Lessons from my love

It’s been an interesting weekend. I’ve had some highs and lots of lows, and I’ve found something I thought I’d lost.

They say many people don’t know what love is. I’m not sure that I do either. But I know it feels beautiful to love, and to be loved.

I have been told, again, not to take myself so seriously. Indeed, not to take anything so seriously, and for some reason, the telling has made me feel very liberated.

I realise that I can’t control my child, I have to just let her be. But I also see that I should not be angry when she tries to control me.

I realise that I can’t run everything – actually, I can’t rule anything except my reactions, thoughts and feelings, which, ironically, is the one thing I felt I had no say in.

I have learnt, finally, that just because I’m INFJ/Mel-choleric/Type 4 doesn’t mean I have to be so goth all the time. I can still be insightful and deep without looking like my face was etched in a frown. I can criticise and analyse without drowning in the dark side. It’s not going to be easy, but nothing worthy ever is. And after all, Yoda is so much cuter that Darth Vader.

I accept that when someone offers me favours because of my looks, I don’t have to accept, but I also don’t have to be mad about it. Because in their own warped way, they were giving a compliment.

I cede that people have a right to like me or not to like me, and I have no business asking them how or why. Each to his own, different strokes, and even silver spoons **cheeky grin**

In the arms of my love, as he held me while I cried, I have found peace. And he showed me, as he often does, that the peace wasn’t in him but in me. All he did was find it, tease it, and call it out.

My dearest, darling love, it’s a joy to love you, and an honour to be loved by you. Amen.

♫ Ben Jelen ♫ Come on ♫

Oh crap, it got me :-(

Disclaimer: This will royally piss you off.

I spend a lot of time here, and it’s mostly a good thing. But sometimes, sometimes it can be really, really depressing.

There are certain things that everyone can do: tie a shoelace, break olympic records when faced with a speeding bullet or a really big dog, write an application letter, kick a football.

But even within these things, there are people who make a career. We can all [probably] take a penalty kick and pull a fluke goal. But we are not all Theo Walcott. We can all leap tall buidlings when we are caught on top, lakini, there’s Usain. We can all write, yes we can, and we can all blog. But not everybody gets paid to do it.

A topic I saw at Nathan’s once  asked how a writer copes with what I can only describe as literary agoraphobia. What do you do when you look at your work and think “Am I insane? What rubbish! Why do I even try?” I answered that I don’t, I have never doubted my ability. I write because I love it, and because I am good at it. Period.

But I have to admit that after reading this I am starting to wonder whether I’m not just another nut with a laptop an internet stick. It is not a pleasant feeling.

Bah humbug.

Ooh soap bubbles!

I love the internet!

Especially Google Reader.

So apparently, Johnny Depp is the sexiest man alive.

Again.

Amen to that. The boy is hot! I have adored him right from the days of 21 Jumpstreet. Apparently, he has crossover appeal and is loved by women of all ages.

Again, amen to that.

Previous double winners include Richard Gere [yum!] and George Clooney [he made it hot to be short] .

Also, Brad Pitt. Hmph. Sorry Ms Jolie, but I just don’t get his appeal. He so does not do it for me. Colin Farrel on the other hand, yum!

I have some love for the brothers as well … Denzel and Will Smith are never off my list. And Mohinder The Pretty [from Heroes], not forgetting the gorgeous Arab guy on Lost, I forget his name. And Dean from season 1 of Gilmore girls, before his hair went bad. I think his name is Paldecki.

I’m pretty sure there are some boys out there who can give these ones a run for their money *cough*cough*K3* but since they are not on TV, we will never really know.

♫♫♫♫

Beauty, apparently, is in the eye of the beholder. I have heard it said that’s just a prize for the unpretty, and I have to agree. Coz think about it. We are all forever harping about different strokes for different folks and gunk like that, yet we can’t deny that Halle Berry is hot and Megan Fox is a goddess.

