Tonight I couldn’t sleep so…

…now I know what insomnia is like **grin**

So it’s no secret that I’m mad about psychology, and that I love my MBTI. I’m always trying to get people to do the test. I know of two INFJs, but for some reason, I just don’t like them. I’ve no idea why. I so wanted to find out, so I went in search of blogs. Found out a lot of interesting stuff, good, bad, happy, sad.

I liked this:

I’m 31 and have recently discovered that I am an INFJ. Oh my God-today I feel like I’ve had a breakthrough! I’m not NUTS! LOL!

I am the stereotypical INFJ. I’m an artist, have been since birth practically, I draw, paint, photograph religiously, I’m finishing up my BFA finally with a double major in Photography and Drawing. I feel like I’ve fought so hard to live up to other people’s expectations, esp. my parents. (It never worked) I love and cherish my alone time, I read constantly, not just for school, I am just a fanatical learner. I have a small group of close friends and that’s it. I married an ESTJ, and I think we’ve been a great match so far…I’ve never felt like the popular one, never fit in, in some ways, never wanted to.
(Even in the art dept, I don’t fit in. They dress like they went to Goodwill, I dress… normal!)

I’ve always felt like the outsider looking in, I hate crowds and loud people…I would rather sit at home on the weekend and paint, or work on the computer, or redecorate my house. Someone mentioned having coffee with friends, and that sounds like the perfect outing to me. I am always thinking about the future, and sometimes that’s the only thing that gets me through the present. I chuckle when I read about having a strong sense of justice, because nothing gets me angrier in this world than to see someone get wronged. I struggle with crowds, so I take classes online, and I love it!!

I also liked this:

Extroverts are like aliens to me. I look at them with curiosity. What in the world goes on inside their pretty heads?

And I especially liked this:

Being an INFJ to me, is like living inside of a locked house with a very pretty front lawn. People walk by and they see things that they like. A few people even stop and admire the house for awhile, and then move on. Some people try to pluck the flowers out of the ground, taking advantage of the beautiful yard when they don’t think anyone is watching.

But I’m always inside, and I always see the people walking by. Only a few people stop to see if there is anyone inside of the house. At one point it bothered me tremendously what other people thought of me. Then I learned I was an INFJ. My curiosity has been insatiable. I read everything I can get my hands on. When I realized that I was perfectly normal, for an INFJ, and I felt better immediately. I stopped trying to put on an act for other people, and I immediately felt a sense of peace come over me, a sense of peace that has been very new to me. I feel very contented, because everything I’ve read has validated my feelings and validated my existence. It helps me to

counteract the effects of the times I heard from others that I was, “weird”.

Well, world, I’m not weird, I’m an INFJ, and I’m just as normal as every other INFJ. Ah, that feels so good to say.

I’m uncomfortable talking with everyone. That’s normal for me. I’m very easily amused, and very easily thrilled. That’s normal for me. I love people, but I usually doubt that people love me. That’s normal for me. I don’t like to be the center of attention. That’s normal for me. I would rather spend my saturday evening reading than drinking. That’s normal for me, too. I have faith that life will only get better for me if I keep looking toward the future, and working hard in the present. Wowee, I do so many normal things for an INFJ!!! I’m so glad I learned about MBTI.

When I was young I was often told by my teachers, and also by my parents that I was a smart kid. I also got messages from my family that smart people are dumb. Smart people have no common sense according to them. And to a large extent, I lack what they consider to be common sense. I can’t fix a car. Sometimes I put off doing dishes because I value conversation and connection with another human being over chores. I’ll switch my major from engineering to communications, just because I know it’s better for my happiness, even if it’s not better for my wallet. I care very little about my financial situation, now or in the future. I have goals for my life that I planned out when I was little. My most important goal is that I want to be happy. I want to be happy in my career, and in my family life, and with a few strong friendships. I had a sad childhood, and am busily trying to overcome it. I also have a strong drive to be the best I can be. I’m rather competitive. I like to be held. I like it when people thank me for helping them, and the feeling is especially good when I helped them without realizing that I did, just by being me.

My best friend here says, “You usually don’t know what’s going on, but you usually know just what everyone’s feeling.” My boyfriend says, “How did you know I wanted to go inside? I didn’t tell you.” and he says, “How did you know I needed that hug? I didn’t tell you.” He’s an INTJ. He’s very perceptive, too. But not so much about people’s feelings. When I need a hug, he usually happily obliges, once I tell him I need a hug.

I absolutely love being an INFJ. I love having access to this great store of knowledge. I love my creativity. I love my intense and varied moods. I love intrinsically knowing people, sometimes better than they know themselves. And I don’t mind that I don’t like big parties. I don’t mind that I don’t like office politics. I don’t mind that I think about things a lot and analyze them like crazy. I like being me. I like being an INFJ. I’m completely normal.

Thanks to Megan, I can stop defending myself about this compulsive need to defend myself, because I know it is me. I can stop questioning why I write what I write, because it is me. I can grin when I say that I love to be cuddled, and I will immediately dismiss as a potential boyfriend any man that doesn’t like to cuddle, sorry boy.

