Wednesday, December 31, 2014


When someone tells you you look like a prostitute, you start to think about the possibility that you are one.

You wonder if actual prostitutes ever get told they look like prostitutes. You wonder if they find it offensive. If you are being called something that you are, no matter how derogatory the label (Nazi! Christian! Bisexual! Cult leader!), are you gonna be like 'Fuck you!' or 'Perception is strong in this one' and do a Yoda bow? Maybe they accept it. Maybe they don't care. Maybe they are like 'Well, that's what I was going for, so, whory looks ftw.'

You start to look at what you are wearing. Especially the shorts that brought this on. You mentally catalogue the rest of your wardrobe, dividing it in lengths of what may or may not be acceptable by the labellers.
You wonder if you should stop wearing those shorts that you like so much, the ones that make you look like a woman of the night, or so you've been told.
Are they too tight? Or is it too much thigh? Maybe the latter - they look more like old school swimming costumes (flappily decent) as opposed to the barely there booty shorts of your youth. Now those ones...those ones, perhaps, would have warranted that word.
That word.
It plays in your head. Turning. Again.

But clothes do not a prostitute make, do they? The same way clothes are not the cause of rape. Which you try and explain as well. I mean, anyone can be a prostitute. It isn't that hard, is it? Or maybe it is. I don't know. I'm not one yet. Maybe. The supply and demand chain is always at an imbalance, and let me tell you, you can be fully clothed while doing it. In fact, pushing panties to the side in the dark is easier done with loose trousers than booty shorts, no?

Maybe you are a prostitute, or maybe it is just that your choice of clothes indicates that you do, indeed, desire rape with all the fibres of your being (and the fibres of clothes you're wearing). Maybe you're just gagging for it, underneath a sheer veneer of pseudomorality. Maybe you woke up this morning and chose something that you thought screams 'Kindly ignore human values and drag me into a dark alleyway right now as I pretend to protest.' Because of the obvious clothing/assault correlation.

Or, or, maybe you are a prostitute because you like sex far too much (hence the clothing choices). Maybe you want it too much and enjoy it too much. Ask for it too much. Because heaven forbid a woman should ask for - and get - something she wants in regard to what she wants in or around her vagina. Maybe she should wait for the guy to ask her for it. Don't tell the world the secret - everybody wants sex! Even *gasp* women. But you have to act like you don't. Coz you're not supposed to. Because it makes know what.

Maybe your theme song should be Freak like me by Adina Howard and everytime you hear it you should turn it up and look suggestively around the company you're with. Maybe it should be your ringtone and your call back tune. Maybe it should be the soundtrack of your life and your go-to karaoke song. Because a freak is a prostitute. And so is a person who wears short luscious shorts. And so is the girl standing on a corner trying to ignore the cold for her next trick. And so are you.


Tuesday, December 30, 2014


I thought about accepting her friend request. I did.

But I didn't understand why I should. And the type of person I am calls for logic - tell me why I am doing something before I do it.

I am not good at following blindly, which is why my religious walk ended so abruptly. (though still not as abruptly as I suppose it should have been, but arduously, drawn out, like an unhealthy lover). And speaking of love, I may be bad at it. Love seems to need a certain blindness. Or should I say, one-track mindedness. Forsaking all else and others. Ignoring reason presented to you - but there are lipstick smudges! Look, receipts! - .

The reason I thought about it was Slevin. I think he wanted me to. But I didn't have a good reason! And I didn't want to talk about it not being a good reason. Because why? I am also the type to want people who are reading my statuses to actually know me. I am no socialite. Or spam robot. Or corporate bigwig organization faking community responsibility and giving a damn.

But then I thought about the fact that they are friends. *sigh* We'll end up meeting. She'll be shorter than me, possibly less eloquent, but the look on her face will speak volumes. It'll be a look that says, 'I wonder if this bitch is going to deny seeing my friend request' right before I deny seeing her friend request, because, you see, this is a culture I have cultivated, rather conveniently. I don't look at my friend requests so that when I say I didn't see it, it isn't actually a lie.
Though in her case, it will be. She'll know it - I'll know it - and we'll smile, cordially, at each other, her thinking I'm a stuck up snob and me resenting her for even bringing it up in the first place, because surely, if someone doesn't accept a request, like girls who give you the wrong number at the club, why, pray tell, must you flog the dead horse?

