Random observation

So, I am being nice to people that I don’t particularly like. Fcuk. Also, I am swearing a lot. **contents of sewer** Does this mean I am growing up? Aw crud. I reeeaaaally liked being Petra pan. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.

Also, as asked on twitter. If your partner is ninii-ing you while his or her mind is on someone else, can you tell? And if you could tell … would you want to know? Then, if you knew, would it matter?

I’m not necessarily talking about the ex-girlfriend here. I’m talking about, for example, he just went to a stag party and saw some nubile young thing lap dancing the groom while several other ones made like the snake in Jungle Book.

Eh, yes, that one.

Your man may even have gotten a little dancing action himself. Enough to get his senses alert and soil something.

Aw come on now, you don’t expect him to throw off a working girl who’s just earning her keep. Especially when she’s clearly very good at her job.

But being the good and faithful man that he is, he did not buy the premium service, he brought it home to you. And he found you, half asleep, stocking on head, facemask fully applied [hey, he said he'd be out late, and after a stag night you knew he'd be too drunk to notice...]

Well ok, let’s be fair here. He comes home, fresh from the ultimate visual and sensual stimulation, and finds you, the woman he loves/married/who bore him beautiful children, looking just as you always do, in your regular pyjamas or night gown.

You look good, sure, or you look as you always do. But let’s face it, you don’t nearly come close to a woman who gets paid to stimulate men. Come on, she’s a professional. It’s like comparing Jack Bauer to a kid with a water pistol.

So, being the good guy he is, your man does what he does. But he really can’t help it if his mind strays to that girl with the pole … and he’s not cheating, he did bring it home to you, right?

Do you really have a right to get mad that while you are the one who enjoys the consummation, you are clearly not the fuel or even the ignition? Coz even if he does keep his mind strictly on you, fact remains it wasn’t you that turned him on to begin with. So, is that bad?

In a less drastic example. Also as asked on twitter, you two are watching Transformers [Hellooo Megan Fox!] or some flick with Angelina Jolie’s body parts, or some swimsuit pageant, or some oily ragga music video, or even just the Mexican soap you tied him to the chair to see. A steamy scene comes on, elements rise to the occasion, and suddenly you find yourself … compromised.

In this situation, is either of you really thinking of the other? Chances are you’re thinking of Alejandro’s ripped abs while he is thinking of Carmelita’s long flowing hair, teeny weeny frame, endless suntanned legs and that … thing she’s wearing that would look just terrible on you…

Now you may just argue that since you two are one flesh you should be the only source of stimulation, and that you should have no desire to see anyone else naked and blah blah blah but really now, on occasion that your menses make your hungry, or his jeans accidentally cause, you know, friction, you don’t get mad at the moon or the Levi’s right?

So why should you hate on poor pretty Megan or Salvador?

I mean as long as your partner keeps his or her mental images mental, and does not go yelling the wrong name or saying how luscious that Latina is, then really now, shouldn’t we just enjoy the moment and be glad we’re getting any nookie at all?

Let’s get even more practical. He’s been watching his crazy she-dog boss all day, with her red hot power suit and her prada heels, wielding her whip pointer thingie as she speaks and shows just enough leg to get the job done faster. Or she’s been subconsciously giggling all day at the hot new intern who can wield these cougars like a pro. Clearly, tensions are high.

So when he or she gets home, can you be absolutely one hundred percent sure that the sterling performance was meant for you? And even if it wasn’t, do you really care?

I say live and let live. As long as the gonads don’t stray, and as long as you respect one another, think what you want to think. After all, there’s a reason Charles Xavier only exists in fiction. You can love a person all you want, but you can’t control their mind. So when he’s super hot or she’s super frisky, do not ask ‘What’s gotten into you today?’ coz you just might get an answer that you don’t want to hear.

That said, it’s perfectly fine for me, the girl, to tell you Megan Fox is hot. Less okay for you, my man, to enthusiatically agree and suggest I buy a leather vest, learn to hotwire a car, or somehow fit this teeny weeny white dress plus a bunch of flowers into a leather jacket and jeans without creasing it. [How the hell did she do that?] A curt nod and incomprehensible grunt is fine, followed by promptly changing the subject. A good suggestion would be ‘So what’s for dinner?’

Twitter and things like that

Few things suck more than someone taking the drama out of your dramatic exit. Picture this scene-that-you-will-never-see-in-a-mexican-soap:

Gorgeous girl, dressed to kill, pouting at the doorstep with suitcases in hand: I’m leaving!

Gorgeous boy with his head in the newspaper, not even looking up: Bye

Yeah, I feel a little like that today. I mean at least act like you’re going to miss me. It’s been four years, how now? All you can do is ask if you should forward my mail?

Le sigh.

Anyway, in other news.

♫♫♫♫

A pal mentioned in passing that a lot of people *cough*cough*.ke crowd*cough* misuse twitter. It was initially meant to be an information resource. Like the FB status but without all the annoying quizzes and sponges. It was meant to answer ‘what are you doing’ in a quick and timely way.

