Apenyo.wordpress is jealous of your stats, Tipsyalcophobic.

Hello Tipsy, Apenyo here. I know that she created you first and the two of you have some kind of history, but my gosh, I’M the one that keeps her in beer and shoes and red mouth grease.

Tipsyalcophobic

Apenyo

I’m jealous that you, quite effortlessly, rake up all these views, impressive stats that I have to gather painstakingly, one by one from facebook and twitter and wharrever.

It isn’t fair.

So I’m going to do a bit of advertising here, that you won’t mind, obviously, as we are the same person. Right?

Hey there, my peoples. Hang out on apenyo.wordpress.com where I write mostly funny, sometimes reflective, very occasionally wise pieces for a couple of publications.

I graduated: http://apenyo.wordpress.com/2012/01/15/ululate-clap-your-hands-swallow-fireworks-apenyo-is-graduating/

I got naked: http://apenyo.wordpress.com/2012/02/13/get-naked-get-splashy/

I survived death by stupidity: http://apenyo.wordpress.com/2012/02/13/how-to-grin-through-ulcers-or-brokness-in-january/

I survived stretchmarks: http://apenyo.wordpress.com/2012/01/15/idiots-guide-to-surviving-post-holiday-fatterness/

And then exposed my legs: http://apenyo.wordpress.com/2012/01/29/the-right-to-expose-legs/

 

I have to get back to googling *How to manipulate consumers and take over their wallets through writing for advertising, so later, peoples.

Eki laavu laavu.

It’s been a while since I enjoyed a poem. This one is very easy to love because it’s about loving yourself, a lesson that I hope my bitchy and bitching mind is absorbing. I understand what she’s doing, she wants perfection, but banaye TEAM MILDRED regardless, yea?

If you also suffer the overly harsh criticism of a…a heartless mind, if you spend way too much energy pleading with yourself to give yourself a break,  Happy Valentine’s Day!

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was yourself.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott

P.S: Today’s google doodle is sooo sweet. I nearly ran out of office to buy a rope, just so that I could skip like that in the parking lot. Then a nice young man/woman would join me, like in the video, and we’d skip happily ever after, yea?

Maurizio Anzeri

Reblogged from Inspiring Artists !:

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Maurizio was born in Italy but he moved to london where he is currently living and producing his artworks. His practice consist in sewing directly on photographs, usually vintage, in order to create    an elaborate pattern which is intended not only to garnish the figures but also to reveal an interpreted version of their personal feelings under a modernized point of view. Maurizio already had solo exhibition in Italy, UK and switzerland.

WOAH. I am blown away. I am mostly speechless. I am reblogging.

I refuse to have the word *random* in my title

It’s so much fun being productive. On the days I manage to get more than 3 jobs plus some kind of story out, when I shoot my creative director’s inbox with good work like Boom! Pow! Bam!, I go home and treat myself to extra long bicycle rides and mayo-rich snacks and other fun shit.

But today has not been one of those.

I’ve spent it like this:

Woohoo! The sky is finally peeing on us!

Fucking rain you fuck.

Omg Dan Barongo can draw!

What happened to my plans of getting a tattoo? What did I want inked on my skin forever? Memento mori? Goodness! What madness.

 I spent an hour trying to think up a tat that I would be able to live with:

This is what I came up with:

Dear Mildred, Love me, feed me, never leave me. A reminder to myself to love myself ALWAYS.

Tomorrow will be even better. Too pep talky.

Get Writing. Because I’d be totally comfortable with my skin shouting at me, throwing pressure at me, making me resent it, right?

Finding beauty in negative spaces which is my absolute favorite.

There’s also Ah luv yai mamalai, which I promise never to get, because I ask myself, would I be tattooing such to my body if ma was at home, cooking matooke, disorganizing my books, giggling at things and just generally being her awesome self? Answer is no.

I am obsessed with Nneka, and not only because I spent 40 minutes of Thursday night inhaling her sweat, singing along to what songs I knew.

That God Knows Why track featuring Black Thought has taken over my life, this line:

//Your footprints engraved in the pavement of demonic ways//

And especially:

 //“I stole the apple of wisdom and now see I am naked,

I have no shame, I have made love, I am no longer sacred”//

End randomness.

What things have been happening in your life? Some on your Lugambo?

BHH, WATER AND BLOOD.

The oatmeal dot com is the perfect place to spend your hours when you stop being productive at work. Its has all these comics that would be perfect for posting on the facebook walls of smart, witty and marry-able love interests.  Like…perfect measuring tape. If his/her reaction is violent/non existent  and not HAHAHA your links are hilarious my love, you don’t want to be yoked with that sucker for the rest of your life.

Anyway, it’s happening again. I’m making uterus juice in my panties. Again. And it hurts. And has been tainting my emotions for the last 7 days, man. Next time, I’ll know not to be alarmed when CRUSHING FEELINGS of sadness and loneliness attack me from no where like KWADOOSH! I’ll get high instead of considering death by general hatred.

