Archive for the ‘Therapy’ Category

Operation comfort food
February 4, 2010

They say stress is the best diet-plan ever. I’ve been trying to lose weight [mostly by using the power of very positively thinking ‘I want to lose weight’] for a year now. I cut down my sugar intake and meal portions, but the pounds just kept piling!

And then this week, by sheer stress and willpower, [and mostly through crying], I have lost 3kg! Yay!! If I can somehow replicate this [without the stress and tears of course] for the next three weeks, I will be down to my ideal weight…

So anyway, I was hanging out with Murphy today. See, I had this project that I’ve been postponing forever, and so I finally decided I would not sleep until I finished it last night. As a result, I did not sleep last night; not until 4.30 a.m.

[I was done with work at 1, but I had to do the dishes and cook lunch. Yes, lunch.]

At about 4.45, my little princess had a nightmare and woke up screaming. We had to do some nightmare therapy, which mainly consists of cuddling, praying, and talking about shiny things and butterflies. By the time the school alarm rang at 5, she was just dozing off and would not be woken again.

When I finally got her into the shower, well, let’s just say we are two very cranky divas when you mess with our sleep! So it didn’t help when the water ran out. Le sigh. At least it didn’t run cold.

Princess was so furious that she boycotted breakfast in protest and would not wave goodbye as the bus drove away. Double sigh.

I got back inside and probably cried myself to sleep [stress, angry babies and lack of snooze has a very bad effect on me]. Next thing I know it’s 12.00 noon and my cellphone is ringing with some semi-good news. The call surprised me because it came from someone who’s usually aloof and very distant. But apparently he was worried about me, and had called to see if I was okay. The quote is right: just because somebody doesn’t love you the way you want to be loved, doesn’t mean they don’t love you with all they’ve got.

We all show love in different ways, so just because someone doesn’t express themselves the same way you do, doesn’t mean they don’t care. They may not do the stuff I expect them to do, but if I can learn their language, I would probably realise they adored me all along. Just because he got me a kilo of Omo on my birthday instead of a bar of chocolate doesn’t mean he doesn’t care for me 🙂

Anyway, after the call, I rationed some water to do school-uniform-laundry since a bath was out of the question, then I made a few calls to see if I could somehow resolve my problem. No luck. So I had some breakfast [at 2 p.m] and sought more comfort food – cereal.

Now technically, I shouldn’t eat cereal, because of my milk allergy. But something about ice cold [or sometimes almost hot] weetabix just makes my heart dance.

I remembered one Darius Stone suggesting I try it with yoghurt [?!?], but I didn’t have any, so I settled for the next best thing – mala.

[It is so cool that I don’t call it mtindi anymore! Viva la 254!!]

I got out my favourite bowl, poured in some mala and two tabs of weetabix. I watched it bubble for a while as the stuff sunk into the milk, then I figured I’d let it sit for a while so it could soak.

After ten minutes, nothing had happened, so I smashed it with my spoon for better absorption. Princess came in at about that time and nibbled on it a bit. I figured she’d finish it, so I shooed her off to the fridge to find her own snack.

We got distracted talking about school and homework and Austin, and the fact that it was flooding outside. By the time I got back to my cereal, it was, well, sludge. The tablets were soaked alright … but … the viscous mass was not so good to see. Plus, it had a watch in it.

Yes, I somehow managed to dunk my watch in cereal.

It was very hard trying not to spew a few choice words at myself, especially when Princess said ‘If I were you, I’d be more careful where I put my watch.’

This is a new watch, the first new watch I’ve had in years. It’s got sparkles and a big love heart, and I am tolerably fond of it. So yes, I was making little baby noises as I delicately tried to get the sludge off the watch without getting any water into the watch…

Once that was done, there still the matter of cereal. *Groan* I’d brought it this far, the least I could do was try it. I shut my eyes and put a little taste in my mouth…

Then I looked round to see if Princess was looking, and promptly dumped the stuff on the bin.

Since Princess is pretty curious, I had to completely hide the evidence. That means pour it in the trash-bag.

In my neighbourhood, trash-days are Thursday and Monday, and I’d forgotten to take mine out today. Crud. But that meant the trash-bag should still be outside the back door, right?

