I love...
I love the scent of rain and soil
I love that most people love the scent of rain and soil
I love sunshine, in all its forms, with all my heart
I love the sound of my mother’s voice on the other end of the line, on a bad day
I love the impending birth of my very first niece (or nephew, of course)
I love being in the middle of a heated, often crazy, funny discussion with “the boys”
I love it when people who know me well say things I am already thinking
I love laughing about absolutely nothing...and about bad times that have now passed
I love cold fresh pineapple juice on a hot day, when I least expect that the restaurant of my choice serves it
I love those who keep me in check, tell me the truth, even when I don’t want to hear it.
I love the phrase: “I get over the highs…”
I love music… a lot…
I love memorable movies that I can watch over and over again and never get bored
I love the memories I have of my grandmother
I love that my brother is my memory bank, lest I forget
I love fresh grapes….and red wine
I love a good party, so good that my body hurts the next morning from all the dancing
I love taking long walks...
I love meeting new, crazy cool people that I never thought existed
I love uninhibited fantasizing sessions with my friends
I love waking up to the memory of a crazy, out of this world, complex, Matrix type dream
I love our flat…it’s big and sunny...and I have a room I can retreat to and be with just me...and someone else, occasionally.
I love the fact that I am able to take time out of my days to do something as self-indulgent as blogging
I love the fact that I can type almost as fast as I can think
I don’t like, so much:
I don’t like, so much, that I smoke so much
I don’t like, so much, that I hardly ever do what I plan to do
I don’t like, so much, that I live in the now so much
I don’t like, so much, that I am afraid so much
I don’t like, so much, that I can be very self indulgent
I don’t like, so much, horny construction workers that hurl nasty come-on lines at me when I’m taking the walks that I love so much
I don’t like, so much, cold feet
I don’t like, so much, the idea of me wearing heels
I don’t like, so much, mean ass hairdressers with issues (mnxim!)
I don’t like, so much, my mother being broke…
I don’t like, so much, being ill….and hospitals
I don’t like, so much, the fact that everyday I find it harder to recognise my own hand writing.
I don’t like, so much, the creeping claustrophobic feeling of living in Jozi
I don’t like, so much, that I cannot afford to travel
I don’t like, so much, the phrase: “I don’t like, so much”
I hate that this post is much longer than I intended it to be…
One more thing that I love? I love that there are more things I love than there are things I don’t like so much….today, that is!
Monday, April 16, 2007
Today I love more than I don't
I cut my hair...
I had been toying with the idea of cutting my hair for months for purely cosmetic reasons. I kept postponing it out of the fear that the flat back, dropped-on- the-head-in-infancy shape of my head would not be too flattering. On this particular morning, I woke up feeling the urgency to cut it all off. It was post a crazy episode-filled night. My emotions were high but this time around I could not cry, no matter how much I tried. I couldn’t send rage-filled smses that would leave me embarrassed the day after, either. I thought about jumping off the four story high balcony of our flat but I knew I wouldn’t make a pretty corpse and “a girl must be pretty at all times”. I couldn’t bring myself to slit my wrists. I didn’t know how, and deep down inside, I feared I’d survive the whole thing and end up with really ugly wrists….people would stare…and wonder…..why did she do that to herself? Perhaps it was the feeling I had long been waiting for. I knew I didn’t want to die. I knew that the craziness was way too crazy to die for. I knew that the craziness had finally ended and I had to start putting it behind me…
It is then that I took a pair of sharp paper scissors and began dabbling with the idea of cutting off my long beautiful locks. I looked in the mirror and noticed a certain beauty about my hair I hadn’t noticed before. My locks were long, even-sized…they had a glimmer to them that seemed to scream: “Don’t you dare do it” Without thinking too much about it…I put scissor to hair and started snip-snipping away. After cutting off the first chunk of hair in the front, I realised what I had done and wished I hadn’t done it but knew that I did not have the courage to go out in public with five locks missing from the front of my head. So I continued and the experience suddenly became very liberating. I felt like I was peeling off a layer of skin that had gone dead and had been hanging on my body for way too long, making me look old and haggard. After a while, it became a more practical exercise. Does the right side look much higher than the left? Is it too short? And most importantly, do I look like I was dropped on my head when I was a baby?
