Republic of One

The ink on this page of my diary is runny. I must have left it near an open window one time to many.

The entry I’m about to lift is dated 25-03-11. The girl who wrote this must have been going through one hell of a heartbreak because the words are so raw, so reflective of what I am feeling now. When I read her words, I was like, how embarrassing that I was wiser at 20 than I am right now. I was more open to feeling my feelings.

~

Confusion, regret. Been there, done that, will not waste my youth on such.

Scrape them all together, M. raid their nooks, bombard their crannies

Sweep them up into one tall pile, pointing to heaven

and then bring out the lighter fluid.

How is it that my mind has moved on but it has only occurred to my heart to start bleeding now?

Bruised and seeping but determined.

One second at a time.

Grief is not shameful. Shame is.

Grief is not shameful. Shame is.

Grief is not shameful. Shame is.

~

Journalling is good because later in life, you are able to help yourself through some difficult situations. It is just as wise as saving money.

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The Love Of My Life

Healing is a small and ordinary and very burnt thing. And it’s one thing and one thing only: it’s doing what you have to do. It’s what I did then and there. I stood up and got into my truck and drove away from a part of my mother. The part of her that had been my lover, my wife, my first love, my true love, the love of my life.

You want to read this story.

Vuga, that fantastic woman who is also my bestfriend sent me this story. Thank you, madam. You are full full condition.

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. 

 

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!

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.

First, the piercings. One. Then two. TheN stud studstudstudstudstudstudstud. All the while silently yelling: BE SHOCKED, FOOLS. PAY ME THE ATTENTION YOU WITHELD WHEN I WAS 13. I’M BETTER THAN YOU. I’M SMARTER. AND MORE SHOCKING. WORSHIP ME. Is what you’re yelling.

The “”””goth”””” years. Shock value. When you take on synthetic anger and rage and hatred and blackness and add them to your already tumultuous inside. When you stay like that long enough to harden in that mold. Long enough not to know how else to be.

When you’re depressed by default, feeding your ridiculousness on the music of make-a-quick-buck rock bands.

When your friend slashes her arm in your cool hostel room and you slurp the blood from it. And you’re not doing it to shock your spectators anymore. You’re doing it because you have made yourself sick. And you are proud of your sick self. You’re amused at their expressions when they pass you by in the corridor. The horror. The fear. The awe. Its heady. You’re powerful.

And then, why not. You start to cut. And its …fun. It takes the pain (what pain??!?) away.

Depressed for what, eh? Haha!

And you’re smart. But not cool, no. never cool. Reserved for a few. Sick. Different. Better than cool.

And then your best friend. She’s hot. She’s got the ass of a goddess who ran away to America to be a 50 Cent video vixen. And yes. You’ve always thought her incredibly beautiful. And your souls are enmeshed and entangled and fused in a way you know won’t, can’t happen with anybody else. There’s not enough of you for that.

And when you take one shot, two, five and that ridiculous Katy Perry song comes on, you kiss her. And you tug and push and grunt and hold and grab, like an animal, and not only because you’ve secretly wanted this for years, but because you have an audience. Because the boys can barely fit into their pants for their ridiculously large boners.
You giggle. You’re delighted.

And then ma. She calls. Right before you walk to steak out with your friends, waragi bottle in hand. She calls and says, “Nyatin. Nyatin para. Don’t go out at night. Don’t be out when it’s dark.”

And after hanging up you and your friends laugh and marvel. How? You squeal. How did she know? How?

How? What a question. She made you is how, you stupid 19 year old. She made you from half or her and half of him. She kept you. Grew you. Birthed you.

And then you’re 22. And you’re fighting. You yell, “I have a job, mother! I work long hours. I’m a writer. That’s what we do! It’s in the bloody contract, ma!”

And she says things.

And you say things

And you’re angry.

And after 2 days of not speaking, 48 hours that you won’t, can’t ever get back now, you go to her room.

You go in and say “I’m sorry mamalai. But the things you said. Take them back. How can you say such?”

And she says, “I’m sorry nyatin. So sorry. When you were born, I didn’t think I’d ever love another child. I went with you everywhere. When you’d hear music, you’d dance. You’d stop in the middle of the road and dance. I couldn’t stop telling you stories, talking to you.  I love you, my child.

And you return to happiness.

But only for a short while. Because she leaves. After a few weeks, she breaks up with the world. She snatches herself from you. Or maybe god snatches her.

But really. What is god? The guy I offered everything? I said take from my life, god. Take me instead. I squeezed her hand.

Mummy if you can hear me, squeeze back.

She squeezed.

Mummy for your babies, doo. Your babies. Squeeze my hand.

She squeezed.

I offered all. And then my mind said. Mildred! Your writing. Give to God. Give and she’ll live.

But I said, nah.

It won’t come to that. What if he snatches it anyway, out of greed? What if he takes it nga it wasn’t necessary even?

She’ll be all right. Mummies don’t die.

But she did. And you closed her eyes. And you held her warm body. And tried to beat your heart into hers.

God said no. How do you say no to…I offered my life.

My life is bigger than my words. He didn’t take. He refused. He took her.

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