At some point it morphed into ‘what can you do’ and people started to use it to market and spread news, with funky tips, adverts and RT links. I get all my news from twitter, including the passing of MJ, Patrick Swayze and  bunch of people who I should know but don’t, kina Charlie’s Angels Celebrity Lady, the one with the pretty name.

Plus it’s a great place to find out about safaricom and zain’s latest offers. It’s thanks to twitter that I joined Super Ongea and that 3 bob calling tarriff thingie. Plus the whole Mercs vs Passats, unlimited bandwidth [yay!] and my first freelance writing job – all found on twitter. So for me, twitter is a pretty nifty newsfeed, without all the classified fluff.

But mostly – for me at least – twitter is about friends. Not necessarily the kind of lasting bonds that people lose arms over, but the kind of ‘let’s hang out on saturday’ thing, where people make dates and use 140 character updates to tell each other where they’re sitting. Twind dates so to speak.

At some level this sounds odd, but since online hookups are becoming far less … unusual, it makes sense to use twitter that way. When I first heard about this couple that met on Second life, dated, fell in love and married, I chuckled. Especially since the groom moved halfway across the world to live with his bride.

But wait, it gets worse.

After she twice caught him canoodling [I like this word] with some girl on Second life, she divorced him. Yep. Note that he did not meet the girl online, call her, get her into his wifey’s house and do the dirty. Nooooo. What happened is wifey came home from work, found hubby drooling at a computer monitor where the online version of himself was doing the nearly-nasty with the online version of some girl.

Now get this clearly. Second life is a virtual reality game where people hang out. You go on there, create an avatar, and then do stuff. You can hang out in the virtual mall, watch virtual movies, go on virtual dates, the works. You can even use real-world money to buy virtual land and clothes. You can use your actual credit card to buy a virtual pair of jeans in a virtual Woolworths [though why anyone would want to do that mystifies me] Your avatar can take some other person’s avatar on a date to a virtual McDonalds and stuff like that.

This may sound silly to the average person. But if you met your husband on First life, then went offline and married him, then finding the same husband in a virtual jacuzzi with a virtual girl, you can reasonably deduce signs of a co-wife, yes?

My two cents? Before you wear the actual ring, do a virtual marriage for a bit. Go the the First life vegas and do a virtual nuptial. Of course the downside is there isn’t [as] much fun in virtual sex.

But I digress. My point was, we use twitter more as a mixing-work-and-play tool. We are at work and we get to hang out with our buddies at the same time. Or we are lounging at our respective digs while at the same time having a mass party on Chuki FM or in Milo’s kitchen or wherever the latest bash is at, which is pretty cool. We get to be in lots of different places at the same time, and whenever we like, we can take the party offline for a shot of twitbowl or twitpool or MAMAs or even Just a Band.

I don’t think that’s what the original twitter-people had in mind, but it’s a pretty nifty mutation, no?

♫♫♫♫

On an actual note, the LOA involves a lot of self deception. It’s all about the power of the mind. If you’re tired and you tell yourself ‘I feel great’, you will notice that your spirits rise considerably. Especially if you put some spirit into the words. It’s hard at first, but it gets easier with time.

Thing is, sometimes I’m just fcuking tired, and I just want to declare that I am fcuking tired. But then, after I say it, then what? I don’t feel any better declaring that truth than if I had lied about it and said ‘I am a human gummibear, I never tire, oxygen is my juice’. Now that makes me feel better. Even if it is a lie.

So I suppose the real trick in LOA is to monitor my thoughts. When the thought ‘I am so xyz’ comes to mind, before I decide whether I will say it or lie about it, I should change it.

Suppose the thought ‘I’m bored’ comes to mind. Before I speak it, I might think of stuff that excites me, like soap bubbles. Or I could picture myself popping bubble foam [Fun!] Then instead of saying I am bored, I could say ‘Ooh ooh bubbles’. I wouldn’t be lying, and I wouldn’t be bored anymore.

Hm, I like this idea. Hope I can remember it.

Feel free to ignore everything after ‘On an actual note’, since it assumes you belong to my cult: the crazy reincarnating creatures of zombieville. Our motto —> nobody dies, we just change form. *cheeky grin* For more information, consult Neale Donald Walsch on Google.

Off to find me some bubble wrap in my happy place.

♫ Get you in ♫ Better than Ezra ♫

Back to sanity

What. It’s after lunch.

Two people I know [of] were on TV yesterday. They looked all smart and hotshot talking about social media and the usefulness [or not] of twitter and facebook. Me, I’m just in it for the rant.  But it did get me thinking.

In my other life, the one where I use the saner half of my name, I am sometimes approached with ‘Oh so you’re the xyz that did abc’. I always find it vaguely amusing. So I did xyz. Big deal. I’m still just me, with all my foibles and nonsense and idio-whatsits [I never liked that word].

I remember in school once I got in trouble with this boy I liked. He was the head prefect, and awfully hot for a short boy. His sister was in my class, and she got it into her head that I had ATT. Ok fine, I did, but still.