The moral of the story is, I am not an honest person, and I'm not sure if I am interested in being one.


Monday, December 29, 2014

Ramsey Street

Thank God for neighbours.

I am a firm believer in moving near people you know. For more reasons than one, and several extra benefits:

1. If you never have food in the house, much like me, or a fridge, or an oven, then there is always somewhere to go doea, store food that is going to go bad or bake stuff on those rare occasions when you are actually baking. If they have a toaster/sandwich maker/internet, will you ever need to purchase your own? NO! #passwords #freeFreeFree #sharingIsCaring
Now, there are a few times when this should and should not be done. For example, if they have company of the hanky pank variety, call first. I discovered this the hard way. Ok, it wasn't hard for me, it was hard for someone else - ok so what happened was, I had food in the house and no way to refrigerate it. So I took it to Otis and Jomo's house.

Otis and Jomo live above me. We went to uni together. Then we both moved to the same area. Then I moved. Then they moved too. Right above me. Yay!
So I knocked on the door, and we always do this thing - not always, it's not, like our neighbour THING yet, but I'm working on it - where I beatbox with their doorbell, so when Otis opens the door, he has a look on his face - a wtf kind of look - and then I wonder why - and then I see a heifer on the couch. My eyes widen because now it is too late to back down because damage has already been done and I need to think of a quick exit. See, I was going upstairs to cook, but now I can't interrupt the mood sijui the after (or pre?) glow so I dash into the kitchen and grab a slice of pizza (see what I mean? So useful. Also, pizza is very important. See #5.) and split, #banana.
Moral of the story is, I should have asked. Because I DID call. Ok, Otis should have said, damnit. HE SHOULD HAVE SAID!
Aside: But when they're having parties, you don't need to call, because you're just being a good neighbour. Visiting. Doing the rounds. #NeighbourhoodWatch. Nininini.

2. When shit hits the fan, you have someone to call. You can read about that here.

Otis is not a small guy. He's the brain and the brawn with mass left over to spare. I should start calling him the Smart Shaq. (hehehe) If you're not getting where I am going with this...Otis is huge. His hands cover people's faces. Like four faces at the same time. But what he does handle very well (aside from sijui 3 women balanced on one bicep like Garcon in Beauty and the Beast, the original version) is cameras. He has a website and everything. That's how you know it's real.

Jomo is big but in a horizontal direction. It still serves its purpose - he can roll over your foes and roll out the jokes at the same time. He's pretty much always laughing and has slight OCD about dirty dishes and crazy women. He used to be a rugby captain - I know, I laughed too - but he's like super focused and like super getting back on track with the whole lean mean machine thing. As you will read in the story above, size does matter. #sizeOfBoat #motionOfOcean #baseballBats

3. That's another thing! Living with people around you provides endless fodder for soap operas in other people's lives, whether yours or theirs. You know gossip is always sweeter when you know WHO you're talking about, and WHICH apartment that chick is coming from, etc. #lesMujerDeSosVidas

4. Advice. On things. People who have context in your life are much better at helping you with your life's problems than Dr Phil or generic sites ie Twitter lol. Of course, that works two ways and you have to listen to their shit. Lol jk. GET TO listen. GET to. #noNewFriends

5. Vodka Sundays and people to changia with for Naked Pizza because they deliver in the hood now, whoop! Because every Sunday or day before a depressing day like the day in the new year where you have to go back to work (not that I know what that is anymore, but, like, if I did) deserves alcohol and alcohol is great with pizza that you don't have to pay for all the slices for. Yes?

Are we going to live together forever? Should we get promise rings?
The plot thickens (much like Jomo's waistline - or not, anymore) and continues.
Stay tuned for another episode of...

Here's to neighbours.
Please don't move.


Sunday, December 28, 2014

Volume 2

He took me to Java
We had cake.
I wondered if the fact that neither of us could finish our slices was indicative of a relationship
that we now had to take away.
She took the pieces of my cake
And I wondered
If they were my soul
In a little white box
With a horny, irritable pallbearer.


Thursday, December 25, 2014


Something happened to me in September, and I think that something broke something else inside me.