Now I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed. I always thought I had unique taste. But that my yummiest stars are universally accepted as yummy stars, well, that makes me just like everyone else! The horror!

Oh well. At least I still have [my disliking for] Brad Pitt.

♫♫♫♫

Harlequin have a division for self-publishing and Mills and Boons are finally marketting African beauty. Seriously.

Also, zombie romance, the Nook, and fear of body parts falling off during coitus. Not forgetting Evil Editor. Oh, and a really cool writer whose book I haven’t read. I will buy it though.

This is how I use 2GB of bandwidth in a month. **cheeky grin**

♫♫♫♫

Why is it, I wonder, that indigenous Africans didn’t consider nipples erotic? I mean  I know they were thought to have little use beyond feeding babies, but seriously, it’s like the most sensitive part of a woman’s [and, I hear, even a man's] body. More reactive even than lollipops and joysticks. How did our forefathers not know this?

Perhaps because said tips were exposed and alert all the time, it was hard to notice the potential for horizontal triggering. Which is just a shame if you ask me. They probably didn’t realise that sometimes, these organic baby bottles were not at full attention. I mean seriously, did no eight-packed, animal-oiled bare-chested beauty notice that when he walked past, all the nearby ladies’ elements pulled a double salute? Really?

But then again, many indigenous African societies liked to mutilate joysticks to prevent, you know, so perhaps they simply chose to ignore said pleasure spots. And since women were mainly for making babies, then stimulating certain zones would only produce baby food, which is hardly the most evocative of images. Interesting thought that.

♫ Incubus ♫ Wish you were here ♫

Ea-sy CB…

Disclaimer: This post is rated PG 17. It contains strong language, disturbing images and flash pho… no wait, wrong disclaimer. But seriously, be prepared, it’s more than just mild swearing. Thank you. Have a nice day.

When I think about bosses, I don’t quite see them as human. To me, they are these amazing, ethereal beings with hot cars and six-zero-salaries who can do no normal thing. Except maybe hitting [on] people, coz, you know, they’re bosses.

But then I realise they’re only flesh. They have peeves and ploys and fetishes. They’re just like the rest of us … except with a hot car and six zeroes and a license to hit [on] things.

I had an interesting conversation with K7. He had just had the most blogworthy of weeks, and I was trying to get him to, you know, blog. But he couldn’t, coz his blog is, you know, bookish. In a good way. A very good way. A paying-the-bills kind of way.

I’ve asked him to guest-blog at mine, but he needs motisha. Any cheerleaders available? Mini skirts are a plus.

It showed me something though. It showed me that professionals, and bosses, are not necessarily as clinical and they appear. They have just learned to look that way. Like the Rogue King. It serves their purpose. And sometimes, when glimpses of the real come out, it’s too much to take. I should know. I’m still haunted by the image of a stern, scary bosslady expertly doing mduara at an office kitchen party. The horror!

K7, as he often does, made the point very clear for me. MJ, rest his dear soul in peace, was a legend, but he did get up to the strangest things. I was watching this video of him live in concert someplace, and I noticed one thing. He loved it! He was on stage doing the robot moonwalk routine, and his face was glowing. You could see he was totally into the dance, possessed almost. The moves flowed through him, raw and wild, like some kind of jericurled 3PO oompa loompa.

Then he’d finish the song and his expression would change. He’d stand still for a few moments, breathing while the crowd went wild, and just like that, he’d be mortal again. He’d go back to the little-girl voice, blow a shy kiss at the crowd and squeak ‘I love you all’.

Then the next set would start and he’d morph back into this larger than life piece of walking talking genius, even his voice changes. You can’t compare the angstious vocals and ATT in ‘Bad’ to the frightened mousy guy hiding his children in the Emirates. Being on stage was his strength, his passion. Being off it, he was just, well, human.

We imagine that celebs do their crazy antics because they’re celebs, but they really don’t. You could snort yourself silly on a bottle of brrr and nobody would care unless your first name was Catherine and your last name rhymed with dental floss. You could drive at age 6 and nobody would call you underage unless you were Miley Cyrus. You could, and do, get away with a whole lot when you’re not in the limelight.