Let me explain. Most of the neighbours keep trash in the house, or some other place out of sight. I don’t like mine indoors, so I keep it in the back porch … eh … veranda. The veranda also houses the pump that’s used to load water, so once a day, the building caretaker comes into my porch to turn on the water. He has a little red gate with a lock that he uses so that he doesn’t have to get into my house.

Now, a few days ago, I found a hole in my trash-bag. I figured we either have an uber-friendly cat … or a really big rat. But today, as I was going about th business of hiding cereal evidence in said trash-bag … well … there was no trash-bag!

Now I know I didn’t move the bag … but why would someone want to kidnap my trash? Le grande sigh.

I’m off to watch Block D and find some real comfort food, preferably one that’s low in lactose. I’m thinking fries and two sausages…

Alanis Morissette Ironic

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January 30, 2010

At some point in the recent past, I embraced change. I realised that I was shifting – both subtly and not so subtly – and figured my life would be way easier if I simply accepted the morph rather than fighting it. Yeah, still working on that…


I’ve been thinking a lot of random thoughts lately, and writing a lot of random posts. I’m not entirely sure what’s causing that. I think it’s that I am – on some level – more relaxed now that I’m home, so my mind is free to wander in areas that are less than serious. I’ve actually made it my default category. Fun!


I’m a firm believer in signs. My latest sign is a red plastic Olivetti Valentine Typewriter. I don’t suppose anyone has an affordable, functional one lying around anywhere, do they? According to my google search, they’re ‘light as a feather’ and absolutely gorgeous. Red too. I don’t know how well they work though – I need one that can do a lot more than just sit pretty.


I’m the kind of girl that has more male than female friends. I like to think it’s because I’m not a girly-girl, but as my cousin pointed out,  I claim to dislike flowery things yet everything I bought for my new flat [from square plates to duvets] has flowers. Mild ‘mannish’ flowers, yes, but still flowers.

Truth is, I mostly find girls a little scary. I have no idea why. Lately though, I’ve [re]made friends with some females that are less … spooky. They’re actually a lot of fun. So I guess ‘they’ are right, it really is all about finding the right girl.


I’m straight. What.


The thing about having mostly male friends is that, well, the women in their lives sometimes have, you know, issues. I’m still finding a way to deal with that. I’m also desperately hoping that the tables will not turn. I dread the day when I will be the one that has issues with my Sailor Boy’s female friends.

I’d like to think that being a career pal to dudes with quasi-jealous girlfriends, I will be more reasonable. But being a more-than-quasi-jealous-type girl myself, I will be content to seethe in almost-silence and keep my claws well sheathed *cheeky grin*


It’s equally interesting to me that while I have many ‘platonic’ friendships with my buddies,  it is still somewhat strange to think of it in others. I hear my brothers and cousins talking about their ‘just buddies’ and I’m like ‘yeah, right’. Pot calling the kettle black?

Though, technically speaking, my water pot is red…


Homework calls.

Breathe (2 a.m.)Anna Nalick

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Lessons from my love
November 22, 2009

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 JelenCome on

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The half monty?
October 25, 2009

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.


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*

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*Sniff sniff*
October 24, 2009

That is all.

CavatinaStanley Myers

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This is how I feel today
October 23, 2009

Pinky and the Brain, Pinky and The Brain

One is a genius, the other’s insane

They’re laboratory mice, their genes are filled with spice

They’re dinky, they’re Pinky and The Brain, brain, brain, brain

Pinky and The Brain, Pinky and The Brain

Their midnight campaign is easy to explain

To prove their mousely worth, they have to rule the earth

They’re dinky, they’re Pinky and the Brain, brain, brain, brain

Te-re-re-re-ren, ten-ten

Pinky: So, what shall we do tonight Brain? NARF!

Brain: Same thing we do every night Pinky: Try to take over the WORLD

**cue thunder and lightning, or lab-lights short-circuit blackout**

I love the animaniacs. Hellooooooo Nurse!

Also, there’s this bajaji driver in my hood who likes to hit on mboches.  I saw him hitting on mine and wanted to smack him backwards. As soon as she ducked indoors, he was hitting on another mboch. And when I came back later he was hitting on a  third mboch, and then a fourth.

His strategy is simple; he hits on them at the kiosk, and soon as one goes back to their workplace, he picks another one. So each of the girl thinks she’s the only one.