What happened is we were in the field, under the acacia tree, and it was windy and really dusty. I was in the shade for some reason, and she was standing in the sun. She came walking towards me, and I squinted to keep out the dust and maybe see her clearly, which she misinterpreted and said

“Why are you looking at me as ift [sic] I am *contents of sewer* ?”

I was all of nine, or maybe ten years old, and was rather too shocked to answer.

“You think you are so clever, you know I have an auntie in Tanzania? She can roga you with this,” at which point she pinched my arm and allegedly grabbed a few hairs … or maybe dandruff. I didn’t think much of the threat, since I have a few dubious relatives of my own, and I was sure mine could take hers any day.

I left it at that until the next day when we were in the school bus heading to the swimming pool. I was looking at …almost said his name **cheeky grin**… zoobing at his beauty and not hearing a word he was saying. Turns out he was yelling at me to sit down, and was not amused that I had refused to  obey.

“You think you’re so clever, and just because you did xyz you can do whatever you want?”

I didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, I was too busy crying that the boy of my  infatuations could speak to me like that. I don’t remember whether I sat down or not, but I must have, coz he was scary at the best of times.

So clearly, my having done xyz has never been a big deal, and I still wonder why some people think it is.

Yesterday, watching Kahenya and Mark on the silly unloadable video, I couldn’t help thinking they’re regular guys, just like anyone else on twitter or wherever, just like Paula or Alai or Tonee-before-BBC.

And I see myself as a pretty regular person. But because of BBC/Kiss FM/et al, they become instant experts, go-to guys, people held in awe. Yet awe aside, they are just everyday jamaas with squabbles and foibles [I like this word] and tweef, just like the rest of us.

Sometimes, when I meet these people who pull the xyz stuff on me, I wonder what they would think if they saw my FB page, or twitter feed, or heavens forbid, the mess that is my living space. Would I come off their pedestal? Would I be suddenly human in their eyes? Would I be worth less … or somehow worthless?

Some people in the blog twircle are professional. They are serious at all times, never a stray tweet or idle chatter. Their image is cold, clinical … compact. I wonder if it’s hard keeping that up, or if my anything-goes-ness-ness is some kind of mutation. Coz me, I think I’d be a little stunted if I had to watch every word I said. I’m not even sure I know how. Still, different strokes and all that, their system serves them well, so I just need to work with mine.

Wait. I have a system? Interesting.

I do feed my mind the strangest things sometimes.

And I’m sleepy.

♫ Walking with a ghost ♫ Tegan and Sara ♫

Weird is me

You know that episode in Ally Mcbeal where Billy chips, gets divorced, has an affair and dyes his hair platinum? They all think it’s a mid-life crisis, but it turns out he has a brain tumour. And just before he blacks out and dies, he discovers Ally is his one true love, not Georgia.

Yeah, just thought I’d throw that out there.

Coz the platinum hair was really cool.

So I woke up this morning rather … sore … on the inside that is. I’m into LOA these days, and my Sifu says I continue to create in my sleep, and that I must go to sleep thinking happy thoughts. Ngingi helps.

But I’m kind of on the BT, and yesterday I was sort of giving Master Sifu the silent treatment, mostly because he said I couldn’t watch this video I spent all day loading. And when I wouldn’t listen, he put the power off. *russumfussumallpowerfuldeitiesandsuch** So I went to bed cranky, woke up more cranky, and by the time I got to work, I really wasn’t myself. So I figured I could be myselves instead.

Therefore then.

I reactivated this account just to see if it still worked, and whadd’you know, it does. Nice. But then I am still pretty attached to this one which at some point was actually this one, and I figured, why not keep both?

Then I started doing my little indian fist jig, jumping between accounts and whatnot, which was kind of fun. It’s quite possible that someone doused my tea with coffee, coz I do feel more than just a little … odd.

Anyway,  what led to all this is the realisation that few people trust me. They believe I will mouth off every single word they say to me. And in all fairness, I probably will, if it involves me. Like for example, if I have a crush on that-boy-that-I-am-not-allowed-to-have-on-account-of-he-belongs-to-somebody-else, then I will probably tell him, and then go crying to one of the K15.

But if the same boy tells me he has a frightful fear of, I don’t know, giant green killer tomatoes, I will probably not tell anyone else about it. Except I just did. Oops. Oh well. I guess your secrets aren’t safe with me after all. *sheepish grin* Please keep them. Or else you will come after me with a pitchfork and a torch, and I already did that scene, twice. It wasn’t fun. For real.

So I realised that  a lot of my drama is self-inflicted. Or rather self-attracted. Yes, I am a magnet for drama, and my queendom is a dictatorship. Does that make sense? No? In layman’s terms, I am a drama queen, and my subjects are drawn to me by sheer wordpower. According to Master Sifu, the more I talk about drama, the more I attract it.

So I will be sitting here peacefully minding my own business, whining about my latest quandary to whomever among the K15 hasn’t tired of me yet. Usually it’s K10, coz he’s the sweet, infinitely patient one. Or K3 coz I tell him everything. Sometimes K13 coz he gives realistic advice and is allowed to give me a ngoto, or K7 coz he’s beautifully biased and always takes my side. My personal favourite is K2 coz he always says exactly what I need to hear, But he’s really far away so I can’t always find him when I want him. Le sigh.