I guess all of this didn’t matter. My hair was off my head. I was probably not going to be greeted with “Greetings, irie sister” when I walked through the Rosebank Rooftop Market. I would probably not get the usual “Ooh, your braids are so beautiful. How do I get my hair to do that?”, from ignorant white people. I wouldn’t be able to have my hair in a ponytail and let a few locks fall onto my forehead fringe-style which always worked for evening events. My head no longer had much hair on it. To top it off, there was a visible bald patch just above my left ear (everybody makes mistakes). This was hairless me and sooner or later I had to get used to it and bring my sexy back quick and a fast!
I’m not going to go on about it like it was a life-changing experience. But I do believe that our hair does carry our burdens or the energies that come with them. There is a great feeling of control that comes with cutting off one’s hair. There is also a feeling of lightness and the hope of new beginnings. I don’t regret it one bit. It served its purpose…
Next time you see me on the streets, though, I hope to have gotten the hot, sexy braids that sometimes come to me in my dreams! HOLLA!
It is then that I took a pair of sharp paper scissors and began dabbling with the idea of cutting off my long beautiful locks. I looked in the mirror and noticed a certain beauty about my hair I hadn’t noticed before. My locks were long, even-sized…they had a glimmer to them that seemed to scream: “Don’t you dare do it” Without thinking too much about it…I put scissor to hair and started snip-snipping away. After cutting off the first chunk of hair in the front, I realised what I had done and wished I hadn’t done it but knew that I did not have the courage to go out in public with five locks missing from the front of my head. So I continued and the experience suddenly became very liberating. I felt like I was peeling off a layer of skin that had gone dead and had been hanging on my body for way too long, making me look old and haggard. After a while, it became a more practical exercise. Does the right side look much higher than the left? Is it too short? And most importantly, do I look like I was dropped on my head when I was a baby?
I guess all of this didn’t matter. My hair was off my head. I was probably not going to be greeted with “Greetings, irie sister” when I walked through the Rosebank Rooftop Market. I would probably not get the usual “Ooh, your braids are so beautiful. How do I get my hair to do that?”, from ignorant white people. I wouldn’t be able to have my hair in a ponytail and let a few locks fall onto my forehead fringe-style which always worked for evening events. My head no longer had much hair on it. To top it off, there was a visible bald patch just above my left ear (everybody makes mistakes). This was hairless me and sooner or later I had to get used to it and bring my sexy back quick and a fast!
I’m not going to go on about it like it was a life-changing experience. But I do believe that our hair does carry our burdens or the energies that come with them. There is a great feeling of control that comes with cutting off one’s hair. There is also a feeling of lightness and the hope of new beginnings. I don’t regret it one bit. It served its purpose…
Next time you see me on the streets, though, I hope to have gotten the hot, sexy braids that sometimes come to me in my dreams! HOLLA!
I'm going to be an aunt
AKA The boy who cried wolf is about to be a daddy!
The news came as a surprise. People were going about their lives and then all of a sudden there’s a baby coming. This happens to everybody though, so at some point one accepts it and hops onto the ‘celebrations and excitement’ bandwagon. Yay for baby! But not when it comes to this particular person.
My brother has been pranking me from the day I was born, I believe. We are three years apart and my mother says that she always had to keep an eye on me because she thought he’d do weird things to me. He was playing jokes on me way before I knew what a joke was. So as the seasoned prank victim I have grown to become, I did not buy this baby story for one bit. I was not about to fall for yet another one. I knew better! I’ve been pranked many times by this person. I’ve run around googling things I believed to be true when they were actually things he had made up to entertain himself. Let me give you a very brief background of my run-ins with the master prankster himself.
Flashback: This then naïve, sheltered and closed-minded chick from the depths of Pretoria, (“ko bo daai man”), was once, on the eve of her first trip to the mother city, fooled into thinking that the south westerly blows so hard that there are rails lining the streets of Cape Town for people to hold on to when they go about their daily business. (to avoid being blown away, of course). I was told, in detail, of a particular unfortunate fellow who forgot to hold on to the rails and subsequently got blown away, right onto the front of a moving bus. You can only imagine what became of him. “The story was even in the newspapers.” I was told. It was only when I got to Cape Town that I realized, with a lot of embarrassment, just how ridiculous the whole idea was. But I’m not the only one.
