How tSN became a...you 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.

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 monster...you 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 so...in part 3.

:*

tSN

ps. Please check out singleblackmale.org. HilARious stuff.

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 you...it'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.

tSN

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.

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?

tSN

Choices

I love bathrooms. Preferably clean ones with jacuzzis,but I'm not überpicky 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?

Hm.

tSN

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.

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.

:D

tSN

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