(Fuck PMS!)

This bleedy business is getting me a half day off (yay) to go and writhe in my bed.

It’s also making me want to yell, “I REJECT YOUR PRESENCE ON THE FUCKING EARTH, WORKMATE. Drown in a pool of your own lumpy vomit which has propelled itself out of your body because it can’t stand you, you obnoxious, irrelevant, stuttering fool.” at my neighbour but I won’t because all that yelling will require more energy than I’ve got right now.

Workmates can be annoying sons of obese squirrel bitches. Maybe I need to move my desk to the store.

Oh. BHH happened yesterday. A wet, limping BHH partly because of the rain and partly because I was feeling wet and limpy myself. I was probably projecting.

Rhino, Safyre, Dilman and Myself( Slybard, thepassingwind and daredevil said they were coming, but they didn’t show). We talked about the music(good), the weather(wet), food(just chips? Ugh. Chips suck) and then I had to leave- which I did by boda because I couldn’t stand the idea of getting into a taxi and sitting in one long sticky uncomfortable jam from Mateos to Ntinda on my own.

I suspect that the PMS had something to do with my viohateful feelings towards the boys for not CHUG CHUG CHUGGING their beers and leaving with me.  Who wants to sit in taxis on their own on rainy days? Not yesterday’s me!

Then the post ended just like that. SMH. 

 

ohmyGUSHNESS Women.

I DIG chicks. I love women. They’re the most fascinating creatures in the multiverse, I swear. All females are the pork and beans and tomato sauce, but human ones just take the cup.

Not even my mad fascination with hermaphrodites which came from my reading Middlesex by Jefferey Eugenides (Sigh. Cal. Sigh) and Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami (Oshima!!) one after the other was able to wrest the yoghurt from women.

The swish of a skirt, back of a knee. Back dimples. Pretty calves. Giggles! The a thousand and ten ways they can make themselves look even more beautiful (accessories rock).

I swear. My day can be going as smellilyy as a finger that has been stuck into a moist and dirty navel until a girl looking pretty or a woman looking just so…womanly appears and shines her awesome, cleansing femininity on it. The softness. The tenderness. The violence. The scheming. The everything!

The nice fingers, shapes, the way a woman can just shake your week by being beautiful in ways that refuse to conform to the 27 documented kinds of beauty .

My newest girl crush is The Floacist. My goodness.  

This

 

Woman

is

GORGEOUS

MY GOODNESS.

SIGH.

On a very unrelated note, growth.

Growth is one searing pain in the bums. One minute, I’m in the zone. I’m as comfortable as no one but me has ever been. I read my articles, I laugh. I put fingers to keyboard, they fly. 

And the next I’m hating on every single adjective. I’m hating on the subjects I choose to write about. I’m staring down at my muse, disgustedly asking it what the hell it thinks its doing.

 

I used to despair whenever I’d get attacked by this feeling, but now because I know what it is, I’m OK. Not happy that I’m more likely to trash an acceptibly written article 5 minutes before my deadlinekicks me in the face, but tolerant of this mind PMS. Because its me getting better. Shedding. Growing up and over the place that I’m currently writing from.

 

JJJJYYYYEEEAAAAHHHHH!!

This week will be a good one. I have a feeling.

Dedike: Something ’bout a woman by Lady Antebellum (ona di replay)!

I’m a bad girl.

I have bad manners. People only become properly human, more likeable, more interesting to me after I’ve read and liked their writing. That’s some fake shit right there.

(Is it? Because I’ve been trying to feel bad for the last five seconds without success.)

Anyway, I love it when I stumble onto a blog and find enjoyable posts on it. That’s the best thing in the world( after onions) because its writer becomes one more person that I want to meet, even if I’ve met them already.

Every writer has a special kind of magic, a kind of energy that changes me and the way the imp in my mind fashions things. Somehow, I change.

I hate conversation. Even though I’m the biggest motor mouth in the world, I hate talking. I resent long phone conversations (except when it’s you calling, Pwinchy boo, and then what I feel is a bittersweet sort of thing. Like strawberry flavored bile. Also, all the pacing that I do keeps me on the right path to svelte.)

Ko if conversation only meant sending each other notes? It would be a lot more truthful and enjoyable. As things are, voices, diction, accents, inflections, current state of mind, whether or not you have a cold, mood, history; these all affect the way you respond to the other person, which sucks buttocks.

SO I’m very grateful to the intergoddess for leading me to a very delightful blog today and I ask that she continue being so awesome. That’s one more girl whose guts I DIG so much now.

HOOO HEM GHEE!

OOOOOOMMMMGGGGG. Would you just LOOK at these? 

come to me

I love shoes. Love. Shoes. When I grow up and start making amounts of money huge enough to choke on, I shall catapult myself into a Mary Antoinettesque nirvana. Shoooeeeessss. Shoes just rock so much, don’t they?

SWOON

What doesn’t rock is having nightmares featuring demons. Very chatty ones. As a result of reading THE SCREWTAPE LETTERS .