Many can attest to the perfection of these pranks. I once colluded in one. My poor younger cousin once had the misfortune of visiting us for the summer holidays in Soshanguve. Nothing much happens in Soshanguve if you’re not allowed to play anywhere beyond the confines of the fence that surrounds your house, which forced us to be very creative with how we entertained ourselves. On one very hot weekday, the prankster himself decided to climb into our broom cupboard, chilled in there for a while and emerged with the most amazing news. He had been transported to a world far beyond the boring one we were stuck in. By then, I was a seasoned prank victim and could spot them from a mile away. So I decided to give someone else a taste of the oh-so delicious prank pie that I had been force-fed for way too long. I too went into the cupboard and verified this story about a world where houses were made out of chocolate and all sorts of goodies. People slept on beds made out of cheese, using polony as blankets. What a world it was! By now, my cousin was dumbfounded and couldn’t wait for his turn. Being the sucker punch he was, he went into the cupboard, and emerged a couple of minutes later with a look of disappointment on his face. You’d think it ended there, right?
My brother gave me one look of shock and asked: “Where did he go? I can’t see him” This here seasoned prank victim responded in a fake panic: “I don’t know. I think he’s here. He’s just touched me!” My poor cousin began to weep his heart out thinking he had gone invisible. The seasoned prankster did not let it go at that. He proceeded to go into a fake hysteria, pretending to call my poor cousin’s mother to break the terrible news to her. If the poor boy hadn’t thought the matter was serious, that sure brought everything home. He started going into a frenzy, trying to touch us to prove that he was indeed there with us. We kept running away from him, to make the prank more interesting. And so my wailing cousin chased us around the house several times. This was only met with comments like: “He’s here. I can hear him”. I don’t quite remember how we finally gave in to his desperate weeping, but we did and we thought it was the most hilarious thing ever. I don’t think my cousin ever got over that one. I can’t quite remember, but I’m pretty sure he opted to stay home for a couple of summer holidays, much to his mother’s surprise.
So when the very same prankster phoned me some weeks ago to tell me he was about to be a father, I laughed my heart out thinking, “you not going to get me again, bastard” I laughed hard at the parents to be, making sure that they knew I was on to them. They proceeded to tell me that if I didn’t believe them I should ask my mother, whom they had apparently already told. I called my mother and told her that I knew my brother was trying to pull a fast one on me, but I wasn’t buying it so she better come out and say it so that we don’t unnecessarily waste my airtime. My mother sounded shocked……Jesus, these people are good. They had even gotten my poor mother to lie for them, in the name of self-amusement. Sies…! But the poor woman was not budging. She was good…very good, it seemed. So I pulled the ultimate prank breaker and called the perpetrators back to tell them that my mother eventually broke and told me it was all a prank. Nice try, but they needed to try much harder. I waited for them to accept defeat…..Nothing! “What do you mean?”, they asked, “It’s not a joke.” It was then that I started thinking: “Okay, enough now. This is too crazy for a Sunday night, could these people be that bored?” So I called my mom back to try one more time to get the “truth” out of her. Nothing…
It eventually dawned on me that these people had actually genuinely just called me to let me know that I was indeed about to be an aunt. I was embarrassed, to say the least. I mean, who in the world reacts to such news in that way? I begged them not tell their baby that this is how her aunt reacted to the news of her existence (I really think this one’s a girl). What in the world would the poor child think of me? I must admit that it only started sinking in when other people started talking about it. But to tell the truth, I only really really really believed it when I saw the scan prints and the bulging tummy. The boy who cried wolf is about to be a father, indeed.
I am ecstatic. I can’t wait to meet her (or him, of course).
But even after all… this seasoned prank victim is still very cautious of the master prankster and his tricks.