And it wasn't the breakup.
I mean, the breakup was difficult. As they all are. And it was heart wrenching. And in all honesty, I'm probably not dealing with it very well - the full passive aggressive ostrich head in sand because pea brain shebang - but that is what is happening. Especially considering how weird everything else this year is doing to make it even harder to deal. And the fallout from it is an ever rippling effect that makes me hate butterflies.

It wasn't that.
It wasn't a new job either, though that contributed a great deal to it. That job exhausted me. I had pretty much no personal time and little sleep. The money was worth it, but 3 months later, I don't think I have fully recovered.

Am I just tired? Of...everything that life entails? And that everything life entails to keep going?

I may have lost my mojo and I don't know where to find it. I don't even remember what it is to have it - did I ever? Or am I too lazy to notice?
I feel like I am auto-piloting through a lot of things but at the same time feeling a lot. Feeling too much, really.

Well. There's a lot of good poetry coming out, at least.


Sunday, December 21, 2014


You don’t need another human being to make your life complete, but let’s be honest. Having your wounds kissed by someone who doesn’t see them as disasters in your soul but cracks to put their love into is the most calming thing in this world.

Emery Allen

This quote is currently my profile picture. And how deep is it?

Because we are all flawed. And we all need to be reminded of our imperfections and our deluded independence.
We shouldn't need other people to make us complete...but we do. We are not islands. We are people, the most unpredictable, irritating, beautiful, best and worst things about the planet.
We all have disasters in our souls. Mini calamities sitting and watching life go by, or actively participating in making it go wrong.

We all need soothing. Salves.
And what is this soothing?

Sometimes, you want someone to watch a stupid movie with, and point out all the actors or the shit script. You know you're going to get irritated at how much they talk at the same time as the characters, but it's nice to not be alone.

Sometimes, you want someone to tell you you're beautiful first thing in the morning when your breath can knock a species into extinction and the crust around your eyes rivals a Dominos pizza.

Sometimes, you want to be reminded of your mistakes but also of the things you do right. Your compassion. Your loyalty. Your fantastic shower voice.

And sometimes you want to be that for someone else. You want to love the soul pain away, and thus make yours less. You want to be everything for someone to erase the everyones who weren't, before you. Even if you probably can't, you want to be the saviour. The friend. The lover. The person to kiss away the nightmares, even if you are the cause of them, and they are the cause of yours, the knot in your stomach, the pounding in your heart, the sigh in your desire.

We all need love. We all forget.
Kiss someone's heart today.


Picking fights

I'm not the most confrontational person in the world, but I am very stubborn. This doesn't work well for me in life, because as much as I do not want to fight, I'm not going to let stupidity continue (unless, you're , like, family...or I can lose my job. Though I don't have a job. So I don't care anymore. Hehe). It's like that clip of - can't remember which comedian, I think it is Sommore - where she is like when you take weed and drink, they are drugs that are opposite of themselves - drinking makes you want to fight everyone and weed wants to chill (or sleep. Or laugh). But then the weed is making you say things that could start a fight...I think I am getting this stand up wrong - the more I think about it, the more it sounds like Kevin Hart. THE POINT IS, stubbornness and passive aggression are difficult for me to live with. At the same damn time.

Thus, I am terrible at picking which battles to fight. Everything feels like a fight to me, mostly because I am hyper aware of my passive aggression. I don't want to be a doormat, so I tend to overreact to make sure my passive aggression isn't making me underreact. You know - he grabbed my arse! Break a bottle over his head! - but he genuinely didn't mean to - in fact, he's your cousin - lol. Type of situation.

(I feel like I'm rambling. Let me get to the point)

There are some battles that I thought I was done with. I spoke about it - and have spoken about it - exhaustively.

The Hair Battle.

It just keeps coming up. I don't know why.








(whether on pubes or hair hair)

The other day, my best friend's sister started on me about how I need to go to the salon. Her folks have done this before - her mother has offered me a pair of scissors repeatedly - but they're ancient. It's understandable.
She launched into a diatribe of how unacceptable I look. And then she said I look like a street child.
With a straight face. As I sat at their dining table. In all my street child hair glory.

I gotta admit, my feelings were a little hurt.
Not a little, I'm blogging about it. So not a little.

A street child?
Is this offensive because it is untrue and she clearly knows no street children?
Or is it that...nope. It's that.