I can smile knowing that I adore twitter because it lets me reach people one-on-one from a nice safe distance. Bliss! It’s like it was built for INF [and T] Js, custom made! I can be content with my likes and dislikes, and with seeing through people in a way others don’t see or understand. I can know that no one is above faking, not even INFJs,and I can grin knowing that even though I’m sometimes fluff to others, I am always true to me, because that’s just the way I am.

I can accept that it’s hard for me to accept that people like me, and to believe that I am popular, but that it is even harder for me to realise that for no distinct reason, some people out there don’t like me, and some of them are my friends!! I can accept that I can’t change their minds, but I know not to beat myself up for wanting to. That’s me. I can stop questioning why I am not ‘like other girls’ because it is me. Heheh yes Nzembi, I know what you said about that. **grin**

But best of all, I realised that almost all the deep, dark, whiny INFJs I read about today found love. Happy love! With all the creepy, crawly, crazy zany quirks, they found a special someone to accept and love them, and not all of them were E’s! So yes, I can also stop questioning why I am unnaturally drawn to I’s, it is simply me. I can stop being upset that while I respect and comprehend my beloved ones, I am still scared by my Fi’s when they go into themselves and shut me out, coz that’s me too.

I can admit that I hurt easily because it’s my nature, and not blame myself for being weak. Instead I embrace that part of me, grin, bear it, and get over it. I will not run away. I will not hide to avoid hurt then hate myself for hiding. Instead I will shine, hurt, and heal.

Finally, and happily, I can recognise my feelings, my thoughts, my reactions, and even my responses to those thoughts, feelings and reactions without apologising to anyone, especially to myself. Today, I’ve grown beyond a resigned acceptance, I’ve flown past the wry smile. I’ve gone hukooooo way ahead of acquiescence. Today, I embrace myself, and I celebrate all that I am.

So now, I has a happee. Yay!! He’s out there somewhere, and I shall find him. We will work on it, we will compromise, but above all, he will love that I am a BJ-phobic commifrigid antistriptease waxallergic I-specific pseoudopushy uberclingy nymphoprude, and he will love to cuddle me in my sleep, and he will love my little girl and the little girl inside me, and I will be happy. Just like I am now. So there.

Wenye wivu meza we—>?

**grin**

Boys say the darnedest things

He was sitting there looking all sweet and yummy, with that melt me look in his eyes.

So I said “I love you I love you I love you!”

Then he said “Kwani you’re trying to convince yourself?”

And I laughed.

Years later, for some strange reason, I have just remembered that converstaion.

I am still laughing.

Breaking down

The strangest thing happened today. I crashed, and I have no idea why.

The day started great, I was ridiculously happy for no particular reason, all giggling and dancing and rocking away, planning to finish the fifty pages of editing that was my target for the day. I was sure I’d be through by three.

Then we had some crazy staff meeting that took half the day, and I got some stupid text message that upset way more than it should have. Maybe it’s a culture thing, maybe some people are slow, maybe I’m just more &^&*%^*(&^ than I thought, but for whatever reason, I got upset. Very upset.

At first I was so mad that I sat completely still, shaking on the inside. Then it all came out and I ranted at anything in reach, mostly chat, twitter and email. Then I felt a wave of ‘Nobody understsands me, nobody sees why I’m mad’. Actually, even I couldn’t really see why I was mad, so I went back and ‘rubbed’ all the tweets. Yeah, I know.

Then I charanted some more to a pal who was probably staring at his screen doing the SMHW thing, asking himself how he made friends with this nutcase. One brave soul [and how I love this boy] actually came out and said ‘Crys, you’re being crazy, calm down’. Yes, I do sometimes need some people to grab me by the shoulders and shake me back to sanity. Note that I say some people – because if certain other people tried that, they would swiftly lose a few teeth.

Anyway I went to the bathroom, locked myself in and cried until my chest hurt. And prayed. I have no idea what I was praying for, but as I sat in there with my heart breaking for no reason I could understand, I prayed. I still had no idea why I was so upset mind you.

Then I came back to my desk for the customary quiet. Because everytime I lose my temper, I’m left with this sickly vacuum, I feel deadly quiet, calm, empty. I hate that feeling, that still sadness. It hurts more than any emotion I possess.

Then I started to curse myself, to wonder why I have to be such an ass about everything, why I have to get so unreasonably pissed about stuff, why I take certain things so personally, why I feel like I have to explain the inexplicable to the people I care about, and why I get hurt when they can’t understand me, even though i know that I am clearly impossible to understand. Loveable yes, but utterly incomprehensible.

Then I heard this song and just like that, it all went away.