The news came as a surprise. People were going about their lives and then all of a sudden there’s a baby coming. This happens to everybody though, so at some point one accepts it and hops onto the ‘celebrations and excitement’ bandwagon. Yay for baby! But not when it comes to this particular person.
My brother has been pranking me from the day I was born, I believe. We are three years apart and my mother says that she always had to keep an eye on me because she thought he’d do weird things to me. He was playing jokes on me way before I knew what a joke was. So as the seasoned prank victim I have grown to become, I did not buy this baby story for one bit. I was not about to fall for yet another one. I knew better! I’ve been pranked many times by this person. I’ve run around googling things I believed to be true when they were actually things he had made up to entertain himself. Let me give you a very brief background of my run-ins with the master prankster himself.
Flashback: This then naïve, sheltered and closed-minded chick from the depths of Pretoria, (“ko bo daai man”), was once, on the eve of her first trip to the mother city, fooled into thinking that the south westerly blows so hard that there are rails lining the streets of Cape Town for people to hold on to when they go about their daily business. (to avoid being blown away, of course). I was told, in detail, of a particular unfortunate fellow who forgot to hold on to the rails and subsequently got blown away, right onto the front of a moving bus. You can only imagine what became of him. “The story was even in the newspapers.” I was told. It was only when I got to Cape Town that I realized, with a lot of embarrassment, just how ridiculous the whole idea was. But I’m not the only one.
Many can attest to the perfection of these pranks. I once colluded in one. My poor younger cousin once had the misfortune of visiting us for the summer holidays in Soshanguve. Nothing much happens in Soshanguve if you’re not allowed to play anywhere beyond the confines of the fence that surrounds your house, which forced us to be very creative with how we entertained ourselves. On one very hot weekday, the prankster himself decided to climb into our broom cupboard, chilled in there for a while and emerged with the most amazing news. He had been transported to a world far beyond the boring one we were stuck in. By then, I was a seasoned prank victim and could spot them from a mile away. So I decided to give someone else a taste of the oh-so delicious prank pie that I had been force-fed for way too long. I too went into the cupboard and verified this story about a world where houses were made out of chocolate and all sorts of goodies. People slept on beds made out of cheese, using polony as blankets. What a world it was! By now, my cousin was dumbfounded and couldn’t wait for his turn. Being the sucker punch he was, he went into the cupboard, and emerged a couple of minutes later with a look of disappointment on his face. You’d think it ended there, right?
My brother gave me one look of shock and asked: “Where did he go? I can’t see him” This here seasoned prank victim responded in a fake panic: “I don’t know. I think he’s here. He’s just touched me!” My poor cousin began to weep his heart out thinking he had gone invisible. The seasoned prankster did not let it go at that. He proceeded to go into a fake hysteria, pretending to call my poor cousin’s mother to break the terrible news to her. If the poor boy hadn’t thought the matter was serious, that sure brought everything home. He started going into a frenzy, trying to touch us to prove that he was indeed there with us. We kept running away from him, to make the prank more interesting. And so my wailing cousin chased us around the house several times. This was only met with comments like: “He’s here. I can hear him”. I don’t quite remember how we finally gave in to his desperate weeping, but we did and we thought it was the most hilarious thing ever. I don’t think my cousin ever got over that one. I can’t quite remember, but I’m pretty sure he opted to stay home for a couple of summer holidays, much to his mother’s surprise.
So when the very same prankster phoned me some weeks ago to tell me he was about to be a father, I laughed my heart out thinking, “you not going to get me again, bastard” I laughed hard at the parents to be, making sure that they knew I was on to them. They proceeded to tell me that if I didn’t believe them I should ask my mother, whom they had apparently already told. I called my mother and told her that I knew my brother was trying to pull a fast one on me, but I wasn’t buying it so she better come out and say it so that we don’t unnecessarily waste my airtime. My mother sounded shocked……Jesus, these people are good. They had even gotten my poor mother to lie for them, in the name of self-amusement. Sies…! But the poor woman was not budging. She was good…very good, it seemed. So I pulled the ultimate prank breaker and called the perpetrators back to tell them that my mother eventually broke and told me it was all a prank. Nice try, but they needed to try much harder. I waited for them to accept defeat…..Nothing! “What do you mean?”, they asked, “It’s not a joke.” It was then that I started thinking: “Okay, enough now. This is too crazy for a Sunday night, could these people be that bored?” So I called my mom back to try one more time to get the “truth” out of her. Nothing…
It eventually dawned on me that these people had actually genuinely just called me to let me know that I was indeed about to be an aunt. I was embarrassed, to say the least. I mean, who in the world reacts to such news in that way? I begged them not tell their baby that this is how her aunt reacted to the news of her existence (I really think this one’s a girl). What in the world would the poor child think of me? I must admit that it only started sinking in when other people started talking about it. But to tell the truth, I only really really really believed it when I saw the scan prints and the bulging tummy. The boy who cried wolf is about to be a father, indeed.