I asked her why it bugged her so much...she said because I looked unpresentable and no one would hire me.
Ironic, seeing as I haven't lived with my parents for 3 years. So clearly people ARE hiring me. WHY is it that people still haven't come up with newer excuses for saying the tomfoolery they say? These are arguments I've been hearing for far too long.
So I told her that clearly the only reason she wanted me to do my hair was because it bothered her. And maybe I would, if she came up with a better reason. Like, not rewaxing your dreads gives you cancer or constipation.

Guys. Leave the natural haired people alone. Leave their choices alone. Leave your patronization at the door. These choices were made by an adult for an adult. Why is this so hard to understand?
To be fair, humans are really bad at leaving people who don't agree with them be.

I shouldn't be surprised.
But I may have to punch a bitch.
OR, shave shit off in her sleep.
*goes to an electronics store*


Wednesday, December 17, 2014

I need to stop!

When did life and people become so complicated?

I just watched a movie that made me rethink everything I ever do with my phone.

I'm on my phone ALL the time. More or less, unless I am making a physical effort to engage with the people I am with. I'm shit at multitasking, and yet I have managed to deceive myself that I can talk and whatsapp at the same time. I really can't. (I also shouldn't drive and whatsapp at the same time...and yet, I do it on a daily. I really need to stop)

Anyhue. I've even made a career out of being on my phone the whole time. But I think I'm going to relax on that phone story a little bit. I've been trying to actually - Wolverine used to complain constantly about it, and I didn't realize what a shit person (slash robot who is always on their phone) I was being until it was being done to me.

I hate it when people are talking to me and looking at their phones. What happened to looking at my boobs? They're RL, you know. (Real Life) But I do it all the time. And I need to stop.

Also, did we see that? I have BOOBS. Look at those, for Pete's sake. Or my face. Or my mother's eyes. Anything but my phone.
It really is antisocial networking. OMG I'VE SPENT HALF OF MY LIFE ON MY PHONE BUILDING ONLINE RELATIONSHIPS AND IGNORING THE ONES IN FRONT OF ME. I'm sorry mom lol jk but seriously. Gaaaaah.

Maybe it just becomes more complicated when there are feelings attached. I have always said true friendship is when you two can sit in a room and just be on your phones without talking because you don't have to - which is basically saying, a, you don't have to work at a relationship anymore because it is already pretty much built, and b, comfortable silences have been replaced with the sound of tapping keys - but is it really?

Look at my face. I'll look at yours because it's beautiful and life is beautiful and we shouldn't be looking down all the time.

It's rude.


Thursday, December 4, 2014

Plain Jane

Maybe I'm not female.

I mean, I look there and I see all the parts are right (more or less, and of course, if we are talking about sex as opposed to gender, but that is a whole different story) (also I just wrote words in that sentence without looking at the keyboard, which is a dream of mine that I will one day fulfill at a respectable number of words per minute, just like my father's secretary when I was 9) (and that WHOLE LAST SENTENCE! Slowly. :D :D :D ). All the parts are right, yes, but there are some things that I see that feel, not right.

For example. I like boys. Most of the time. Men, even, more nowadays than before. But will I make an effort to get them to like me? Sometimes. More often than not, though, nowadays, I resort to the guy way - ie manipulation instead of seduction.

You see, I am the type of chick who if it is cold and I am going to the rave, I will be in a sweater and probably order tea. This isn't sexy (unless you're British or 60 years old). I'm the type of chick to just confess confess ovyo ovyo to emotions instead of playing hard to get because it takes too much energy and why play games when you could be doing valuable, fun stuff like making out? Which kills the chase. Or something. So I'm told.

Why is this manipulation? Why do you think people (most people) agonize over telling someone whether they like them or not - or even worse, someone telling them that they like them when they do not feel the same? Because then you have to think of what to say back. Human beings are programmed to reciprocate, even when they don't feel the same. Our automatic answer to 'thank you' is 'you're welcome' not 'don't ever borrow my shit again you two-faced bitch' (which, to be fair, sometimes, it should be). Our automatic response - or rather, the response we want to get when we say those three words - is 'I love you too.'

Not silence.
Or staring.
Or two ticks.