You’re worth so much
It’ll never be enough
To see what you have to give
How beautiful you are
Yet seem so far from everything
You’re wanting to be
You’re wanting to be

Tears falling down again
Tears falling down

You fall to your knees
You beg, you plead
Can I be somebody else
For all the times I hate myself?
Your failures devour your heart
In every hour, you’re drowning
In your imperfection

You mean so much
That heaven would touch
The face of humankind for you
How special you are
Revel in your day
You’re fearfully and wonderfully made
You’re wonderfully made

Tears falling down again
Come let the healing begin

You fall to your knees
You beg, you plead
Can I be somebody else
For all the times I hate myself?
Your failures devour your heart
In every hour, you’re drowning
In your imperfection

You’re worth so much
So easily crushed
Wanna be like everyone else
No one escapes
Every breath we take
Dealing with our own skeletons, skeletons

You fall to your knees
You beg, you plead
Can I be somebody else
For all the times I hate myself?
Your failures devour your heart
In every hour, you’re drowning
In your imperfection

Won’t you believe, yeah
Won’t you believe, yeah
All the things I see in you

You’re not the only one
You’re not the only one
Drowning in imperfection

Imperfection by Skillet

There are days when I doubt the existence of God, but then I pray, and I hear a song sung straight for my heart, and I know that I can never doubt.

Thank you JC, you’re the best.

And thank you W, D and J for letting me be me, and for loving me for me. You are probably not going to read this, but you are my rocks and I would be lost without you. For you I reserve endless love and hugs from the deepest part of my silly little heart. Group hug, heehee. (((You)))

Anti-flirt 101

So.

It is no secret that I melt over flirts. Turn red, green and blue and all other colours on the map, laugh loud and hard [which for me is the equivalent of giggling coz … eh .. well, I rarely lol. Mostly I just collapse in silent laughter which makes my shoulders wiggle. I will be seen sitting in a chair grasping my tummy, with tears in my ears and my blouse vibrating. My office mate recently warned that I will soon explode. So when I literally lol, just know you have thoroughly hit the spot. No, not that spot.

And to clarify, when I laugh, it is not always because your lines are working. Sometimes, I laugh because I cannot believe you just said what you just said with a straight face. I mean when a boy says ‘I neeed inspiration to finish writing this novel. My wife has done her job faithfully for years, but now I need new muse, and I just know you would be ideal. You came to me in a vision, three days ago, and your name fulfills my destiny. You have a very fortunate name, adding sparkles of crystal to the world. And you see, I am a lover of all things beautiful.”

And he said that without breaking a sweat. How now?

Anyway. It has also come to my attention that I am taken for a flirt. I won’t deny it anymore, just know that in my mind, I am not. So the next task becomes how to deal with said flirts without digging oil wells with my laughter and map-drawing. And thank God for the beautiful boys in my life who give me lessons.

According to the main boy, flirting is a game, and it’s fun. It’s also a challenge, and a chase. So, no, you can’t shoo off a tease by saying ‘Don’t flirt with me.’ That’s about as effective as saying “Down Toro” to a bull while wearing a burgundy bandanna.

The trick is, according to my boy, to anti-tease. Tantalise and quell at the same time. Sample this.

Flirt: You are so sweet…
Reply: Chunga meno, I’m bad for your teeth/ I’m what your dentist warned you about.

Flirt: I will give you a massage…
Reply: Really, can you really outdo the pro…

Flirt: I’m randy but I can’t call my girl because sometimes I need more than sex, I need to have my mind engaged.
Reply: I can call her for you. And baibe all I offer is sex

Flirt: Yes I was asleep but I don’t mind you waking me up babie
Reply: Don’t worry my alarm clock is loud…

Ok that last one fell a little short of context, but you get the idea. How I love this boy. **Grin**

So from now on, no more giggling and lolling and swiftly changing the subject. From now on, this girl is on the offense. **Rubbing hands together** Twende kazi **wink**

Why we don’t … you know …

No, I am not too shy to type the word. It’s just that … you know … **grin**

So anyway, this is something I think [and blog] about a lot. A lot more than regular girls do. Or maybe just a lot more than regular girls will admit. But then again, I’m not a very regular girl, and that isn’t always a compliment

So. Why do we have less sex when we get married? And by married I don’t mean pretty-white-dress-stuffy-warm-suit-flower-girls-page-boys, though that works too. I mean people who are permanently cohabiting and maybe raising kids. That runs the whole gamut [I never liked that word] from customary to come-we-stay to partners. I mean people who are quote-unquote **doing the finger gesture thing** “together”. We blame it on in-laws, kids, snores, smelly feet, anything really. I disagree.

My theory is simple. Once you are together, sex just isn’t a priority anymore. You see each other every day, you get home from work tired, you find other stuff to do, you start to miss your ‘me’ time, sex gets relegated to once a week.

When you were living apart, you’d get home, flip through TV, do your whatever-you-do-after-work, start to miss the other person, call them up, get together, shag.

Plus, the beauty of mental images is that they’re mental images. Think about it. Your beloved is human, right, so they do perform human activities like brushing teeth, scrubbing scaly feet and … using the bathroom. But when you’re sitting in your quiet house thinking about them, the vision you see is not of him reading a newspaper in the little-boy’s-room.

Hence, every time you call them over, the vision you have is one that induces ngingi. Which means that when they come over, ngingi will ensue. But once you live together, and you see more of the unplugging-clogged-sink and scrubbing-greasy-ovens version, they just seem less scintilating somehow. So there you are, love of your life, happy, content, but somehow just not feeling very sexy – at least not about them.

