of high school and my campus years, I indulged. And wound up with very interesting early sexual encounters. Very interesting. But those are stories for another day. I came away from those experiences with two things:
One, I learned that my Midas Touch had nothing to do with my latter, if you can call them that, successes. I am in my early twenties and already making very good money. Driving a beautiful Chevy Camaro. Cabrio of course. Obstinately confident. Bla bla bla. You know. The usual story of a late thirties, early forties chap. Except I am in my early twenties. The work of my brain. But today I am talking about the work of my dick. So let us proceed.
Two, my Harem began to amass. In leaps and bounds. Where shall I start…
Angie. My sister’s best friend. Younger sister. Angie is one of those girls who just oozes sex appeal. Little. No. Scratch that. Tiny. And boy could she fuck. Fuck. After I blinked, I would go out with my sister and Angie. And noticed she would give me the eye. So I thought it only fair to give her the Dick. She’s that all important iPod Nano shag. You know. The oh-so-portable-one. The one you can lift up and pin to the wall and fuck her brains out without breaking a sweat. Yes. That one.
Marla. My sister’s friend. Elder sister. Similar story. Clubbing together, got a little too touchy on the dance floor, one thing led to another, and bam. Or should I say bang. My first experienced shag. She taught me so much about mind blowing sex that I came to the conclusion what I was having before her was not sex. Guys, you gotta get a more experienced lover at some point. The things they can do will blow your mind. Marla gave me my first experienced blowjob. Not that biting, slobbing, saliva rubbish most girls do. She Sucked Dick ™. She literally sucked the cum out of me. And swallowed. My body convulses just thinking about her. And the best thing about it, she loves every second of it. It turns her on incredibly. And she knows her body. And she is….wait for it…the ever elusive…..squirter. Yes. Admittedly, it is a feat we have only accomplished thrice (really due to the fact that it is faaaaaaaaaaaaaar too much work), but each time leaves me in utter awe. Been like four weeks Marla…..where’d I put that number…
Fiona. Primary school best friend. Turned instant fierce lover once I blinked. In a steady relationship throughout (not with me of course), but can never quite say no to me. She is that apprehensive shag. Like, she knows she shouldn’t be doing it, but can’t quite help herself. Like, no, no, no, no…..yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, YEEESSS!!!
Ciru. Gotta have a Ciru. LOL. Was a neighbour. Kept running into her as I walked my dog. Ciru is a giver. The submissive type. Nothing boosts a man’s ego like a giver. She spreads herself, all wet and eager, for me to take her as I please. And she has a serious case of that thing some girls have, um….instant wet? Only takes a touch and she is all lathered…beautiful.
Stella. I made eye contact with Stella’s arse at a corporate function. She was in a tight little red outfit that absolutely killed all the men in attendance, and later that night, I took the concept of attendance to a whole new level. I attended my ass off. LOL. She was my first one night stand. She broke my one night stand virginity. I am ever so grateful, Stella, *sob sob*, you taught me so much. Stella is currently my go to blow job girl. I mean, that girl can suck a dick. And not just randomly, and guys, I know you will bond with me here; she will work at your dick like it’s a fucking job-on-the-line assignment and the fucking deadline’s running out. If she put half that effort in her work, she’d be fucking CEO by now. First time she gave me head, she sucked the sperm out of every last orifice in my testicles. And then swallowed. That day, I knew this one’s a keeper. You absolutely MUST have a PHD equivalent blow job girl in your harem. And, to add icing to the cake, Stella’s a screamer. Goddamn. Shakes me up just thinking about her.
Ciru’s best friend. Yeah I know. How cliché. But gotta do a best friend right? At this point I must say, you ladies are your own worst enemies. So I don’t really know how these things work with girls, perhaps Ciru went on and on about how I *brushing my shoulder* laid the dick down, perhaps her best friend had always liked me, who knows. Who cares. Long as she fucking, right?
Phyllis, Mary, Laura, Virginia. My workplace girls. My boss is feeding me on more fronts than he knows. LMFAO. And to show my sincere thanks, I cum all over his kitchen. And his boardroom table. And his bathroom sink. You get the picture. Perhaps morals amongst working class girls are decaying (so says the whore ) but fucked them all within the second out of office encounter. Two on the first. The amount of sex I have within the office premises is ungodly. And I have identified two more prospects. One on our offices on 8th floor, another on 15th. To be honest they are the last workable prospects in the company.