Because no one wants to really make people feel bad (except for sociopaths and an 8th grade math teacher - Mr. W, or he who shall not be named). And you generally want people to feel good about themselves, and feel good around you, and/or not stop loving you.
So you say it back.
So when I say 'I really like you. We should make out.'
Usually, the response is 'Yes!' if they want to, or 'uh...sure' if they don't. Win for me.
Woo! Tangent. So where was I?
This post is going to go on a while. I can see it coming.

I was saying I am not the type to put in effort. There are exceptions to the rule, of course (unless you've seen me naked, in which case it's downhill from here. Which, again, win for me. :D) What do I define as effort?

Oh Lord. Anything that has to be done in a salon, involves heat and/or tanning beds, really short shorts, barsexuality, wax or pretense in the face of a complete lack of humour (unless I'm being a wingwoman, in which case there is social capital being obtained, mwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha).
Which brings me to today's point.
I can't stand spas.

Honestly, I've tried.
I've gone to a couple to rid myself of this unfeminine trait, but quite frankly, I can't. They aren't havens of rest and relaxation. They are places to throw money to have someone feel you up without feeling guilty about it. Ok maybe not, but still, I hate massages. It's just painful. Can't we X-ray wellness into me or something? Bikram yoga? Which is still quite the workout but you see it is different when it is self-inflicted and I'm sure the heat does something for you to reduce the pain, no? When someone's little hands are trying to tear you apart tendon by tendon, how is that even remotely relaxing?
The answer is, it is not. Humans just like pain. When people feel pain, they think their remedies are working. No one trusts a sweet-tasting cough syrup or a cheap good looking watch. THAT'S WHY EVERYONE BOUGHT THE CREAMY ICKY-A-F SCOTT'S EMULSION INSTEAD OF THE ORANGE ONE. (*shivers* that thing was AWFUL)
And then, waxing. I...I just can't. For why? For what? For who?
And then, last but not least...manis and pedis.

I mean, come on. You let someone near these delicate parts of your body with tiny little metal appliances that look like something from a dentist's office, and it's supposed to be a pleasant experience?
Unfortunately (until today) I forgot that I don't like manis (OR HER LITTU FRIEEEENDS). I was talking Mi Madre on a date and decided, because Rupu told me so, that this Gel Manicure and Pedicure would be a deal. Spend a little money, spend some quality time with the one who gave me life funded by another one she gave life. Once more - winning.

We walked in and it was a bad idea from the get. The sulky staff at Maya's Spa barely acknowledged our existence (or the appointment I had made for 11 am). It wasn't until 11:20 that anything got going as we sat and twiddled our thumbs. Mi Madre was getting angry in like the first five minutes (I can't wait till I am too old to care about stupid people's emotions). She was (but in nicer language) After we had been sitting staring at them, asking who was doing our nails, wondering out loud what the hell everyone in the store was doing sitting down, was when one of the nail guys lackadaisically walks into work late and then the other ladies start to, oh, go find the nail polishes (Colours They Use to distract you from their true, fiendish aims), oh, the gel sijui what. When you know the torture that is coming your way and then your torturers look like they don't care about whether to use a blunt or sharp instrument, man, it does NOT inspire faith. Especially when they start joking about the weekend and using the nail file on their own hands (Big Scary Thing they use to BREAK YOU DOWN TO THEIR WILL).

It was ridiculously slow ridiculously bad service. I tweeted them as well on @mayaskenya
At the time of going to press, they have not tweeted back (and this manicure is already starting to irritate me). A couple of things irritated me, aside from them trying to feebly mend bridges with barely veiled attempts to get us to come back -
1. The guy ordered lunch and put it on the towel next to my nails. I know I have no standards, burram...
2. I was with my MOTHER, for Pete's sake. No respect for older people? Or, you know, people? know...customers? Damn.
3. It's a gel MANI and pedi. Not a gel MANI AND PEDI. Ha.
3. I'm supposed to go BACK to have this gel shit removed, ati, because, ati pulling it off will ruin my nail. I don't think I'm going back. And some of it is on my skin. As in? They bowl me over with their enthusiasm then trap me for more with their gel baby?

Guys, this gel is coming off by itself or not at all. Jesus will return and he'll pick me out from the crowd coz my nails will be a-twinkiling. Like his chariot, nininini.
Females, why? Camaaaaaan.

*checks parts*
*still female*
*not loyal to spas*