Anyway, I’ll be sitting here binge-ing on milk and ranting when wham out of nowhere I will find myself knee deep in a fresh sewer load of … well, whatever resides in fresh sewer loads.

Yesterday I decided enough. I will not speak, I will not whine, I will sit here quietly and do nothing.

And guess what. Nothing happened!!

Cool, yes?

Except it wasn’t. Coz I was sooooo boooored! I had nothing to talk about! I tried to have a chatversation and it was like:

Hi CB.

Hi K5. Wsup?

Nothing.

Nothing?

Nothing.

Ok, bye.

Ttyl.

I mean really, wtf? Nothing? I know I suck at smalltalk, but seriously, nothing?!

Sad conclusion, my life is unbearable without drama. I mean I could always sit in a corner, pull a root mudra and meditate, but where’s the fun in that? I only enjoy it in contrast to my constant chaos, I like the relief it gives me from buzzing around like a Gummibear high on seaweed or cheap sawdust.

Le sigh.

That’s probably why I went with the schitzotwenia today. I needed a little dose of crazy to up my ante. Mind, I don’t start fights for the sake of it like some people do, and I do have moments when I like my peace and quiet. I just have more moments when I like it loud. Feel free to sweep the gutters with this one.

So.

I am two tweeters. For now. It will keep me sane as I attempt to keep the drama within my head. I will hurt fewer people that way. I’ll probably write more screenplays too.

In other news.

Some days I wake up and I don’t want to talk to someone. Other days, I go to sleep because I don’t want to talk to anyone. And saturdays, I wake up and feel ok, maybe I can find you again. Maybe. That makes me a whatever-it-was-that-you-called-me. Fine, it’s me, it’s all I know how to be. So go eat an ice cream.

Now, you, yes you, with the … you know yourself. All of you three. I am not apologising, I stand by my words even now. I’m just saying it wasn’t my intention to offend you.  That is all. Now go get passive aggressive and break a light fixture, yell at a wall, or stick pins in my effigy or something. It’ll make you feel better. Seriously.

Yes, I’m that arrogant. Sue me. I have a pretty lawyer *cheeky grin*

And this is why mindreading is generally not  good idea. Don’t do it. Just don’t.

PS: I’m up to 2GB a month. Yay! ♫ She-geek ♫ She-geek ♫ Na ♫ na ♫ na ♫ na ♫ na ♫ na.

No, it does not count that most of it is streaming audio.

♫ Hole in the head ♫ Sugababes ♫

I has a happee, yay!

I have always said that I only write poetry when I am stressed, depressed or in love, and that I write my best poetry when I’m all three. It’s so much easier to write a downy poem than a gladdy one. Which probably means Mwaura should be a fabulous muse…

I have an acute case of rejectionitis. Or, to make it sound a little more credible, let’s call it a rejection complex. And because of that, I tend to attract … it. And to see it when it’s not there.

The cure for that simple. Fix my root chakra, change my train of thought, get over it, snap out of it.

Baby steps love, baby steps.

And so this, my first step is to write a happy poem – possibly my first happy poem ever.

Yes I am stressed, yes I’m in love, and yes, mwaura just might be peeping over my shoulder here, but today, I wish to write a happy poem. Enough with the blues, it’s so last season.

In the arms of my love I find rest

he holds me tight on days so long.

In the arms of my love I find peace

he shuts the world outside

and whispers me a song, his voice so hoarse.

In the arms of my love I find joy

he dries my tears with hands so large, so hard, so scarred.

In the arms of my love I find…

love

So wide, so deep, so true.

Dearest Dimples, Darling Sailor,

How truly I love you.

See, that wasn’t so hard now was it.

♫ No more drama ♫ Mary J Blige ♫

In the eyes of my child

First things first

In my baby’s eyes, I can do no wrong. She thinks I am superwoman, I have all the answers. When she breaks her dolly’s head, she thinks I can fix it. When her playmates have a fever, she thinks I can heal it. When people are sad, she wants me to make them smile again.

Yesterday I went home sad, and my little one asked me why. I told her my friend was mad at me. She asked me why, and I told her a half-truth. I told her it was because it was his birthday and I had not called him, and so we had ishana-d friends.

My baby, in true mummy-worship, decided that the only reason I could possibly have for not calling someone on their birthday … is that I was broke. She suggested I send him an email explaining that I had no credit in my phone, and that I would call when I got credit. Then she said we should pray for my friend to forgive me, so we did.

Dear God,

Please help my mummy

Please help her friend to forgive her

Please tell him she doesn’t have credit in her phone…

At that point I had to stop her. I had plenty of credit in my phone. Telling my baby a little white lie is one thing. Telling God a massive whopper is something else entirely.

I am not looking forward to the day when my baby realises that I am not perfect. I can’t stand the idea of looking into her pretty little eyes and seeing disappointment, shame, angst … or worse.