It’s unbelievable. Really it is. I honestly do not know what it is with me, but most women seem to be attracted to me. They cannot help themselves. If I was female, I probably couldn’t either. I have gotten overtures from mothers, wives, girlfriends, sisters….you name it.
Now the most beautiful thing about my little harem, each and every one of my girls is at my beck and call. My women are house trained. They await my call. And when I call, they fucking come running.
This will probably come off as very pompous, but I am not one to sugarcoat. I am telling you like it is. Like I said, I must be the so called Alpha Male, because there simply cannot be any superior to me. Gentlemen, I apologise in advance, as I suspect little of this has gone down well. But take heart. We cannot all be me. Just don’t bring your girlfriend around me.
And to close, there’s a saying I saw somewhere in the bible that could prove to be of some comfort to you. It goes:
“Ye that owneth and driveth a Toyota Corollaeth knoweth only your Toyota Corollaeth, and cannot fathom the superlativeth experienceth of he that owneth and driveth an Aston Martineth, Ferrarieth, Lamborghinieth and Rolls Royceth; so looseth not hearteth."
A. M.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Why I prefer Batman (cartoons) to Transformers (movies)
The song that is running through my head right now, is one of the greatest songs ever made, in my opinion. Or at least, a really, really good one. The words are genius.
Broken Hearts Parade
by Good Charlotte. It is also the second link on my blog to music. Ah, such growth. :o)
On to the topic of the day.
Batman.
Without a doubt,(in my head, anyway) the greatest superhero ever. He comes up in my blog often, the first time being one of my very first posts. A self-made man who still fits all the superhero rules. An unforgiving, shunned vigilante, often misunderstood (with, supposedly, at his inception, homosexual tendencies, but who really cares in a league of superheroes where you ALL where underwear over tights) and misconstrued, but never, ever subdued in his constant battle for justice and retribution. *sighs* I could go on and on.
The other day I was watching Batman: Under the Red Hood. (aside: it disappoints me that I enjoy the animations more than anything Christian Bale has ever made. Dude. What's with that.) It's a keeper, folks. I will probably never delete it, yea, though I walk through the valley of No Space in my Hard Disk, I shall not erase it, for his stunts and his coolness, they comfort me. And it struck me that (other than my intense and overwhelming love for all things batty that is revamped every time I see the Bat signal...did you know they actually MADE the BatMobile?) the reason I enjoy Batman is because I have a simple mind. Let me explain.
Batman's tricks are easy to follow. He does one at a time, and they're all cool. There's not too much evil and mayhem going on in the background, no explosions to distract you from B-man (that's what I'd call him if we were best friends. Or, like, Bizzle. Biznit?). You are fully exposed to his awesomeness, slowly and clearly. You don't miss a thing (cue Aerosmith). Simple.
Transformers, on the other hand, tries too damn hard. Don't get me wrong, I love the fighting, and the effects, bla bla bla. But the story is, more often than not, weak (ok I don't reeeeally think so, but whatever). This Michael Bay chap tries to cram 3 movies into 1 movie. I felt like in Transformers 2, he was tryna do a sitcom, National Treasure and Transformers. Pissed me off that I only saw the cool girl motorcycle robots TWICE in the whole movie; at the bit where they were lining them all up, and at the end where the purple one was being destroyed. (In T3, the bot who was a Ferrari, the cool one with the whips? TWICE. Or, like, four. CAMAAAAAAAAN.) Half the time during the fights I have no idea who is on whose side. Maybe I'm not a die-hard Transformers fan (clearly my allegiance is with Biznit), but...really? I hate that I miss so much, and that usually I have to watch the movies at least twice.
Hence, Batman remains my one and only. Honestly, Transformers for me just needs to calm down.
Also, I think Airtel has a conspiracy afoot to keep sending you texts about how you're on Club 10 so that you spend money thinking so and then have to buy more credit when you realize you're not, which, unless you're the once-bitten-twice-shy kinda Kenyan, will happen again and again. Hmmmm. *strokes chin ki-Mafia*
tSN
Broken Hearts Parade
by Good Charlotte. It is also the second link on my blog to music. Ah, such growth. :o)
On to the topic of the day.
Batman.