I am ecstatic. I can’t wait to meet her (or him, of course).
But even after all… this seasoned prank victim is still very cautious of the master prankster and his tricks.
I fell ill a couple of months ago
I fell ill a couple of months ago, landed up in hospital and stayed there for four days. I will not go into the details of this excruciating experience but hope that the torture will spawn a hot movie script or drama series. When I did come out of the hospital though, apparently healed and ready to get back to my old self, I had lost a whole lot of weight. My clothes no longer fit. Not even my panties fit! I was depressed. I was no longer the fresh faced chubby cheeked me I used to be.
And so I went into the real world…with my clothes hanging off my body. I was met with compliments about how hot and lean I looked, these days. Which diet was I on? Was I not happy that I had lost so much weight? Ooh, aaah…blah blah blah. SHUT UP! I am ill! I do not like this body I am in! I saw the pictures and that is not my idea of sexy. My boobs have deflated. The little booty I used to have has sommer net disappeared. The clothes that I love do not fit anymore. My eyes have sunk into my skull and that’s the worst thing that could happen to these beautiful big eyes. No, I do not want to be rake thin.
But mostly, I was met with shock from people I know. I could not bear the endless comments about how thin I looked. Was I ill? What did I have? I had to explain this terrible experience I wanted to forget to everyone I knew, over and over again. I was told that I did not look myself (like I did not know that already.) Was I on vitamins? Am I eating properly? Do I have AIDS? Yes, some did ask this even if it was in jest. And I know some asked themselves in my absence. SHUT UP! I already know these things you are telling me so I don’t need to hear them over and over again. Stop bugging me with your concern about my health, weight blah blah blah! Yes, I am well aware of the fact that the little booty I used to have has sommer net disappeared. And no, dear friend, I do not have AIDS not that it’s any of your business.
I know I’m ranting and have sorta lost the point. I guess that is the point of a rant but the initial purpose of all of this was to say something to this effect: Losing this much weight has taught me to love the body that I have (or used to have?). I used to wish to be thinner, be able to wear things I couldn’t wear. I thought it would be great if my curves would be just a little narrower. I thought it would make me feel better about myself.
Now? Well, now I want my booty back and I want my boobs to go back to their original upright full position. So I am going to take a friend’s advice and use this as an excuse to “munch munch munch”. Yummy yummy, indeed….I’m working on it!
And so I went into the real world…with my clothes hanging off my body. I was met with compliments about how hot and lean I looked, these days. Which diet was I on? Was I not happy that I had lost so much weight? Ooh, aaah…blah blah blah. SHUT UP! I am ill! I do not like this body I am in! I saw the pictures and that is not my idea of sexy. My boobs have deflated. The little booty I used to have has sommer net disappeared. The clothes that I love do not fit anymore. My eyes have sunk into my skull and that’s the worst thing that could happen to these beautiful big eyes. No, I do not want to be rake thin.
But mostly, I was met with shock from people I know. I could not bear the endless comments about how thin I looked. Was I ill? What did I have? I had to explain this terrible experience I wanted to forget to everyone I knew, over and over again. I was told that I did not look myself (like I did not know that already.) Was I on vitamins? Am I eating properly? Do I have AIDS? Yes, some did ask this even if it was in jest. And I know some asked themselves in my absence. SHUT UP! I already know these things you are telling me so I don’t need to hear them over and over again. Stop bugging me with your concern about my health, weight blah blah blah! Yes, I am well aware of the fact that the little booty I used to have has sommer net disappeared. And no, dear friend, I do not have AIDS not that it’s any of your business.