Secondly

In the first episode of Scrubs, JD walks into the hospital all idealist-intern-like. He meets the boss doctor – I forget his name, and Boss Doctor is all sweet and polite to him. Then he meets the cranky-Doc-with-the-hot-ex-wife who constantly belittles him. Cranky Doc then informs JD that Sweet Doc is the antichrist.

JD of course doesn’t believe him until he does something stupid and Sweet Doc shows his horns. JD then stands in a corner, utterly bumbwazzed and asks himself  a question. In every situation, there is yin and yang, he and she, good guy and bad guy, angel and devil spawn. So if Doctor Sweetness is really the antichrist, then who is the good guy?

Then he turns and sees Doctor-how-could-a-man-s0-cranky-get-a-wife-so-hot and gets this light bulb moment, except it’s not a light bulb, it’s a red neon sign screaming WTF?

[Well no, that doesn't actually happen. It might have, in Ally Mcbeal]

So that’s my week in a nutshell. I’m staring at my Doctor Sweetness, who has turned out to be Doctor Evilhorns, and wondering who the fuck is the good guy in all this? Would you stand up and wave already? I have Samantha Mumba on speed dial. What. I do. On a call-back ringtone thingie.

Number 3

Every once in a QLC you find out stuff about yourself that you don’t really like. I recently found out that the general consensus among my K15 is that I am a flirt and a tease.

And this week I found out that I am considered a gossip as well. In the sense that it is believed that I enjoy talking about other people’s private lives. I don’t believe that is true, not for a second. But I do know that I am curious and dramatic, and that I link things in my mind. So I will start out telling you a story about why I can’t get a glass of milk.

See, we had a blackout, and the power came back, but the thermostat is broken. My fridge has this weird thing it does where it grumbles and gets hot and cold, like Katie Perry. The lady who sold it to me, she has green eyes and four kids, gorgeous babies, except the last one, he has a limp. What happened is he got into a fight at school and his leg broke, and his mother asked me to recommend a good doctor, so I told her about Dr Shivji. He’s the one who treated Princess when she grazed her leg running after that boy who hit her in the bus.

In telling you about my milk, I have just compromised the fridge saleslady, her four kids, my daughter, her paeditrician, and some random boy who can’t express a crush. Oh, and Katie Perry. I haven’t even gotten to the milky part yet! That, ladies and gentlemen, is called gossip.

I hate gossips.

But wait.

As of today, i AM a gossip.

Sigh.

The people’s court, like the Press, rules. And the people’s court is adjourned.

It makes me think of this person that I know. He’s very close to me, and is sort of the family historian. He knows everything about everyone in the family,  sort like an organic facebook. If I want to know who’s moved, who earns what, who has a new girlfriend, who’s cheating on their spouse, he’s my first port of call.

But after a while I realised that whatever I tell him goes into my OFB profile, and is then available on demand for everyone else. So I stopped telling him stuff. I still used him to catch up on my relaz new phone numbers and stuff, I just stopped updating his CB folder.

This person is a lot like me. I confide in my friends a lot, but they rarely confide in me. I always assumed it was because I don’t ask. After all, I don’t like to pry. I figure if someone wants me to know something, they will tell me.

Except they never do.

Maybe they realised they have a page in the CB file, and that since I am an open book, they are not safe with me. Hmm. Scary thought that.

Haunted

Disclaimer: … can’t think of an appropriate one *grin* But it’s only 10.00 a.m. on Monday morning, so no, I am not high. Maybe it’s the full moon, it is Halloween after all.

Time travel.

Let’s assume it can be done.

Now, let’s assume that you got a message from your soulmate telling you they miss you, and they love you, and they never meant to fall for you. You started out as friends, but one day you crossed out of the friend zone, and now you can never go back. It wasn’t planned, it just happened. You receive the message now, when you are still in the friend zone, when you have not yet confessed your true feelings.

What to do? Why did he send you the message? Is he sorry you became more than friends. Is he warning you not to cross the line? Is he saying he wants to go back in time? No wait, he has. Can he really change the future? Has he changed it simply by sending you the message? What happened in the future after he sent it? Did he wish he hadn’t sent it? Was he drunk-messaging?

[And would this make a good love story?]

Will I be with him knowing how badly we will hurt each other, and how much it will tear us apart? Will I stop it before it even starts? Is that what he wanted? Is that why he sent me the message?

What matters more to me – keeping my heart safe, or sharing a lifetime with him? Because in the brief time we will be together, we will be so happy that we will change the world. And then the love will destroy us. Is it worth the intensity of pain that will come?

And now that I know it is coming, can I stop it?

Am I overthinking things? [Don't answer that.] Where do dark thoughts come from? Are they premonitions, possibilities, or the results of staying awake till 5.00 a.m watching the X-Men?

Some days, it’s really scary being me.

In other news, it is probably not a good idea to eat strawberry popcorn and watch all Six Star Wars in one sitting. First, because strawberry popcorn sucks. And second, because you will end up thinking  Darth Vader is not so bad after all. He only turned evil to save his wife from dying – the end justifies the means, yes? Still, it’s pretty disturbing when the evilest pop villain ever turns human. It’s like discovering Sirus the Virus likes lollipops.