Without a doubt,(in my head, anyway) the greatest superhero ever. He comes up in my blog often, the first time being one of my very first posts. A self-made man who still fits all the superhero rules. An unforgiving, shunned vigilante, often misunderstood (with, supposedly, at his inception, homosexual tendencies, but who really cares in a league of superheroes where you ALL where underwear over tights) and misconstrued, but never, ever subdued in his constant battle for justice and retribution. *sighs* I could go on and on.
The other day I was watching Batman: Under the Red Hood. (aside: it disappoints me that I enjoy the animations more than anything Christian Bale has ever made. Dude. What's with that.) It's a keeper, folks. I will probably never delete it, yea, though I walk through the valley of No Space in my Hard Disk, I shall not erase it, for his stunts and his coolness, they comfort me. And it struck me that (other than my intense and overwhelming love for all things batty that is revamped every time I see the Bat signal...did you know they actually MADE the BatMobile?) the reason I enjoy Batman is because I have a simple mind. Let me explain.
Batman's tricks are easy to follow. He does one at a time, and they're all cool. There's not too much evil and mayhem going on in the background, no explosions to distract you from B-man (that's what I'd call him if we were best friends. Or, like, Bizzle. Biznit?). You are fully exposed to his awesomeness, slowly and clearly. You don't miss a thing (cue Aerosmith). Simple.
Transformers, on the other hand, tries too damn hard. Don't get me wrong, I love the fighting, and the effects, bla bla bla. But the story is, more often than not, weak (ok I don't reeeeally think so, but whatever). This Michael Bay chap tries to cram 3 movies into 1 movie. I felt like in Transformers 2, he was tryna do a sitcom, National Treasure and Transformers. Pissed me off that I only saw the cool girl motorcycle robots TWICE in the whole movie; at the bit where they were lining them all up, and at the end where the purple one was being destroyed. (In T3, the bot who was a Ferrari, the cool one with the whips? TWICE. Or, like, four. CAMAAAAAAAAN.) Half the time during the fights I have no idea who is on whose side. Maybe I'm not a die-hard Transformers fan (clearly my allegiance is with Biznit), but...really? I hate that I miss so much, and that usually I have to watch the movies at least twice.
Hence, Batman remains my one and only. Honestly, Transformers for me just needs to calm down.
Also, I think Airtel has a conspiracy afoot to keep sending you texts about how you're on Club 10 so that you spend money thinking so and then have to buy more credit when you realize you're not, which, unless you're the once-bitten-twice-shy kinda Kenyan, will happen again and again. Hmmmm. *strokes chin ki-Mafia*
tSN
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Of Mice and Men
There are boys...and then there are men. The problem (of our generation is finding a good way to spend iiiit :D) more often than not, is sorting the chaff from the gems. (that actually kinda rhymes. Kinda. Camaaaan.)
I have something against the male species who originate/reside in a specific sub-location in this our Nairobi (which will from now on be referred to as MORDOR). Back when I was young and innocent, and a little further stil, I had several dealings with these species from MORDOR, and I finally gathered sufficient data to conclude the following, characteristics which are applicable to a majority but not necessarily all of the species:
1. The male species from MORDOR should more likely be referred to as boys.
2. The boys of MORDOR are incapable of efficient decision-making, which often leads to girls being led on and long, drawn-out annoying pre-date conversation.
3. The boys of MORDOR also appear to be generally incapable of expressing themselves where females are concerned, as well as having clean dealings with said females (as they nearly always involve more females in what was not supposed to be a menage-a-quatre)
So, I stopped my association with MORDOR and moved on to greener plains, after forming a dating rule: MORDOR? No more. (Yes. Yes, it rhymes.)(Disclaimer: Rules are made to be broken. Or windows, if he behaves in such a manner that deserves such)
I met an ex yesterday (although, I use this term loosely, as we were never official, mostly because I think he was a pansy who just wanted my goodies. He claims differently, but I have watched too many he's-just-not-that-into-you movies to let his 'heartfelt speech' penetrate. Not much else penetrated either. Also, the theory that will soon be explained may also be the reason we were never official). And, as I hear this rarely, if ever, happens, I thanked the Ye Olde Clothing gods for allowing me to look fabulous. (This also takes me back to when we had just decided to part ways, seeing as we could not break up because there was nothing to break up, and I met him at the movies with a friend of mine who didn't know HE was the one I had been dasting coz they had never met... #awkward...what is it with my friends and my exes? I don't actually mind, it's just...can I get a lil warning? Can it please not be so freakin soon after we split? CAMAAAAAAAAAN. Anyhue. He was on a date with her, and I was on a date with my soon-to-be, which made it better. On this particular day, the soon-to-be was a was, which also made it better as I waved happily. Lol. It's the small things. But really. Don't you LOVE it when you look so good after it's over? Which girl doesn't fervently wish that he still misses you, especially with that particular bra on? Ah, the sweet wallowing of a vengeful soul. *wallows deeper*)
Anyhue, this particular not-ex resides in MORDOR, and predictably, acted the douche. You know why stereotypes exist? Because they have truth in them. I would probably stop thinking dimunitive thoughts about MORDORians if I could meet more than the paltry few who are sensible.