I just hope those girls are using Salama.

Another of the neighbourhood lotharios has been on my case, pleading for my name and asking to get to know me. I generally ignore him, poor lost boy. Yesterday I caught him skirt-handed with some local girl drawing maps and giggling. Poor lost girl.

Anyway. It’s Friday, smile. It could be much worse!

Necessary Noize At the altar

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October 22, 2009

In the words of Loco, Milo and Archer, I have just been shot dead, burnt alive, and scared half to death. In that order. And it’s only Thursday!

A friend whose opinion I value, and who knows me pretty well, said something to me today. He says that maybe some people find me two-faced. They feel like I try too hard to be liked. They think I project an image that is popular, but that eventually, the real me peeks out, leaving people disappointed.

Le sigh.

Perhaps this is why people who start out thinking I am intelligent, mature and mysterious end up comparing me to unseasoned breakfast. Or why people who think I am liberated, strong, a regular Mustang, end up thinking I am an illegitimate…

Le double sigh.

With the amount of TMI on this url, I don’t see how people can possibly get the wrong idea about me. I’m worse in person and on chat. I am frightfully honest in all things. It’s unhealthy!

I have such an obsession with being ‘real’ and being ‘true to myself’ that anyone thinking I am not hurts pretty bad. Worse still is the idea that maybe I’m not real at all, that maybe I’m even lying to myself!

I think people will draw their own conclusions no matter what I do. They will think I am fabulous, or mean, or cold, or bitchy, or prudish, or loose – the blind men and the elephant – all partly right, yet all partly wrong.

And they will share their opinions, just like I do.

Another friend said it doesn’t matter what people think of you, only what you think of yourself. Right now, that isn’t a whole lot 😦

So much for being happy. Le big sigh.

The truth hurts, but usually, I am on the other side of the hurting. Usually, I am the one being brutally honest and watching people crumble at the result. I am not angry, I am grateful to my friend for sharing the truth.

But damn, it stings!

Off to meditate my crown now. Maybe I can open it without chasing Jack and Jill down a hill or getting wet.

Linkin park From the inside

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Socially blonde
October 22, 2009

Kinda speaks for itself, doesn’t it?

A dear friend said something to me a few days ago. He said my naïvete must be a front, because I am too smart to be that dumb.

Well, he didn’t use those words exactly, and don’t worry hun, I didn’t take offense. But you know me, any little thing I see or hear gets churned through my mind, bounced around, analysed, echoed, overthinked [doesn’t that just sound so much better than ‘overthought’?]  and massacred until there’s nothing left but beetlejuice [beetlejuice beetlejuice ** cue carry-me-banana song**]

Sorry, just had to throw that in there *cheeky grin*

Gnarls BarkelyCrazy

I made a similar comment to another friend, though that time, I wasn’t referring to myself. I was talking about someone I know, and wondering how he can be so smart about some things yet so dense about others. Hehehe looks like kharma has come for payback. Which reminds me of my niece dissing me once ‘Auntie, you’re so dim mpaka you’re dark.’ Ouch!

And did you know that in Dar, the equivalent of mchongoano is ‘tangazo tangazo’? As in ‘tangazo tangazo, kuna mmoja hapa, kichwa chake gololi’  Tsk tsk.

Back to the point. My friend responded that we’re all like that really. We all have one area where we’re gurus and another area where we’re pre-schoolers, Ask any Doctor or PhD professor.

Thing is, I know a lot of stuff in theory. It’s my intuitive side, my reasonable side. But I haven’t actually practised half the stuff I harp on about. This is especially true when it comes to social pretense, corporate culture … and boys. So I’m still at the place where I believe that if I just speak my mind, open my heart, and always tell the truth, especially to the boss, or on the first date, then the sun will shine again.

Probably because I’ve never actually dated boys before. Yeah, I know, that one of Baba Princess wasn’t exactly dating, it was default *cheeky grin*.

I’ve never had the ‘waiting for the call’ experience, or the ‘wondering if I should ask him in for a nightcap’ moment or the ‘drawing maps and hovering with my hand on the doorknob-thingie wondering whether he will kiss me’.