No, not those lollipops. Real lollipops, with sugar and whistles and gum in the middle.

Ok, this isn’t helping.

Come to think of it, more people dress up as Darth Vader than as Luke Skywalker. Think maybe it’s coz Luke had such terrible hair? Or is it just cool being shiny black, deliciously evil,  and sounding like James Earl Jones?

Why can’t I stop thinking like this?

It sure is scary being me. Must be Halloween.

PS: Megan Fox for Modesty Blaise – somebody start a facebook group already. I’m just saying.

Edit:

I think best when I think out loud, and so I am grateful for people [and blogs] that let me. I must conclude, or I will go mad, and it’s only Monday.

Like attracts like, negative thoughts attract negative thoughts. Thoughts of loss attract more thoughts of loss, sometimes in self, sometimes in others.

Every time I like someone, I think about what it would be like to marry them … and lose them. It’s almost masochistic. I sit and get lost in my daydreams, imagining all the ways they could hurt me, playing out vivid scenarios of them cheating on me, or catching me cheating and killing me, or going mad and attacking me, or catching Ebola, rabies or High-Five. Mind you, this is before we even get together, usually before they even know I like them. Interesting.

So perhaps the message from the future was not a message from the future at all, perhaps it was simply my consistent thoughts of loss drawing on his own thoughts of loss.

For some reason, that makes me feel better. By letting out the fear, we become aware, and we are better able to deal it when it comes. If it comes.

Suddenly I feel better. Yay!

Off to find something else to worry about *cheeky grin*

Cryptic … eureka?

A week ago I asked a question and last night a got my answer. It was a long and painful answer, but then, it was a long and painful question.

The answer is yes.

The questions wasn’t ‘what colour did the original kencell-celtel-zain-whatever-it’s-called-now use’, though I’d like an answer to that as well.

Yes, it is possible for two people to say or do the exact same thing and have completely different meanings. Observe.

Case study 1

Wife asks husband “Honey, do I look fat?”

In 90% of situations, the correct answer is “No dear, of course not.” accompanied by a swift ducking behind furniture or a sprint for the hills. Why? Because she will go out in that dress, meet her sister/mother/bitchy neighbour, who will inevitably comment on her weight. Then you are a dead man.

But in the 10 percentile are the indigenous societies where a rotund woman is a sign of affluence, in which case her husband had sure as hell better say “of course you do hun, I feed you well,” regardless of said wife looking like a matchstick.

Case study 2

This here being CB, I prefer to be told the truth, no matter how much it hurts. So if I ask you if I look fat, please say yes or no, whichever is more accurate.

However, there is an exception to every rule…

Case study 3

Me, CB, I have weight issues. I was terribly chubby as a teen, and my siblings and relatives tormented me ceaselessly. It did not bother me. Well actually, it did, but I brushed it off. Teasing from silly blood relatives was something I could live with. **They can’t me**

Later, when I was slimmer, the same relas now teased me for being thin, and I asked, ‘When I was fat you dissed me, now I’m thin you’re still dissing. Kwani?’ My cousin admitted that he had no idea his teasing was upsetting me, because I’d never react. I explained: reverse psychology. If I had reacted to the fat-chat, he would have increased the level of torment. As is, he thought I didn’t care so the game became boring and he stopped.

Once I had shed the weight to a point where “My … twins … were suspended on a skeleton”, those words were said by my girl. I acknowledged that the phrase was in bad taste, but brushed it off. Bygones.

Lately I am putting on weight again. My aunties are super excited, I look okay, but it’s totally bugging me.

Former-workmate  said “You’re so fat! You look fabulous!”

Twiggy said “You’ve put on, what, five kilos? Your’e an African woman, stop dieting.”

Princess said “Mummy, I like hugging you coz your stomach is warm. I want to be fat and hot like you.” [I'm pretty sure she meant temperature *cheeky grin*]

None of the above particularly bothered – or flattered me.

However, when someone said “You’d better find some way to exercise, coz with all those lunch dates you have, you’re going to get a little chunky.”

Ouch?

Now explain to me how I decided that the other statements were idle chatter while that last statement implied jealousy? And more to the point, why I walked around nibbling at my food for days after that?

Case study 4

I don’t enjoy losing my temper coz it leaves me with a vacuum – this giant chasm that I can only fill with blackforest cake. Also, because when I’m angry, I throw things. Expensive things mostly, and they tend to break. That’s why I like Nokias, they have survived endless throwing.

When I speak to the First Ex, I get so furious that I yell and scream and rant and generally castrate him with my tongue. Nothing gutterly about that. Nothing at all. I loved the boy so much that the hatred I have for him now is enough to ignite a petrol bomb – with my eyes. It is gradually fading to indifference though, which is good, because bile is bad for the skin.

Yesterday I had a heated argument with someone. The level of anger surprised me, because I have only ever been that angry with the First Ex. Yet this anger was prompted not by scorning, but by caring. The boy I fought last night is so dear to me that I called him all manner of names yet constantly wondered why I was doing it. I got more and more angry, and I wondered, since he was pissing me off so much, why the fuck was I still talking to him? Why didn’t I just hang up?