I leave it to you to figure out where MORDOR is. It shouldn't be too hard; they're a special breed.
tSN
p.s. Shout out to Fi and D. :o)
p.s. Yes, this is the same post. It's a long story.
I have something against the male species who originate/reside in a specific sub-location in this our Nairobi (which will from now on be referred to as MORDOR). Back when I was young and innocent, and a little further stil, I had several dealings with these species from MORDOR, and I finally gathered sufficient data to conclude the following, characteristics which are applicable to a majority but not necessarily all of the species:
1. The male species from MORDOR should more likely be referred to as boys.
2. The boys of MORDOR are incapable of efficient decision-making, which often leads to girls being led on and long, drawn-out annoying pre-date conversation.
3. The boys of MORDOR also appear to be generally incapable of expressing themselves where females are concerned, as well as having clean dealings with said females (as they nearly always involve more females in what was not supposed to be a menage-a-quatre)
So, I stopped my association with MORDOR and moved on to greener plains, after forming a dating rule: MORDOR? No more. (Yes. Yes, it rhymes.)(Disclaimer: Rules are made to be broken. Or windows, if he behaves in such a manner that deserves such)
I met an ex yesterday (although, I use this term loosely, as we were never official, mostly because I think he was a pansy who just wanted my goodies. He claims differently, but I have watched too many he's-just-not-that-into-you movies to let his 'heartfelt speech' penetrate. Not much else penetrated either. Also, the theory that will soon be explained may also be the reason we were never official). And, as I hear this rarely, if ever, happens, I thanked the Ye Olde Clothing gods for allowing me to look fabulous. (This also takes me back to when we had just decided to part ways, seeing as we could not break up because there was nothing to break up, and I met him at the movies with a friend of mine who didn't know HE was the one I had been dasting coz they had never met... #awkward...what is it with my friends and my exes? I don't actually mind, it's just...can I get a lil warning? Can it please not be so freakin soon after we split? CAMAAAAAAAAAN. Anyhue. He was on a date with her, and I was on a date with my soon-to-be, which made it better. On this particular day, the soon-to-be was a was, which also made it better as I waved happily. Lol. It's the small things. But really. Don't you LOVE it when you look so good after it's over? Which girl doesn't fervently wish that he still misses you, especially with that particular bra on? Ah, the sweet wallowing of a vengeful soul. *wallows deeper*)
Anyhue, this particular not-ex resides in MORDOR, and predictably, acted the douche. You know why stereotypes exist? Because they have truth in them. I would probably stop thinking dimunitive thoughts about MORDORians if I could meet more than the paltry few who are sensible.
I leave it to you to figure out where MORDOR is. It shouldn't be too hard; they're a special breed.
tSN
p.s. Shout out to Fi and D. :o)
p.s. Yes, this is the same post. It's a long story.
Monday, September 5, 2011
SPARTA!
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I love Nairobi. And Kenya. Yay for Maasais and Sonford and Harambee. In fact, my last post was all about how awesome Nairobi is, and how it is me.
I'm still gonna move, though.
This city, like the person I am, has a lot of ugliness in it. Now, while I can take my own ugliness (much like you can wipe your own arse after you take a dump, because it's YOURS), I can't take Nairobi's. I'M NOT YOUR NURSE, DAMNIT! YOU'RE NOT SENILE! It's the little things that make our already complicated relationship a null and void one.