I know I’m ranting and have sorta lost the point. I guess that is the point of a rant but the initial purpose of all of this was to say something to this effect: Losing this much weight has taught me to love the body that I have (or used to have?). I used to wish to be thinner, be able to wear things I couldn’t wear. I thought it would be great if my curves would be just a little narrower. I thought it would make me feel better about myself.
Now? Well, now I want my booty back and I want my boobs to go back to their original upright full position. So I am going to take a friend’s advice and use this as an excuse to “munch munch munch”. Yummy yummy, indeed….I’m working on it!
He probably wouldn't notice
It was morning….it didn’t matter ….the deed was done…if she took another swig of that wine from last night, she’d feel just a little bit more numb. Nobody had to know….what was the big deal anyway? Shit happens…Now, where in the world could her panties be? If she hadn’t gotten them from Victoria Secrets last Christmas she was in New York with you-know-who, she’d leave them behind. She knew that if she sneaked out now, he’d continue to snore his life away. He wouldn’t notice, would he?
Yeah, he probably wouldn’t notice …the deed was done…what was the big deal anyway…
She did not like the way he sprawled himself across the bed as if he had been sleeping alone. It said to her that he didn’t even care if his smelly un-pedicured foot was resting on her newly facialled forehead. Who raised him, anyway? Glancing across the immaculate bedroom filled with expensive but predictable objects, she scans for her 200 dollar pair of panties. You’d think that the orderly nature of the room would make them easier to spot. She was getting annoyed now. Her mother would harp on about how late she always is and seeing that she could always distinguish her yesterday clothes from her fresh-it’s-a brand-new-day-I’m ready-to-conquer-the-world outfits, she had to go home and change before the big family lunch. Her sister would be there, on time, with the perfect potato salad in hand and the adorable children and doting husband. She’d have to do a huge panel-beating job to get rid of the hangover.
He stirs, slightly. A few seconds pass ….and he’s back to snoring…She stares at him in a slight panic and notices the pair of panties neatly wedged between his clean shaven head and the silk cushioned pillow it rests on. Fully clad in the silk black number her well-adjusted older sister bought her for her last birthday, and the stilettos she borrowed from her best friend, she tip toes towards the bed, and slides the underwear out from under his head. He startles out of sleep….takes one look at her….what seems to be a “you’re leaving already?” look. For a second, she expects him to beg her to stay….He goes right back to sleep, this time spreading his long, athletic legs right across the bed but not before mumbling: “Lock the top latch. There’s some expensive shit in here!”
She gives him a zap sign, but he’s already back to slumber, so it doesn’t really matter, does it? Yes, as much as she knows he’s a prick, it hurts. She’s pretty. Not bad looking at all. She gets the guys to look, every single time. She’s not stupid either. Holding down a new managerial position at one of ABA’s biggest branches is no small fry. And she spends just enough time on the internet to hold down a conversation about “issues of the world”. Mnxim…his arrogance makes up for his pinky sized dick. Shame…money can’t buy you everything, she thinks.
She walks out of the fancy, inner-city apartment building, not forgetting to lock the top latch, of course, and into the hustle and bustle of taxi infested Johannesburg. She stumbles onto a hawker’s vegetables stall as the hot Sunday sun blinds her vision. Fuck, how she wishes she’d hadn’t left her Chanel sunglasses on her office desk! The judgmental stares and sniggers from older women coupled with the sexual hooting and tooting from the men lining the street, force her to take out her box of Stuyvees and light one! Let them fucken judge her now…She was planning to quit…but work’s so hard these days, and it’s the only way she can be ‘friendly’ with her subordinates …If she hadn’t written off the Tazz, she wouldn’t be subjected to this bullshit. What was she thinking? That he’d take her home…? Where the fuck are the taxis to Bramley anyway……?