That isn’t to say cohabiters can’t have sizzling sex lives. It’s just that once you’re living together, feeling sexual is a more deliberate effort. You have to actually work at wanting sex. Some people don’t realise this, so they live with the slump and bitch to their pals. Others know it needs work, but just don’t have the psyche to do it. It’s so much easier to cheat with someone who gets your blood boiling.

Hence ladies spend hours getting pretty in the morning for strangers, yet at home they kick back in stockings and old t-shirts. Gents get their shirts ironed, shave their heads and don cologne for work, yet at home they kick back unwashed with nothing but beer and the remote.

Now I know it’s hard work looking that good, and I know you deserve to unwind in your own house. But as one pretty Willie [and where IS that boy] told me, “I am your man, you should look pretty for me, not for a million random nobodies.” Point.

Oh well. One more reason for lazy [read cynic] me to put off the inevitable co-renting; living apart keeps the sex – not necessarily alive – but relatively effortless. Actually, living apart keeps the sex, period.

Along those lines, I was thinking about the wisdom of all engaged couples living together before they get married. Because the fact is you don’t really know someone until you live with them.

In older days people weren’t allowed to walk out of marriages, so when you found out about her sado-masochistic leanings or his poor spending habits, you kept it to yourslef, buckled down, and found coping mechanisms. Or co-spouses. But for us who know we can walk out kukidhooka, it may be a better idea to walk out before rather than after, yeah?

Then again … we’ll just end up with a society of serial engagements. Now that would be funny. The jeweller’s would love it though. Great time to deal in finger-bling, yes?

Parting shot: to all those many many maaaany boys who claim their women don’t give enough, watch yourself, and be careful what you wish for. Coz girls have big mouths, and one of these days you’re going to meet the handful of girls who really do want to hit it left, right and sideways four times a night, and they don’t charge you by the minute to do it.

When the happens, you better step up to the challenge, coz contrary to urban legend, not all ngingi-kitties are bad. Some are really very nice, all harmless frail and innocent-looking. And for the nice ones, nothings riles like false advertising. I’m just saying…

Anecdote:

So I said “So-and-so has a new post up, I saw it on their twitter. It’s in my google reader too. But I’m not sure I want to read it. You know some people’s posts I have to read with caution. **grin**”

So he said “I hope you have included yourself in that list.”

How i love my life **grin**

Damu imekataa

Disclaimer : Random. Very very random.

So I’ve bumped into some people lately who have just rubbed me the wrong way. If you know me at all, you know that I never ‘bump into’ people except online. So bumping into people generally means I found a new blog, or chatmate.

Thing is … I’m an instant-impressions person. So when the insta-reaction is bad, that’s it for you, tunaishana friends. Yes, I know it is ridiculous to make such a judgement based on a blog or chat-versation, but yeah. I read people, their words, their actions, their blogs, their ‘vibe’. And I make conclusions which are sometimes right. Okay, 65% of the ’sometimes’, I am right.

A few times I have shelved said impressions for future review. Same results. Hmm. And when said impression is bad, I will rack my brains for ages to find a valid reason. Note that I do not say a right reason, true reason, fair reason or even factual reason. I say a valid reason. My dislike has to make sense to me, even if it doesn’t [ever!!] make sense to anyone else.

So you, yes you, I am watching you. And I am racking my brains. Just saying. So far, I haven’t come up with anything, but I am racking.

Now don’t be paranoid me lovelies, I don’t mean any of you. Ignore me, I am in rant mode. It’s the milk. I’m lactose intolerant and I gorged myself with four very milky tablets of weetabix last night

What was I saying?

There’s this song by Nakaaya called Matatizo. Yes, that one. The first time we saw that song, well, we were … how-you-say … blank? No, that’s not a censored word. It just means I was quite literally, blank. That doesn’t happen very often, and I find it quite disturbing. I mean, for Pete’s sake, my thoughts generally race about aimlessly at several-hundred-kph. So having no thoughts at all is stress!! Hence my fear of yoga.

Which is why when I meet a person, online or off, and they make no impression, I get even more bugged than the people I dislike on sight. It’s so weird!! How can I meet you and just go blank?!

Sometimes it’s more of a delayed reaction, but in such cases what I feel is not blankness, it’s indifference. I don’t like or dislike you, you’re just there. And that can go either way. Indifference has – in two cases – grown to an uncharacteristic affection which I still don’t understand. But there you have it, I rarely question my affection. Just my distaste. Though in one case, what began as distaste has turned into a beautiful friendship. You know yourself, mobs of twugs and etc. headed your way.

Conversely [heehee] one other thing is disturbing me. Certain of my intimates are … morphing, at least in my mind. I’m not sure what it is, but I suspect the Carolina factor. See, in school, there was this girl called Carolina [well actually, there were about 12 of them, since apparently all babies born in Mater in 1981 were named Paul, Pauline, John, or Joanne. Being a catholic school, the Caros were many.]

So. Carolina. I was pretty much indifferent to her. I didn’t bother her, she didn’t bother me. We occasionally shared oxygen. But one day, in the way women often do, my pal took a haterade on Carolina. I’m not sure what exactly she had against the girl, but she enumerated several annoyances, including Carolina’s voice. I told my friend she was being a b***h and walked away. But every day after that, I noticed the things that had been listed. They were all true, especially the voice, and I gradually grew to dislike Carolina. Sigh.