Today, I was in a matatu. (SURPRISE!!) Ah, matatus. The bane of my poetic existence. I hate them, but I love them. Their beautiful disorganization thrills me, and then kills every fibre in my being (except the ones in my fingers, apparently). I love that I can get a jav anywhere. I hate that they can decide to drop me anywhere, especially NOT my destination. I hate sharing seats (which @brendawambui inspired me to not do anymore, but I get dirty looks all the freaking time! Man, if I had telepathic/telekinesis powers, or just something that could shrink balls with a look...the Ballinator. Yeah. I can see my underwear costume now, fighting crime beside Batman, because you know it would be Batman, who would secretly be scared of me, because...well, duh. Then we could...ok, back to the story.), but I love how they drive on the sidewalk and you feel like you could possibly be canoodling with death as you hang on for dear life (and wish you were a superhero. Yes, yes, we ARE back to that).
As I was leaving the matatu (after sharing a seat with the lovely @C_Leo_Patra), SOMETHING stabbed my shin. Not the nice are-you-just-happy-to-see-me kind of stabs. The I'm-going-to-rob-you-blind kind of stabs. Only it was a chunk of metal, looking like it was trying to wrestle my shin. It won. The gougefest was a bloody, gory one, and it left with enough of my skin to make sijui a humanskin coat. Or shoes. Or a bag. An entire pimp outfit, damnit. This, as you can imagine, is highly uncomfortable in skinny jeans.
Ok, it wasn't bloody. But there WAS blood. And I was pissed enough to mutter "Fuck!" as I left the battle scene (I'm that passive aggressive. I only muttered. Like Muttley. I'm so ashamed.). Either way, as Sparta does not exist, I'm moving to the nearest closest thing: Rwanda. It's run by a Spartan. Good enough for me.
AUU!
tSN
p.s. Also, I want to live in a country where I can sue the wankers for violation of safety rules. That CAN'T be safe. By Jove, I could be so. Freakin. Rich. Then I could retire, and REALLY work on my costume/BALLMOBILE.
I'm still gonna move, though.
This city, like the person I am, has a lot of ugliness in it. Now, while I can take my own ugliness (much like you can wipe your own arse after you take a dump, because it's YOURS), I can't take Nairobi's. I'M NOT YOUR NURSE, DAMNIT! YOU'RE NOT SENILE! It's the little things that make our already complicated relationship a null and void one.
Today, I was in a matatu. (SURPRISE!!) Ah, matatus. The bane of my poetic existence. I hate them, but I love them. Their beautiful disorganization thrills me, and then kills every fibre in my being (except the ones in my fingers, apparently). I love that I can get a jav anywhere. I hate that they can decide to drop me anywhere, especially NOT my destination. I hate sharing seats (which @brendawambui inspired me to not do anymore, but I get dirty looks all the freaking time! Man, if I had telepathic/telekinesis powers, or just something that could shrink balls with a look...the Ballinator. Yeah. I can see my underwear costume now, fighting crime beside Batman, because you know it would be Batman, who would secretly be scared of me, because...well, duh. Then we could...ok, back to the story.), but I love how they drive on the sidewalk and you feel like you could possibly be canoodling with death as you hang on for dear life (and wish you were a superhero. Yes, yes, we ARE back to that).
As I was leaving the matatu (after sharing a seat with the lovely @C_Leo_Patra), SOMETHING stabbed my shin. Not the nice are-you-just-happy-to-see-me kind of stabs. The I'm-going-to-rob-you-blind kind of stabs. Only it was a chunk of metal, looking like it was trying to wrestle my shin. It won. The gougefest was a bloody, gory one, and it left with enough of my skin to make sijui a humanskin coat. Or shoes. Or a bag. An entire pimp outfit, damnit. This, as you can imagine, is highly uncomfortable in skinny jeans.
Ok, it wasn't bloody. But there WAS blood. And I was pissed enough to mutter "Fuck!" as I left the battle scene (I'm that passive aggressive. I only muttered. Like Muttley. I'm so ashamed.). Either way, as Sparta does not exist, I'm moving to the nearest closest thing: Rwanda. It's run by a Spartan. Good enough for me.
AUU!
tSN
p.s. Also, I want to live in a country where I can sue the wankers for violation of safety rules. That CAN'T be safe. By Jove, I could be so. Freakin. Rich. Then I could retire, and REALLY work on my costume/BALLMOBILE.
Of Mice and Men.
There are boys...and then there are men. The problem (of our generation is finding a good way to spend iiiit :D) more often than not, is sorting the chaff from the gems. (that actually kinda rhymes. Kinda. Camaaaan.)