Clearly, rage can be fueled as much by love as by hate. That’s why lawyers can argue out a crime of passion.

And I suppose that’s also why the First Ex often said that he wished I didn’t love him so much. He said love makes people crazy, and that he was afraid one day I would walk in, find him on top of some woman, and kill him on the spot. Hm. Glad I got over that boy.

Case study 5

I have always said that if a boy likes you, he will not mention sex on the first date. Or the second, or even the third. It’s my reasoning that if you have long-term potential, he will want to bide his time and get to know you vertically before he takes it horizontal.

And no, I don’t mean standings.

I don’t know where I got this idea. Probably from Oyunga Pala *shudder* or from that Monica song. Or maybe from the rule that most boys get bored after they hit it, especially if ‘it’ is wild and green and under sixteen.

Horizontal synchronicity, however, is important in relationships. So lots of people will not take you seriously until you have proved your ability in the art of sideways.

So, while one person may simply be winning a bet or filling out his scoresheet, another may have be genuinely besotted and now wants to see if you are worth further … perusal.

Case study 6

In high school, boys would always ask for girls’ pictures and vice versa. In our case, it was so we could put them on the noticeboard or under our pillows to ensure that we dreamt of no other.

In their case, it was probably to show off … or perhaps, by the time they got to college, to ensure cleanliness, with the aid of a bar of soap.

In any online interaction, you will eventually ask for pictures – unless of course you’re on facebook. When I ask for a person’s picture, it is simply so that I can visualize the person I am talking to. It makes the conversation more comfortable, more real. And yesterday, I realised that some boys can be equally sweet, so you, yes you, you have officially cleansed my dirty mind, at least for the moment. Much obliged **grin**

Conclusion

I have been disturbed for most of the morning equating the First Ex to the boy from last night. I thought that either I hate the boy from last night, or I still have feelings for the First Ex.

Both ideas are ridiculous.

So I cede. It is, after all, possible for two people to use the exact same words at the exact same place, in the exact same situation, yet have completely different meanings and results.

I detest First Ex. But I miss my friend.

♫ Fallen ♫ Sarah Mchlachlan ♫

Just like Paula

There are two topics that I generally don’t delve into: abortion and gays.

It’s not that I don’t have a stand on these matters. It’s just that they ignite such passion, the kind of passion that I can’t handle. My own voice on both topics is so still and quiet that it doesn’t seem worth sharing, especially with all the yammering.

But today I was hovering here and here, and I was moved, deeply. As Paula says, when good people stay silent, we are letting the bad people do horrible things. We’re letting them win.

First, I salute Paula for having such a clear stand and having the courage to speak. She’s got a great voice too. She’d be good on radio, seriously.

While I was still deciding how to frame this post, I saw this, and I was shaken, but for different reasons. I have to admit that Marcus and Caroline are right. The views on the show do represent the views of the average Kenyan. And these shows are all about popularity, so they say what people want to hear.

But then again, when you have such immense influence over people, isn’t it better to use that influence responsibly, positively? Instead of just going with the mobs, would it be better to point them in the right direction, however subtly?

I admit that a few weeks ago, I was on the wrong side of this debate. I have never advocated gay-bashing, but I was among the people who thought homosexuality was somehow unnatural, and I brushed off the gay penguins story as fabrication. I got hit on by two gay friends and have avoided them both to date. It simply did not make sense to me that organisms which are created as male and female would want to alter that. I didn’t think that God would outlaw something he had created, and so I didn’t believe that people could be born gay.

But then again, a few weeks ago, I was also sceptical about Islam, Eastern Mysticism, Yoga, meditation, accupuncture, meditation, ayur veda, and hindu gods drinking milk.

Well, actually, that last one, I still have my doubts even though I actually saw it happen.

I’m going through a renewal of sorts, a rebirth if you will, a re-memberance. And the experience is melting away a lot of my prejudices. So now, I can honestly say that gay people are ok. As Paula so eloquently puts it, they’re not bothering anybody. What they do in the privacy of their bedrooms is nobody’s business but theirs. And after all, homosexuality is about so much more than sex.

Charles and Daniel got married. They openly and legally expressed their love for one another. In a world where come-we-stay is the norm and divorce is like pizza or pie, it’s admirable that a couple – any couple, chooses to affirm their commitment, to take the ‘forever’ step, to say ‘till death do us part’. We shouldn’t hate them for that, we should applaud them. If we can accept polygamy, why do we have such a problem with gays?

I used to say if God wanted gays, he would not have created us male and female. But by the same token, if he wanted us to fly, would he not have given us wings? Or gills to swim, or wheels to ride, or blades for fingers to hunt, or flames for breath, or for that matter, cotton and silk to wear?

If we use that argument, we should all be walking nude and eating raw coffee berries. But we don’t. We made choices to use our intellect, to build planes, subs, shoes, microwave ovens, java, the London Fashion week. So the ‘as God intended’ argument falls flat right there.