Back to today, a trusted pal has gone haterade on my intimates, and I told them to go dog elsewhere. But I am slowly beginning to notice the peeves, and drifting away from said intimates. And it’s not fair! **pout** I need to stop being so bloody judgemental. And to find a cure for Carolina.

Anyway, back to Matatizo. We were both blank, and we tried to voice our … blankness with words. But the nature of blankness is … er … well … it’s blank. So after a few hms and huhs and inarticulate sounds of confusion, we looked at each other and grinned.

Then he stared back at the screen with this look on his face, did a little SMHW gesture and said ‘Matatizo kweli.’ Every once in a while, I think of Nakaaya, and the gesture, and the look on that boy’s face, and I burst into uncontrollable giggles. So if you ever see me giggling for no reason, chances are ni Matatizo.

Oh, so I went snooping about those INFJ sites and found out that my favourite author, Emily Bronte, is INFJ. Yay!! I had no idea. Explains why I feel her work so much. At least that’s one INFJ that I adore. I don’t like her poetry though, it’s kinda … you know … blank. I love her one novel though, Wuthering heights. I have two copies and I read them over and over and over. She fell sick, wrote it, finished it … and died. Oops.

And I’m still wondering why I’m averse to the few INFJs that I know [apart from Emily of course] Weird. Very weird.

And another thing. I use and too much. No, that wasn’t the thing. The thing was this. I know some people to be very perceptive. They see things, they know things. So it bugs me no end when things that are obvious to me are opaque to them. I mean you’re supposed to be really smart about stuff like that, so why aren’t you seeing this? Either I am dim, or you are not as smart as I thought you were … which makes me dim for thinking you were so smart … either way, I am dim.

Or maybe I am a better picker of friends than i realise, and have surrounded myself with angels who only see the good in people while I [mostly] only see the bad. So I have my very own collection of angel-bots … and pretty geeks. Yay! I like this version better

I am soooo happy today. I need to make this permanent. And I will. Somehow. I don’t know how yet, but I will. Yay and Amen

These words

I’ve heard people talk about empaths, people who can allegedly absord emotions from around them. Like if they walk past you and you’re sad, they instantly join in, without really know how or why.

I don’t know about that, but I know that I feel people’s pain. When people I care about are hurting, I feel debilitated. I want to help them somehow, and I rack my brains to make them feel better. Actually, even when I read a book or a soap and someone is abused or mistreated, I feel their pain and get upset for hours. I’ll watch a rape scene in a movie and I’ll be burdened for ages, even if I know it’s only fiction. It’s why I can’t stand sappy country music.

The strange thing is I don’t necessarily want to fix the root of the problem. I just want the person to feel better so that I can stop being sad. Shallow and self-serving? Yes. I’m not proud of it, but there it is – I don’t like being sad.

It’s like when I freeze. Two times in my life, in emergencies, I have gone stone. It was about 5.00 a.m, dark, and my roomate’s kettle was on fire. It had been switched on with no water inside. I was sitting there watching as the filament glowed red, emitting some sickly smoke, then burst into flame. My head was clearly stating my options ‘electric fire, don’t use water. You can use soil, go outside and get some. No, it’s too far, and the door is locked. Use a blanket.’

Yet as these thoughts ran through my head, all I did was sit and stare. Then some out-of-body voice, which sounded a lot like me, gently called my roomate’s name and calmly, quietly [my voice is rarely calm or quiet] told her that her kettle was on fire. She jumped up in a second and dowsed the flame with a blanket, then turned and asked me why I froze.

Another time I was watching my nieces swim in the baby pool when another kid jumped into the big pool … and proceeded to drown. My mind was belting out instructions – I’m a very good swimmer. Instead I sat there and stared alternately at the baby and at the parents, willing them to notice what was going on. Thankfully, they did. The kid lived.

Now that I think about it, one time, when we were little, we were playing in the pool. It was a girls vs boys water-basketball game, and the boys were being pretty sneaky. So when I tripped over something, and saw that it was a boy hiding underwater, I got mad at this sneaky new trick and wondered how he could hold his breath so long. Turns out it was a baby who had drowned. It was 5 minutes before anyone saw him and pulled him out. He survived, but I never stopped blaming myself for that.

I felt somewhat redeemed recently when I was giving Princess a swimming lesson and she panicked, pulling us both under. Somehow I managed to get us to safety. I have never been afraid of dying, except when I think of what will happen to my baby when I’m gone. And especially that one day when she asked me “Mummy, what will happen to me if you be dead? I don’t want you to be dead.” She was four at the time.

But in that moment, sinking in a pool with my child’s arms pulling us both down and our lungs screaming for air, I was terrified. Not by death, but by the thought that my baby was dying and I couldn’t save her.

The adrenalin from that moment got us out safe, and nobody even noticed what had happened. But I was too shocked to do anything but hold her with my arms shaking and say again and again “Never ever do that. ever.” She forgot about it within minutes, but I was haunted for days.