I have something against the male species who originate/reside in a specific sub-location in this our Nairobi (which will from now on be referred to as MORDOR). Back when I was young and innocent, and a little further stil, I had several dealings with these species from MORDOR, and I finally gathered sufficient data to conclude the following, characteristics which are applicable to a majority but not necessarily all of the species:
1. The male species from MORDOR should more likely be referred to as boys.
2. The boys of MORDOR are incapable of efficient decision-making, which often leads to girls being led on and long, drawn-out annoying pre-date conversation.
3. The boys of MORDOR also appear to be generally incapable of expressing themselves where females are concerned, as well as having clean dealings with said females (as they nearly always involve more females in what was not supposed to be a menage-a-quatre)
So, I stopped my association with MORDOR and moved on to greener plains, after forming a dating rule: MORDOR? No more. (Yes. Yes, it rhymes.)(Disclaimer: Rules are made to be broken. Or windows, if he behaves in such a manner that deserves such)
I met an ex yesterday (although, I use this term loosely, as we were never official, mostly because I think he was a pansy who just wanted my goodies. He claims differently, but I have watched too many he's-just-not-that-into-you movies to let his 'heartfelt speech' penetrate. Not much else penetrated either. Also, the theory that will soon be explained may also be the reason we were never official). And, as I hear this rarely, if ever, happens, I thanked the Ye Olde Clothing gods for allowing me to look fabulous. (This also takes me back to when we had just decided to part ways, seeing as we could not break up because there was nothing to break up, and I met him at the movies with a friend of mine who didn't know HE was the one I had been dasting coz they had never met... #awkward...what is it with my friends and my exes? I don't actually mind, it's just...can I get a lil warning? Can it please not be so freakin soon after we split? CAMAAAAAAAAAN. Anyhue. He was on a date with her, and I was on a date with my soon-to-be, which made it better. On this particular day, the soon-to-be was a was, which also made it better as I waved happily. Lol. It's the small things. But really. Don't you LOVE it when you look so good after it's over? Which girl doesn't fervently wish that he still misses you, especially with that particular bra on? Ah, the sweet wallowing of a vengeful soul. *wallows deeper*)
Anyhue, this particular not-ex resides in MORDOR, and predictably, acted the douche. You know why stereotypes exist? Because they have truth in them. I would probably stop thinking dimunitive thoughts about MORDORians if I could meet more than the paltry few who are sensible.
I leave it to you to figure out where MORDOR is. It shouldn't be too hard; they're a special breed.
tSN
p.s. Shout out to Fi and D. :o)
I have something against the male species who originate/reside in a specific sub-location in this our Nairobi (which will from now on be referred to as MORDOR). Back when I was young and innocent, and a little further stil, I had several dealings with these species from MORDOR, and I finally gathered sufficient data to conclude the following, characteristics which are applicable to a majority but not necessarily all of the species:
1. The male species from MORDOR should more likely be referred to as boys.
2. The boys of MORDOR are incapable of efficient decision-making, which often leads to girls being led on and long, drawn-out annoying pre-date conversation.
3. The boys of MORDOR also appear to be generally incapable of expressing themselves where females are concerned, as well as having clean dealings with said females (as they nearly always involve more females in what was not supposed to be a menage-a-quatre)
So, I stopped my association with MORDOR and moved on to greener plains, after forming a dating rule: MORDOR? No more. (Yes. Yes, it rhymes.)(Disclaimer: Rules are made to be broken. Or windows, if he behaves in such a manner that deserves such)
I met an ex yesterday (although, I use this term loosely, as we were never official, mostly because I think he was a pansy who just wanted my goodies. He claims differently, but I have watched too many he's-just-not-that-into-you movies to let his 'heartfelt speech' penetrate. Not much else penetrated either. Also, the theory that will soon be explained may also be the reason we were never official). And, as I hear this rarely, if ever, happens, I thanked the Ye Olde Clothing gods for allowing me to look fabulous. (This also takes me back to when we had just decided to part ways, seeing as we could not break up because there was nothing to break up, and I met him at the movies with a friend of mine who didn't know HE was the one I had been dasting coz they had never met... #awkward...what is it with my friends and my exes? I don't actually mind, it's just...can I get a lil warning? Can it please not be so freakin soon after we split? CAMAAAAAAAAAN. Anyhue. He was on a date with her, and I was on a date with my soon-to-be, which made it better. On this particular day, the soon-to-be was a was, which also made it better as I waved happily. Lol. It's the small things. But really. Don't you LOVE it when you look so good after it's over? Which girl doesn't fervently wish that he still misses you, especially with that particular bra on? Ah, the sweet wallowing of a vengeful soul. *wallows deeper*)
Anyhue, this particular not-ex resides in MORDOR, and predictably, acted the douche. You know why stereotypes exist? Because they have truth in them. I would probably stop thinking dimunitive thoughts about MORDORians if I could meet more than the paltry few who are sensible.