What argument is left? We have absolutely no reason to bother people, or to interefere with how they live their lives, as long as they don’t hurt anyone. And honestly speaking, they’re not hurting or affecting anyone.

Sanctioning gay-bashing or corrective rape *shudder* is just as bad as pulling a Kunta Kinte. The people with power just should not do it. Neither should we.

Give the gays a break, they’re happy. We should all be so happy.

And yes, I would now attend a gay rights rally, Proudly Kenyan and Proudly CB.

My name is Crystal, and I approve this message.

The half monty?

I’m having a hard time keeping my spirits up this week, I don’t really know why. Perhaps I’m overly-overthinking. As in considerably more than the standard CB-DNA overthinking.

I remember reading in a book about mels once, the one by the LaHayes, that mels can sometimes analyse and criticise their self worth so much that there isn’t anything left. So that’s probably it.

I’m eating away at myself. I really wish some mad genius could figure out a way to burn calories through thinking, coz it’s exhausting exercise.

Speaking of exhausting exercise, congrats to all the Stanchart Marathoners. You guys are hard!! I don’t know what would possess me to put myself through that! I’d rather bungee jump, and the only way I’d bungee jump is if you knocked out my kneecaps.

I’m working on some relaxation tips, like meditation, accupressure and mudras, and they do help for about five minutes at a time. So I’m guessing whatever is bothering me comes from further down. Unfortunately, it’s not PMS. I checked.

I have been described as bubbly, and denied it emphatically. After a while I started to believe it. Perhaps I was simply deluding myself. I don’t think so though. I think I am bubbly, when I’m happy or relaxed, when I’m around people that I enjoy, especially one-at-a-time.

And I’m generally bubbly on twitter because I have a simple policy – don’t tweet when you’re down. It’s not a conscious plan, it just comes. When I’m jazzed, I tweet incessantly, one hundred tweets a day even. But when I’m down I just read without chirping and occasionally DM. That’s probably why I’ve averaged just 500 tweets in the last five weeks.

I read that mels enjoy suffering and that we like to wallow because we somehow like being miserable. That offended me. I mean it feels so crappy when I’m down, so why would I want to stay depressed?

And yet sometimes it does seem that way. It seems like I actually want to just feel bleargh for a while. Except that when I eventually decide to snap out of it, it doesn’t happen.

Other times I find I just don’t have the strength to cheer up. It takes an awful lot of energy to jump from depth of abyss to Miss Sunshiny. At least it does for me. It’s so much easier to play goth and grab some chocolate and ice cream.

I know that the dark moods come from thinking too much, and I’ve even found an accuspot that counteracts the effects of too much thinking.

I find it interesting that it counteracts the effects rather than attacking the source. Hm. I guess not even yoga can cure overthinking.

Haven’t tried it yet, and no, it doesn’t use needles. It actually suggests you use the rubber on the back of a pencil.

What.

Thing is, I don’t want to let go of my overthinking. I know it only does me harm, but I feel like relinquishing it will somehow make me less … me.

I have to do something though. So I’m thinking maybe I should just surround myself with bubbles, like The Secret suggests, that I should become obsessed with following my bliss, that I should make sure I am always, always, always in the presence of something or someone that makes me happy.

I suppose I could do that. It would take practise, patience and immense willpower. Not sure I have all those, but I am immensely stubborn, so that could work.

Of course the next natural thought progression, at least for me, is to wonder which side is the real me – the bubbles that I consciously derive or the misery that I wear like a … like an item-of-clothing-that-is-constantly-on-my-person … say … an undergarment? It’s possible that bubbles are my t-shirt while depression is my black lace.

My faith tells me I can be whatever I choose to be. My purpose is to figure out, to decide, to re-member who I really am.

So I’d rather think it’s the other way round, that the bubbles are the lace. Bubbles are so lace-like. They’re light, airy, delicate, and oh so pretty. And they don’t last very long.

Usually when I meet someone, what they see is the t-shirt and jeans, then if they are deemed worthy, I can show them the …

Ok, in a less guttervilly analogy, for the most part, I am initially sombre except with people I am easy with, comfortable with. So with some people I am bubbly in an instant, they just bring out that side of me. But then even with them, there are moments when it gets chilly, so I throw on the t-shirt and jacket and they’re left like wtf happened to the view?

I think if I can find a place where it is always spring, where there is endless beach and warm gentle waves, then I can be constantly in lace, if only coz lace makes it easier to swim. I mean, can you imagine swimming in jeans?

Or at the very least, I can carry around little beachy mementoes, like sun-in-a-can or sea-breeze bottled-mist, or a seashell or CD playing waves, or instant sand.

But it’s going to take a lot. I don’t know if I have it in me.

PS: Food for thought —> Sometimes when it walks like a duck, talks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s adopted. Or maybe it’s halloween, or Kung-fu panda. So you might want to check the calendar and the birth records. I’m just saying…

PPS: I have been swearing a lot lately. Mild swearing, granted, but still, swearing is swearing, and it’s surprisingly liberating … *puzzled frown*