I get that same feeling everytime she’s sick. My world stops, I can’t think straight, I can’t concentrate on work, everything happens in slow motion. I walk around the house aimlessly doing nothing in particular, I stand in one spot staring into nothingness and zoob in half-sentence as I give the mboch instructions on medication. I go fully nutcase even if all my baby has is a fever. I don’t know why I’m writing all this.

My friend is sad now. Her friend is in hospital, and is in a really bad way. I guess she feels how I feel when my baby is sick. I don’t know what to do. I have sent hugs her way, cracked silly jokes, tried to get her to smile, but I can’t fix it this time, coz the only thing that will make her better is for her friend to heal. Which means I am stuck being down. Crud.

I don’t know how to respond to grief. When my intimates are sick, I bring medicine, crack jokes, leave. Because if I stick around, I’ll get sad, and I don’t want to be sad. At funerals … well, I avoid them, first. And when I can’t, I look for some corner where people are pigaing stories [there's always one] and stay there, basking in the cheer.

I stay away from the corpse for two reasons. One, I feel detached – I can’t relate the stiff thing lying there with the person I knew and cared about. The distancing gets so bad that I can’t recognise the corpse. I look at it and think some prankster must have switched the bodies. And when I get that thought I want to pull a giggaloop.

The second reason I avoid hearses is that dead things freak me out. So much so that I don’t want to poison the rat, coz then I’ll have to carry its dead body out of my house. Yes, the rat is back.

Apparently, I am a freezer. I freeze when people are ill or in pain. People say ‘pray for me’ and I’m thinking what do I pray? Do I pray ‘Thy will be done?’ Do I pray ‘get better soon?’ Is that even a valid prayer? Does prayer work in messes like these? Or is it simply for comfort, for the Holy Spirit to show us he’s with us no matter what? If God wants the person to get better, they will, whether I want them to or not. So do I help by praying for their health?

So many times I pray for God to keep my baby safe form kidnappers and paedophiles and rapists, but do my prayers really make a difference? All those babies that are hurt every day – what happened? Did their parents forget to pray? Did mine? Does God love all those violated babies any more or less than he loves mine?

Back to the point, all I want is for my people to cheer up so that I can stop being sad. So I pray “thy will be done, and God give them strength’. Which does not necessarily mean the person will get better.

As these thoughts ran through my head, I played Natasha Beddingfield’s song on spin-cycle.

These words are my own, [well, technically, they aren't, they're Natasha's] from my heart, That’s all I’ve got to say, can’t think of a better way.

I hope my friend feels better soon, I don’t think my words will do her much good.

Before twitter there was…?

I don’t know what’s more annoying – being a kid who thinks like a grown up or being a grown up who thinks like a kid. And I’ve been both!

As a child I stopped making friends coz I realised that kids hurt. All my little friends were more interested in what they could get from me than in what was really me. This may be a fact of life, but you don’t need to recognise it at age six.

By standard 3 I had convinced myself that any pals I made would dump me for someone taller, funnier or prettier, so I just stopped trying. And by age 12 I had taken it a step further. When I felt I was getting too close or too attached to anyone, I found some reason to ‘break up’ with them.

Now I am all of 27 years and while my friends are doing sensible things like reading Obama biographies, I am bopping my head to bubblegum pop and reading manga. I don’t get jazz, I balk at Afro Fusion, and I have no idea who Oprah is. I mean I know who she is but I don’t know who she is.

And the unthinkable has happened. I have acquired the dreaded 28s!! That fear that I thought I would never get – the fear of my sell-by date! I’ve always seen girls approach thirty with dread, and I just didn’t get it. I mean what’s the big deal, right? Why would it bother anyone?

Well guess what, it’s bothering me. Bigtime. I feel like my spring days are behind me and there’s so much more I should have done. Bye bye go the pencil jeans [argh cellulite!!] and endless streams of boys and smooth elastic skin, and yet I’ve barely had time to enjoy them!! Ridiculous thoughts given all I have achieved, but I can’t help thinking this is the year I stop announcing my age…

Anyway.

I was wondering what I ever did with myself before twitter. I mean I stopped being a mingler ages ago – yes, I was fairly outgoing before I decided that people suck, I can admit that now Maybe that’s what people see when they think I’m an extrovert; my babyhood leftovers.

I do feel this need to reach out to people, to get them to open up their narrow minds and see beyond their noses. It’s just that I prefer to do it from afar. A magic wand would so rock my world. Wings would help too, and some kind of invisibility cloak.

Actually, now that I think about it, I’m not really an introvert at all – or at least I wasn’t born that way. I was pretty all-over-the-place as a kid. Everybody knew me, and I knew everybody. I used to like being with people, making friends, being popular, hanging out.

But somewhere along the way, for some reason I don’t quite understand, I just made myself that way. I fell into myself and stopped trusting people. I learnt to be uncomfortable around them, and made myself resent them. I got obssessive about my space and turned hermit. Now I just want to be far away from everyone, except maybe online, or with the few special ones that win my trust. That means you and you and you and you and you

Actually, now that I think about it, I realise what the trigger was. Sigh. Took me long enough. I wonder if I can change. Do I even want to?