I’m a writer, and this here is my space. It’s not very well concealed, but it’s a part of me I don’t show off in my other life. Because here I’m more myself, less of the serious professional person that some people think I am. So I get fairly uneasy when someone from that world leaves a comment here, because frankly, CB is a clown.

But I suppose CB is simply human, and the ones who pass by here aren’t doing it to find my CV. Unless of course they’re headhunting, like some employers do with facebook. Uh-oh!

I am always being told to stop taking myself so seriously. Which is weird, coz in my mind, CB is the one place where I take myself quite lightly. I get amused when people see CB, and imagine that I am this … well, I’m not sure what they imagine I am.

But what I do imagine is that the average person, when they meet Crystal, without the caricature or the fruit, will be somewhat … surprised … possibly disappointed that I am so … normal.

It’s always been that way, even when I was the little kid that did xyz, and people would meet me and get shocked that I looked so … standard. They half expected me to have two heads and a tail. Or at least to be a little taller.

I think inside all ‘deep souls’ resides a little Michael Jackson, dolled up in shiny clothes, grinning shyly and squeaking ‘I love you all’. The deepest of stories arise from mood, and when the mood passes and the writing is done, we all just want to lick a lollipop, suck a helium balloon, and make like Mickey Mouse on crack.

It’s why one agent says she doesn’t like writers interviews. You read a novel or poem or blog and imagine the writer must be this god-like being that plays Muse like a cheap roller drum [what d'you call that drum-on-a-stick thingie from Karate Kid and Bomas, the one you roll between your palms and these strings with balls on them spin and hit the drum? That one]

But after the interview, you learn that the Deep Ones like orange juice and weetabix and slightly burnt ugali, or that they have been divorced six times, three of the divorces being from the same spouse, and that they failed their driving test six times, or that they wrote their entire work of genius while high or sawdust and cough syrup.

Suddenly your hero is merely an  Ewok, and their immensely beautiful prose, which seems to be written in their very own invented language, turns to be Choobaka talking kyuk and asking for a bar of soap. [Yeah, I've been watching Star Wars again]. They’re not any less deep, they’re just a lot more … human. Hence the famous quote ‘Writers should be read, not heard [or for that matter, seen. Publishers, however, disagree, hence readings et al]‘. It’s probably also why the original X-generation bloggers are so fiercely protective of their offline identities.

I’m learning not to take myself so seriously. It’s about time. I am deep, I am wise, I am mature, and I am good at what I do. But I am also silly, naive, dense, stupid, and sometimes downright blonde. So don’t be too surprised if you make a date with CB and end up with a squeaky-voiced dreadlocked kid chilling on a jumping castle with headphones singing along to Lithium, Disorder, or Halo. That won’t be princess, she’s the lighter one in the girly dress. This version is dark and lives in jeans. I’m just saying…

PS: I love the way rock songs can make the obscene sound adorable. I mean where else but in a rock song would you laugh at a line that says:

‘… I dreamed that I was lying beneath a naked woman saying something that I can’t repeat…’

This band also has lyrical gems such as

‘…wanna put my tender heart in a blender, watch it spin round to a beautiful oblivion…’

and

‘…she was cool and collected till she found him erected with another.

Shit went bad he’s on the roof again.

She flipped, he flipped the bird and then he went

on the roof where his threats ring loud and clear.

‘Gonna jump, gonna jump, gonna die this year .’

…your heinous highness broke her hymen

hey man try to quit your crying…’

I love this game.

♫ Nightmare ♫ Eve 6 ♫

PPS: The title is my homage to Jay Z and Lil’ Kim. What.

How d’you say ‘my love’ in Spanish?

Mi Amore.

How d’you say ‘my love’ in thug?

Can I hit it raw.

[then a bunch of nasty words that I can't quite hear]

Ea-sy Papii…

Teach me more!

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.