I leave it to you to figure out where MORDOR is. It shouldn't be too hard; they're a special breed.
tSN
p.s. Shout out to Fi and D. :o)
Thursday, September 1, 2011
MY NAIROBI
The first thing most people think when they hear ‘Kenya’ is the classic brilliant sunsets silhouetted by the figures of colorful Maasai warriors and elephants on a savannah. And of course, loud, ‘African-sounding’ drums. There are always drums.
I’ve never seen an elephant. And of course I can’t run particularly fast, not since I was 12 years old and had less to carry across a finish line. My Kenya is contained within the pulsing, vibrant metropolis that is Nairobi. In My Nairobi, you can find anything (from pirated DVDs being sold in broad daylight to tycoons walking among the ‘common folk’), go anywhere and be absolutely anyone. The sunsets I see are marred by the buildings across the skyline. In other words, none.
I was born in Nairobi (which, as if it didn’t sound cool enough, means place of cool waters in Maasai), but spent my formative years in Ethiopia. My family moved there when I was five years old. I went to international schools, dabbled in learning Amharic (which really is as difficult as it looks) and lived a somewhat charmed, sheltered life. By the time I came back to Nairobi, I had apparently lost everything that my fellow Kenyan would use to identify me as a countryman.
This irritated me immensely. I felt like people had no right to classify my identity for me, regardless of where I grew up or how I spoke. How did citizenship become a test? Was I supposed to get a grade or a trophy to put on my un-Kenyan mantelpiece? My logic was that one is not Kenyan because of a checklist they fulfill. One is Kenyan because…one is Kenyan. It is not a course. You do not have to try to be Kenyan, or speak the language. There is nothing you can do to be more Kenyan like eat more ugali (our staple food) or learn how to play a nyatiti (a traditional instrument). Being born here should have been validation enough, if validation is what was required. Identification with the culture, with the people, with our struggle, should have been enough.
The culture shock was incredible. Not because it was new and unusual, but because it was unabashedly abrasive, the rude guest you never want to have at a party who, to add insult to injury, is a plus one. I did not get over it until four years later, in the thick of boarding school (Kenya High). Sometimes I would wake up crying because I just did not understand what I was doing here, and how I was supposed to be doing it. Even more so was the confusion of experiencing culture shock in my home country. The concept in itself was baffling, to say in the least. But finally, I learnt what my city was trying to teach.
Painfully, gradually, fortunately, I grew into myself. I grew into the weird and wonderful twists of my city, like screaming matatus and confusing lingos that expect you to understand; roadside hawkers and the teargas that inevitably followed; the nights to be outside and the streets to avoid to maintain a supposedly sterling reputation. I became what I perceive as a beautiful amalgam of the two completely different worlds I had lived in. I learnt how to balance my two sides – which were just the same person expressed in different ways. I began to be comfortable in my own skin; which really, had not changed. I am proof of the fact that what does not kill you makes you stronger – and funnier. The adversity rubs against you, and what you think is tearing you down is actually the sand crafting the pearl in the oyster. Nairobi was my cruel initiation into life, the quintessential harsh professor who gives you hell because he knows what you are capable of, but you think he hates you the whole time. Yet, after the fact…it didn’t feel so bad.
My Nairobi is an extension of myself. A confusing mass of beauty and evil; the exact representation of a human soul, my soul. It captures your heart while robbing you blind, then apologizes with a smirk. It accepts you, and breaks you. Always understanding, but mocking, and amusedly sarcastic. A thick and potent mix of mystery and seduction, an ever-changing and ever-present, alluring charm. My Nairobi is…me.
tSN
Nairobi - Sauti Sol
Storymoja Hay Festival
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