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.

Instead of editing this brochure…

Life, living and all their relatives can go fuck themselves. I’ll (live? Exist? Be?) vicariously through my writing.

Writing, like a nice strong drink takes the edge off. It gives me my most genuine giggles.

When I’m in the zone, despair can’t touch me.

Existence is torture. Constant pretense.  An incessant bully, a charade that gorges itself on my pleas for it to end.

Which is why a Memento Mori tattoo is such a kickass, string-colon-around-neck, dangle-elephant-balls-from-ears idea.

It will rob death of the element of surprise. I will see it coming. Every time I look at my arm, I shall be reminded.

And when it does come, when it anticlimactically shuffles its pathetic, second-guessed, outshone self in, I’ll punch it in the pelvis and yell that tired line at it: YOU CAN’T FIRE ME. I QUIT!

Hampy Bansday, Mamalai

Hellai Mamalai.
Happy Birthday !
What’s up? How are you? What are you doing?

If heaven is anything like what The Lovely Bones described, you’re in things! Your heaven has a HUGE sugarcane plantation behind your house and the sugarcanes are thick and greenish purple with lots and lots of juice.

You have a cat that looks just like Salvie, but because you only like cats when they’re at least 10 meters away from you, she lives in a cat-mansionette attached to yours.

You have lots and lots and lots of flowers, I know. Don’t pluck them all off banange. Leave them in the garden for us to see when we come visiting.
I really want to come visiting, mummy so if you can slip a note to that God fellow…I really want to see you, Ma.

Daniela is so fat, my goodness. That is our number one present to you, mamalai. Your bapalai is huge (in a good way). She grows every single day. But the kyejo! Eh! She pouts when we take long with her bottle and then when we try to put it in her mouth, she spits the milk back at us. Can you imagine? At 1 month and 8 days!

She doesn’t have tety ears like mine. They’re small and lovely and perfect like yours. And everyday, she looks like somebody else! Anyway, Ma, your healthy bapalai is gift number one. Please pidu my baby for me. That one must be four months old now.

Mummy, should I smack Gabby and Joshua when they’re being bad? I don’t want them to take advantage of the tenderness I’m desperately trying to rip from the memories that I have of you. I know I won’t be able to give them that special thick, smothering, heady love that you gave me, but I really want to try. And you know me, I can be very angry and shouty and horrible when I lose my temper. And they give me lots of reasons to go batshit.
So ma, should I smack? Cupped palm, not much pain? Because gabby hates homework. And Joshua just doesn’t listen.

Anyway, back to your heaven. I’m sure you have very nice table clothes. All beautifully knitted and very very clean. And your sofas must be super plush! And that floor of yours must be clean enough for Daniella to lick her milk from.

You have all kinds of fruit trees around your house and your blender is always working and you’re filling six bottles labeled Mildred, Jero, Praise, Joshua, Gabby, Dannie with lots of yumtastic juice, right? And right now, the smell of liver must be driving heaven’s collective nostril mad!

And the matookes! Oh the matooke plantation must be HUGE, mamalai. And I’m sure there are chickens all over the place stealing your paw paws. Please leave for me two matookes in the saucepan. I’ll eat them when I get there. Hopefully soon.

Home is empty without you, mamalai. The house is too huge. The laughs are too few. The echoes are too loud. Home is lonely, ma. I wish I hadn’t spent so much time with my nose buried in a book when you were around. I wish I’d hounded your room like Gabby and Joshua. Anyway, I’m sure you have a huge library in heaven, with many of those Danielle Steels that you love. I’m sorry for not buying that last one. I was so fake, also me.

When I come visiting, I can’t promise that I won’t curl up in your sofa and read and read and read. Because reading in a world without you sucks. It’s not warm and enjoyable.
I need you be around so that I can ignore you. Don’t worry. When you come to my heaven house, you’ll be allowed to sing along to the radio and ignore me as much as you want.

Not paying attention to the people you love is one of the biggest manifestations of contentment. So I miss ignoring you mummy. The world is empty.

But don’t mind me. You party with the angels. For weeks and weeks, you party. Go CRAZY. Swing from the clouds. Jiggle your belly. Do the *shake your buttocks* dance that daddy came up with. And my chikuku neck dance. And DANZOLO! Please do lots and lots of Danzolo dancing. Make the whole of heaven’s choir do danzolo. The whole day.
Haha! That visual is killer. I hope they have the booties to do the dance justice.

Please be near daddy today. In his mind. Make him smile, please.
Don’t play sankarai with those people up there. I’m feeling nugu even.

Let them wait for us to come and then the whole of heaven can play sankarai with us.

I love you very very much, my mummy.
Be happy. And contented. And dazzle heaven with that smile of yours.

We’ll be there soon.

<3

Mildred.

World Domination. Best believe.

People are not words.

.

You can’t make, bully, push, threatenwithediting, cajole, rub out, threatenwiththesaurus, cross out, stare down, intimidate them into DOING things that they ABSOLUTELY do NOT want to do.

How sad (frustrating, boring, UGH inducing) .

UGH!

New Objective: World domination.

Starting: NOW!

Motto: Neyvah to give up.

Secret motto: Come on world, come on deities. Give this chick a win. Just one.

Secret secret motto: I’m not complaining or failing to acknowledge the teeny tiny wins you toss me from time to time but I want a big win. You know what I mean. GIVE!

P.P.P.P.s: I SAID GIVE!

Memento Mori.

Now that KABLAM! a fist has shot out of death’s anus and made the acquaintance of my oesophagus, I am convinced, more than ever, more than the LAST time that I want a Memento Mori tattoo. I have done more research since then. Ahem.

“Remember you are mortal”

I sometimes forget. This God complex oso! Eyver to leave you unprepared for things such as actual DEATH and HELPLESSNESS.

“Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may die”

Because I’m prone to depression. Black feelings that just hit me in the heart and head from NO-WHEYA!

No more complaining.

A reminder of the vanity of earthly glory and pleasure.

Because that one thing that you’re most vain about? The one that gives you most pleasure? That one which defines you? It may happen that you, finding yourself desperate, broken, pathetic and finished, stick it in God’s face as a bargaining chip. Leverage!

You offer it saying, “Take this, maker of things and spare me my mother/job/love life/…”. But we human beings, we’re extremely powerless. And God doesn’t make deals with us. So no more vanity.

But I’ll keep the pleasure.

So, HELLO October, darling October. You’re going to give me my first tattoo. Which is going to look like this:

Perfect. With a tiny four leaf clover to the side. Perfect.

I’m warning you, Shadrach. No bullshit this time. I stick syringes into eyes. Ask around.