Yeah, he probably wouldn’t notice …the deed was done…what was the big deal anyway…
She did not like the way he sprawled himself across the bed as if he had been sleeping alone. It said to her that he didn’t even care if his smelly un-pedicured foot was resting on her newly facialled forehead. Who raised him, anyway? Glancing across the immaculate bedroom filled with expensive but predictable objects, she scans for her 200 dollar pair of panties. You’d think that the orderly nature of the room would make them easier to spot. She was getting annoyed now. Her mother would harp on about how late she always is and seeing that she could always distinguish her yesterday clothes from her fresh-it’s-a brand-new-day-I’m ready-to-conquer-the-world outfits, she had to go home and change before the big family lunch. Her sister would be there, on time, with the perfect potato salad in hand and the adorable children and doting husband. She’d have to do a huge panel-beating job to get rid of the hangover.
He stirs, slightly. A few seconds pass ….and he’s back to snoring…She stares at him in a slight panic and notices the pair of panties neatly wedged between his clean shaven head and the silk cushioned pillow it rests on. Fully clad in the silk black number her well-adjusted older sister bought her for her last birthday, and the stilettos she borrowed from her best friend, she tip toes towards the bed, and slides the underwear out from under his head. He startles out of sleep….takes one look at her….what seems to be a “you’re leaving already?” look. For a second, she expects him to beg her to stay….He goes right back to sleep, this time spreading his long, athletic legs right across the bed but not before mumbling: “Lock the top latch. There’s some expensive shit in here!”
She gives him a zap sign, but he’s already back to slumber, so it doesn’t really matter, does it? Yes, as much as she knows he’s a prick, it hurts. She’s pretty. Not bad looking at all. She gets the guys to look, every single time. She’s not stupid either. Holding down a new managerial position at one of ABA’s biggest branches is no small fry. And she spends just enough time on the internet to hold down a conversation about “issues of the world”. Mnxim…his arrogance makes up for his pinky sized dick. Shame…money can’t buy you everything, she thinks.
She walks out of the fancy, inner-city apartment building, not forgetting to lock the top latch, of course, and into the hustle and bustle of taxi infested Johannesburg. She stumbles onto a hawker’s vegetables stall as the hot Sunday sun blinds her vision. Fuck, how she wishes she’d hadn’t left her Chanel sunglasses on her office desk! The judgmental stares and sniggers from older women coupled with the sexual hooting and tooting from the men lining the street, force her to take out her box of Stuyvees and light one! Let them fucken judge her now…She was planning to quit…but work’s so hard these days, and it’s the only way she can be ‘friendly’ with her subordinates …If she hadn’t written off the Tazz, she wouldn’t be subjected to this bullshit. What was she thinking? That he’d take her home…? Where the fuck are the taxis to Bramley anyway……?
The dust had to be settled for a while
The dust had to be settled for a while
…it had reached storm proportions.
But with every chaotic experience comes some sort of lesson, right?
This is mine:
I have come to learn the purpose of blogging and clarify mine.
1. This blog is not done out of malice
2. This blog shall not be used to hurt the ones I love.
3. This blog shall not be used to inflate undeserving egos.
4. This blog is for all to read (hmmm…think I should take this one back)
Now that that’s out of the way, I’m putting up new posts. I have decided to keep all the old posts in the private domain except for one. Even though I kept my thoughts out of cyberspace, I kept a private blog on my laptop. Please bear with me as I am posting a whole chunk at one go. Enjoy my craziness!
And in the words of Jay-Z (or what I remember them to be): “These are my thoughts…just my thoughts, ya’ll.”
…it had reached storm proportions.
But with every chaotic experience comes some sort of lesson, right?
This is mine:
I have come to learn the purpose of blogging and clarify mine.
1. This blog is not done out of malice
2. This blog shall not be used to hurt the ones I love.
3. This blog shall not be used to inflate undeserving egos.
4. This blog is for all to read (hmmm…think I should take this one back)
Now that that’s out of the way, I’m putting up new posts. I have decided to keep all the old posts in the private domain except for one. Even though I kept my thoughts out of cyberspace, I kept a private blog on my laptop. Please bear with me as I am posting a whole chunk at one go. Enjoy my craziness!
And in the words of Jay-Z (or what I remember them to be): “These are my thoughts…just my thoughts, ya’ll.”
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