Well it explains one thing. The rule states that opposites attract, yet I am more attracted to introverts that are ‘just like me’. Maybe that’s because I’m not an introvert at all. Interesting.

But I digress. What did I do before twitter? Well, I wrote mail. Real mail, with stamps and post boxes and everything. I started gathering penpals pretty early, and kept them for quite a while. Even racked the Sunday Nation and picked them from there. **blush** Then I wrote high school mail to former classmates and relatives. Long, detailed mails. I’m told they were quite entertaining, I guess the writer in me was alive even then.

When that passed I moved on to text, as many as 15 a day. I was always asked how I could fit so much info into just 160 characters. **grin** Of course none of my people ever actually replied my texts. Or even read them really. Hehehe. The main reason why all my phones must have a delivery-suceeded feature: peace of mind.

Then came email circa 2000 and the fun began. There are people to whom I would [and still do] write every single day. How they put up with me I will never know. Spam perhaps?

Then came chat, and then twitter. Same old me, making friends from afar, sifting a few to let into me, keeping the rest at a distance, pulling away when I get too involved, when I feel like I love them more than I should, or that I need them more than they need me. Yeah, I still do that **sheepish grin**

It’s kinda weird too, that the real reason I keep to myself isn’t that I dislike people. Granted I get tired of socials, and I feel like I need to pull away and recover. There are countable people in my life with whom I’ve been able to sit and talk endlessly. Very few. One is you, and you really have no idea. You too, and you.

But in all honesty, the real reason I stay away from people is fear. I’m afraid of running out of ideas, not knowing what to say or how to act, looking like an idiot. Those awkward silences terrify me. Which is why I was so into that one. The silences were many, and never awkward. Somehow I never felt the need to fill them, and that was really beautiful. I’ve only had that with one other person, and I doubt she even noticed it. How I love that girl.

Fear is the same reason I don’t dance. When I’m by myself, I forechoreograph a few moves, then my mind goes blank. I imagine being on a dancefloor full of people and simply running out of dance steps. The horror!! So I only dance inside my head.

It also explains why I doubt INFJs. I feel very much like it, the description is accurate, but my introvert score is unearthly. I’ve heard of other INFJs and I always thought they must have faked the test, because they are so unlike me! But now I realise it’s me who isn’t like them, coz I’ve hidden who I am so deep inside that I can barely recognise it myself. Creepy.

I’m done ranting now. As you were

The blind men and the elephant

I read this poem in Reader D back in prima, and I always liked it, though I had no idea why. I was in Ndovu house, and later Ruwenzori house, all characterised by yellow t-shirts. The brainy blondes, so to speak.

Yesterday I found out something about myself. It wasn’t said as a bad thing, but it did shake me. Apparently, I’m a flirt. And a tease. I’ve never thought of myself that way, though it seems everyone else does.

Lots of boys have called me a flirt, and I always deny it. To me flirting is something deliberate and dishonest, which is not what I do. What I do is cheer people up, make them feel good about themselves, find the things about them that are beautiful and express said things long and loud.

In other words, I flirt.

I have not had many conversations with boys. Mostly because all the ones I like run away the moment I open my mouth, and the ones I don’t like, well, I generally act like they don’t exist. So it is interesting that the few times I have engaged in talks with boys, it has been online. And that these conversations turn nginginary within the first … well, let’s just say they head that way very fast.

I never gave it much thought until my internetary ‘baby brother’ did the same thing within five minutes of g-talk, and I was like wtf? His explanation was that I led him there. That really bothered me, coz in my mind he’s not really a boy – he’s my brother. And I do not discuss these things with my brothers. Eeew!

But then I got to thinking, and asked a few other boys I know, and they all agreed. I am a flirt, and I tease boys into talking about sex. They all said it is not a bad thing, and that they like my open-ness. Did not help.

Some other people think I am an extrovert. I believe that I am not. So now that most people think I am a flirtease, why can’t I just assume they’re wrong and move on with my life?

Well, for one thing, I am susceptible to flirts. And geeks. They make me melt like Azam ice cream. Many many maaaaany times I have fallen for boys simply because they flirted with me. I like being talked to like some nubile godess – who doesn’t? And I got heartbroken soon after when they turned and ran. Coz really, flirts are never serious, and when they notice the darts are starting to land, they run.

So I make a conscious effort not to flirt. If I tell a boy he has pretty eyes, it’s not because I’m flirting. It’s because he has pretty eyes. Maybe it’s not customary for girls to say things like that. Maybe that’s why the boys call me a tease. I have no idea.

Then of course there are those who will swear they are not flirting with me when I am absolutely sure that they are. Maybe they are in denial, or maybe I just hear sweet nothings where none are being whispered.

My friend says he is so dense to flirting he simply never notices it – he says he has been called ‘aloof’ by many frustrated would-be dates. Maybe I’m the opposite, maybe I just hear flirtiness in everyday language, kinda like my orange season thing. Again, I have no idea.

A boy I like is flirting with me. At least I think he is. I have flirted with him before, and it backfired majorly. He wanted to be just friends. So now he has turned tables and I am unsure how to respond. Or whether to respond at all. I really like this boy. He’s one of my best friends and I don’t want to spoil things. No, he does not read my blog. I think.