It gets worse if the demons are somehow, blurrily, in the way of dreams; saying stuff about your mother. How dare they? One of them even came ‘looking’ like her. My ma. How dare you, demon? You bastard.
I was not amused (to say the least) when I woke up at 3.47am.

I also officially admit that I hate sleeping alone. Never again shall I complain about Gabby crawling into my bed at night. I need her sharp little body that feels like a bag of elbows and knees next to mine. I don’t mind the discomfort and sleep deprivation anymore. The bags under my eyes make me look sexy.

Because if I had woken up from that dream and had NOT found Gabby sleeping with her foot in the middle of my back, I would have DIED of fright. I would have yelled the house down. OR I would have lay there, shivering, too afraid to leave the room, too scared to even blink. And that would suck.

These are the things on my mind today:

SHOES.

THE ULK PARTY tomorrow that you! Must! Attend! Tell your relatives.

Sometimes Icing

Aaaand The liberation, the complete and total freedom that comes with acknowledging and shaming your mortality. Like yea. I’ll die. I know. So what? I win. You lose. Eat a colon.
Because now, there’s nothing as delightful as living

P.S. Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I wore a maxi dress.

Legs! No legs.

And my family is just the silliest when it comes to UNbirthday celebrations.

Mangada cake

Unbirthday definition: An excuse for us to eat bad cake from Nakasero market and celebrate the fact that we HAVE birthdays.

Death, eat a tyre.

I’ve been mourning Ma for almost a month and two weeks now. Mourning like a god. I’ve been crowing for death in the way a bankrupt immortal might.

I’ve been saying prayers before I sleep- to death, or maybe to my body, asking one or the other to please not wake me up.

But when my aunt’s alarm goes off and I wake little Gabby who has crawled into my bed and WET it if I’m unlucky, when I throw our blanket off and pat her awake for our bath, I never howl, “Noooo. I’m not dead. Confound it! Confound life!” I perform our ablutions without thought.

Afterwards though, I weep and bleed and rage and DEMAND for death and get very hysterical about its refusal to listen.

Like a fool.

Because who tells me death hasn’t listened? Hasn’t said, “WHY, OF COURSE. GIVE ME TIME.”? What kind of foolishness drives my fits of rage? Because of course I’ll die. My body agreed to die a long time ago; the moment I was conceived.

Death isn’t in some distant future. It lives in me. I’m perpetually dead. Just like I’m constantly the ex-foetus, fighting her way out of her mother’s body. I have never stopped being dead.

So please, Mildred. No more yelling or raging. No more anger at your body.

Poor body. Poor beautiful shell that I love. You will die and rot. And all the effort that I’ve spent making you look awesome shall die with you. How tragic for you that my soul won’t stay to keep you company. It shall flee! The moment you cease to throb with life, it will bolt to more beautiful things. Do you feel sorry for yourself, body? Does it pain you? Or have you come to terms with this? Have you always known?

Good for me that my eyes have been opened to your answer, death. Good for me that I know. I’m scared, oh so frightened of you, but only because I’ve never been lifeless. I don’t know what it feels like to a maggot buffet. To not throb and pulse and bleed. That’s the only thing you have on me.

Otherwise, I’ve won this, I think. It’s over. You lose.

IT’S SING ALONG TIME!!

Tune: The Band Perry’s If I die young

Lyrics: Mostly stolen

Now child, Auntie has tweaked the lyrics a bit. Go along with it, OK? One, two, three all tooogedarrrr:

When I die young, bury me in a sundress.

Lay me down on a bed of orchids.

Put me next to mother, at dawn.

Send me away to The Shining by Badly Drawn Boy. (Or to something by Libera)

Lord make me a rainbow-I’ll shine down on my father

He’ll know I’m safe with you when he stands under my colors

Oh and, life ain’t always what you think it ought to be, no

(I can’t stand that line of father not being gray but he’s burying his baby, so let’s skip)

The sharp knife of a loooooong life.  

Well, I’ve had just enough time.

And then the song got too complicated for me to rip.

Yesterday but one or something, this arrived in my inbox: Just had a conversation about you with someone who expressed super lovedmiration for the way you charge at life, extremities on lock down. I’d rather not say who but. Lol.

LOL. LOL!! I live so aggressively precisely because I hate life’s guts so much. I hate it. Hate it. I hate the mewling idiocy of everything. The weak, pathetic nothingness.  The posing and posturing. The pointlessness of everything as I’ll one day be as dead as the road kill I caught myself giggling at this morning.

I’m afraid of sleep. I’m afraid of people I know being asleep. I’m afraid of my own fucking back.

So I explode in pretty pink bubbles of bubbliness or a red mess of rage or an octarine shimmer of boldness to counter that bullshit. And also because If death is as inevitable as tomorrow, then it’s not going to find me living limply.

Its raining now, which is cheering me up.

I love rain. Lightning actually (a lot more before the bastard started  picking people off the street).

But rain is good.

Which brings me to the end of this post.