I’ve read about all those, and giggled about it, and said ‘if he likes you, he will call you, duh!’ But before now, I have never been the girl who sits with my friends analysing the conversation and walking around with my phone just in case he calls, panicking if the battery runs low or if the boss asks me to switch off the phone during a meeting.

So, things that are obvious to most people, things that they picked up in high school, things like that are rocket science to me. I am just now learning that girls are actually meant to play  hard-to-get. But not too hard, or else he’ll give up and walk away. You’re supposed to be all rare and mysterious. Give too much information too soon and you become, well, boring.

I am learning that girls are not supposed to consistently look a boy in the eye, because … well, lots of different reasons really. I am learning that girls are supposed to let the guy pay for things if he wants to, because if you insist on paying all the time, he will think you’re a dume-jike … or worse, a feminist!

I am learning that you are supposed to be the gazelle and run way, even if you really want to be caught, and that at the exact right moment, you are supposed to inconspicuously slow down and let him catch you, just like in chobo-na-ua-kamata-dame.

It’s like the child in the story who smiles at lightning because God is taking her picture. It’s cute in a kid, but in an adult, it inspires snide remarks and ngotos. Throw in my trait of  being overly emotional, my sense of drama, and my  tendency to throw tantrums, and things don’t turn out so good.

The thing with me  is that my blonde areas are rather … disadvantageous. I know of people, girls mostly, who are dumb as a rock when it comes to schoolwork, but boy, can they run the rat race! Doesn’t matter how they do it, they know how to get their way, And it doesn’t matter to them that they’re still, you know, rats. I sometimes think world smarts are worth so much more than book-smarts.

I’m not ashamed of the way I am, not really. I like the child that I am. It’s just that I am finally starting to recognise it as a weakness, and starting to do something about it. I’m starting to see that to survive in the big bad world, I have to learn some big bad tricks.  I am learning how to play the game. Slowly and painfully yes, but I am learning. And that makes me really really sad.

I suppose on the upside, I am evolving into a higher … thing. One that can function better in the real world. But I have to say, my fantasy world is so much more fun, and I’m not entirely sure I want to leave it 😦

I had a conversation yesterday, a sort of introduction to a new friend. I’ve had this conversation a few times before, but never like this. This time I was conscious, wary, weighing my words. Which is the ‘right’ thing to do, the ‘smart’ thing to do. But I couldn’t help feeling like I was conning my new friend, not giving him the full CB experience. I felt like I wasn’t being true to myself, I wasn’t being me. For the first time in my life, I put in a conscious mask.

And it sucked raw eggs.

I don’t know why that bothers me – I’m only doing what everyone else does.

But then again, I’m not everyone else.

The reason I wore that mask is that I don’t want my new friend to react the way everyone else reacts. I want him to see me as me, and to like me for me. Which is lame I guess, but there you are.

Of course, how my new friend reacts is not really my call, now is it.

And I don’t want to do all those things. I don’t want to wear this mask.

I am glad that I have K2, the one special boy in my life who takes me as I am, does not think I am completely loopy [partly yes, but not completely], and who thinks that ‘boys in my part of the world must be crazy to be frightened by my honesty’. Yay!

I’d like to have a few more friends who are like my K2, even just half of him really, or a quarter, coz I know he’s one of a kind. K7 comes close though *wink*

I do have some hope. Just as I am stepping out into this bold new … eh … world, I see traces of my Cb-niverse that say what the heck, you don’t have to adapt. Or conform. What I really need to do is find a few people that like it in my universe, some pseudo-K2’s and mini-CBs. Then we can go around in our own little bubble.

I can  interact with the world at world level, but interact with my world at my-world level.

Before, I tried to drag the world into my world, kicking and screaming. Which of course did a lot of damage to my interior decor. Especially the windows.

But now I see that I can have it both ways. I can chill out on the balcony, vet my neighbours, figure out which of them would like it inside, and invite them in. I’ve got a few candidates already **cough*cough*K7*cough*K13*cheeky grin**

The rest can stay in the garden smelling the butterflies and playing with the flowers.

It would involve masking, but only for a little while, and when the mask gets tiresome, I just pop indoors, grab a good book,  and dive into a bubblebath. Beats adjusting my nature to suit the world.

Also, you know how in those old stories there’s always some old lady in a rocking chair, sitting on the verandah and knitting a sweater? I could do that.