I had a chat with him yesterday, whining about this whole flirtease saga, and he said, bless the darling sailor boy, that he has never noticed me flirting with him. Which is kind of a strange thing to say, seeing as he is the one person I have – in the past – consciously flirted with, and seeing as I think he is currently flirting with me!

He thinks maybe it is a cultural thing, and that maybe African men perceive flirting differently. He reckons maybe my being nice to boys makes them think I want them, a fact confirmed by one other chatmate from jana [Am I allowed to say your name? No?]

So yeah, allegedly I am a flirtease. I was told one other thing that made me laugh all the way into today, but I can’t say it out loud without feeling Mariah, so I shall simply say this … **grin**

Either way, flirt or not, this isn’t something I am doing. It is who I am. So I need to stop feeling woiye-woiye for myself and just embrace it. And then I need to take D’s advice – a flirt is a flirt is a flirt. I should not take them [or myself] seriously until or unless they propose. Period. It is all a game and nothing more.

Granted there are some people who flirt to test the waters, and if you don’t respond appropriately, they back off. Which is sad, coz maybe me here I was waiting for said proposal. I’m thinking people like that weren’t really serious to begin with. They like you, but they don’t like you enough to take a risk. So anything that came out of that would not likely be valid, or valued.

When somebody really wants you, they lay their cards down, all their cards, na kama mbaya mbaya. If they’re not willing to do that, they’re not really worth your time, and they probably would not try to make you happy. At least, they wouldn’t try very hard.

Anyway, this was supposed to be about blind men and elephants. I think I’m an elephant, different in different bits and pieces. I suppose we all are. One person in my life saw the whole elephant, and he didn’t like it, so I’m afraid to go Full Monty with anyone again. All people see now are bits and pieces – the knee, the ear, the tail. One day soon someone else will see the elephant in all its tusks and glory. I wonder if they’ll like what they see.

A poem by John Godfrey Saxe (1816-1887)
			It was six men of Indostan To learning much inclined, Who went to see the Elephant (Though all of them were blind), That each by observation Might satisfy his mind. The First approached the Elephant, And happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side, At once began to bawl: “God bless me! but the Elephant Is very like a wall!” The Second, feeling of the tusk, Cried, “Ho! what have we here So very round and smooth and sharp? To me ’tis mighty clear This wonder of an Elephant Is very like a spear!” The Third approached the animal, And happening to take The squirming trunk within his hands, Thus boldly up and spake: “I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant Is very like a snake!” The Fourth reached out an eager hand, And felt about the knee. “What most this wondrous beast is like Is mighty plain,” quoth he; “Tis clear enough the Elephant Is very like a tree!” The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, Said:”E’en the blindest man Can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can This marvel of an Elephant Is very like a fan!” The Sixth no sooner had begun About the beast to grope, Than, seizing on the swinging tail That fell within his scope, “I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant Is very like a rope!” And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, Each in his own opinion Exceeding stiff and strong, Though each was partly in the right, And all were in the wrong!

I’m just saying…

Soaked blue

At the school bus-stop this morning, I noticed that the sky looked rather ominous, so I made princess run back indoors and get her sweater. She usually carries it in her bag, just in case, but today is school-party day, so her bag is packed solid with junk food. No room for caution.

Five seconds after she came out it started drizzling, so I’m glad I made her get the sweater. Of course I had to go and get one as well. I picked an umbrella and my blue khanga and headed to work.

Two problems. One, the rain – which had now gone three degrees past drizzle – was the diagonal kind, so the umbrella did zero work. And I was walking ‘away’ from the rain, so my front stayed dry while my back got soaked through.

Problem number 2, my blue khanga, apparently, sheds colour. Now I know. I got to work to do the perfunctory mirror therapy to notice the back of my white skirt was now a sickening shade of blue. Oooookaaaaay.

Well there’s nothing for it but to turn the skirt so that the wet blue patches are on the front [sitting on it will turn the seats blue as well] and hope a sudsy soak will clear the stains. Coz I really like this skirt. It’s shortish and flirtish, and the only truly girly skirt that I own.

It was a birthday present from a boy I no longer like, but you don’t kick a gift-skirt in the hem, and it’s got such pretty embroidery . It came with a gorgeous spanish-ish gypsy-ish top in burgundy-black, which is, again, the only truly girly top I own. I no longer like the boy, but I still adore his taste.

My pal W says I have a fetish for geeks. Guilty as charged. I’m going to marry me a geek with green eyes. Real green eyes, not the metaphoric kind. Contacts will do – except I like my geeks with glasses, so probably not. But geeks are smart – I’m sure he can find some way to fix the iris. Did I mention how much Big Bang Theory rocks? I didn’t? Well, Big Bang Theory totally rocks!! For real. Waaay funnier than the anti-commi-frigid HIMYM.

Anyway, yesterday one of my geeks introduced me to a shiny new toy. It’s nothing like Loco’s Sir Shinesalot, but it’s a lot more fun. Thing is, I can’t figure out how to turn it off. Kaboro hun, where’s the sign out on google talk?