Not the knitting, I don’t knit very well. But I could stitch myself a nice world-proof dungaree to wear when I go out into the world. One that has an urban camouflage feature woven into it. And  I can leave it at the door when I get home, you know, just hang it on a pretty little coat rack.

I think I’ll make it burgundy.

Fix you ♫  Coldplay

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My blessing, my curse?
October 21, 2009

I consider myself a loner. I do my own thing and rarely follow the crowd. Except during Princess’ five-month check -up when I realised that all the other kids had shaved off their baby hair, and figured maybe it’s a health thing, so I promptly got a pair of scissors and snipped off the pretty curly locks. Le sigh. It grew back though, less curly, and more red than black, but still pretty.

Anyway, point is, I’m lucky in the sense that I don’t feel the need to ‘fit in’, so I’m pretty safe from peer pressure, negative or otherwise. Granted I occasionally get an attack of the Joneses, where I look at what my friends have achieved, and begin to question why I haven’t done XYZ, but that’s once-once … mara moja-moja tu.

I do have a weaknesses that covers that, so to speak. Sort of like my chakra.


A few days a go I had no idea what chakra was, except that it involved a skeleton and coloured balls. But I now know that my sacral chakra is healthy, my navel chakra is under-used, and that as a result my throat chakra has overcompensated. In other words, I’m cold and I talk too much, but my sex drive is just right.


Also, my third-eye and root chakra readings suggest I spend too much time inside my own head, and that I over-fantasize and am prone to hallucinations, and possibly paranoia. Interesting.

My heart and crown chakras are almost fine, so I am allegedly semi-friendly and partly-wise, but very in-assertive, and quite possibly passive aggressive.

Where do these people get these things … and how can they be so uncannily accurate? Creepy.

But I digress. My point was that while I don’t generally flow with the current, there are certain people that I like and  whose company I enjoy. It is important to me that these people like me, so I sometimes contort myself to ridiculous proportions to maintain their idea of me. And contortion can be a very difficult and painful experience. Especially when you’re a dunce at yoga.

Le double sigh.

Now why did I get into chakras again? Oh, right. I realise that in line with my … um … contortioning, and my overactive throat thingie, I tend to let slip things that I should not let slip. And by the time the throat is exhausted, the damage is done. Words, unlike legos, are not things you can take back.

So I’m thinking maybe my likéd ones should just stop telling me things. At least until I learn to shut my big trap…

In the meantime, please don’t be mad. I didn’t mean any harm. Honest. 😦

Off to do some meditating to fix my chakra. It even shows me how to hum. Yay!

The first cut is the deepest Sheryl Crow

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4 twighaps and a fu … facial: A rant in four parts
October 17, 2009

Firstly, yes, I love Hugh Grant. It’s the hair. And the little-boy-lost look. But mostly, it’s the hair.

Secondly, all ye who … well … this could take a while.

Thirdly, this is not going to make a lot of sense so … yeah.

So. It is no secret that I am now into the secret. Yes, I know, a lot of people think it’s silly crazy hoopla, but it works. Really. At least, it works for me. Sometimes it works so well that it’s scary.

I have, since reading the book, manifested a dress, green eyes, and 2012.

Yes, I realise that sounds *slightly* insane, so I shall move along swiftly to less loopy matters. Bear with me, I am going somewhere with this. Though in all honesty, I don’t know where that is yet.

Incidentally, they say ‘tell me what a man [or woman] laughs at and I will tell you who he/she is.’ There’s a rather nasty joke going round twitter. Something about Chinese phones. It’s really mean … but it’s also really funny. Almost as funny as – don’t kanye me. So, I wonder what that says about me. Hm.

Oh ok, four twighaps and a facial. A twighap is not something connected to twitter. It’s something connected to a twigget. Or rather to my desire to be a twigget.

A twigget, btw, is anybody who works with computers. I picked the term off K2. I have a fetish for twiggets generally, though I have particular issues with one particular twigget, whom I have **cough*cough*affectionately*cough** named … Twiggy.

So, back to my twighaps. They’re actually a lot more than three, but the key ones for today are three. So I shall perhaps name the sub-haps a,b,c … or 1,2,3 … or maybe αβγ?

For more information on 3CB, click here.