Birthdays, drama and religious cake.

I swear I meant to write delicious. I have no idea where the ‘religious’ came from.

Daddy, Praise, I love you.

 

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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. 

 

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.

Mildred.

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.

My Immortal.

My immortal gone. Dead. Mortal after all. My constant. My anchor. My source. My well of favor. My love and lover. My punching bag. My piss-pot. My most precious possession. My cushion. My refuge. My shield. My own. Mine. Not yours. Theirs, but only a little. My breasts. My arms. My bottom. My legs. My fingers. My smile. My mirrior. My one.

Finished. Left. Gone to a place I cannot find or fathom, a place I cannot touch, now speaking a language in too high a register for my mortal ears to hear. My ma mother mamai mamalai mummy mumsy mamemimomu.

Of what use is sanity? Even if I let go now and become as stark raving as the mad hatter hisself! Won’t I still be able to write? Can words dare to desert me?  She gave them to me. They’re mine. Mine gift.  I can stop trying. I can let go. A little.

When I wasn’t aching. When I wasn’t dying of death.

When was that?

HATE AND ALL HIS FRIENDS.

WHAT ANNOYS ME, WHAT PAINS ME BEYOND BELIEF IS THAT LIFE GOES ON. AFTER MY MA, LIFE GOES ON. EVEN MINE. HOW BAD. HOW UNFAIR. HOW WRONG.

WHAT WAS THAT? THAT WHICH I CALLED PAIN? WHAT IS THIS? WHY AM I AT WORK? WHAT AM I DOING? WHERE IS SHE?

WHY HAVE I STOPPED BEING GRATEFUL TO THESE  *WONDERFUL SUPPORTIVE PEOPLE?

WHY, INSTEAD OF THINKING: WHAT A GOOD PERSON

AM I THINKING : ONE DAY YOUR MOTHER SHALL DIE. AND THEN YOU WILL FEEL MY PAIN. AND THEN YOU’LL KNOW NOT TO ASK QUESTIONS LIKE, “HOW ARE YOU”

AND THEN YOUR PAIN WILL DESTROY YOU, LIKE MINE IS DESTROYING ME, AND WE’LL UNDERSTAND EACHOTHER. AND WE SHALL BE REAL FRIENDS AGAIN?

JESUS.

***********************************************************************************

Somebody who loves me who I love just sent me this:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
by W.H. Auden

Exactly. Exactly.

Aaaargh. Blood.

It beats my understanding, kuchapas it kabisa why tampons are so much more expensive than pads.

For one, they jam clots up my cervix.

Msssswww

In my head, slivers of womb are landing on top of a phallus shaped contraption which has no way of absorbing or even accommodating the bastards, so the clots just pile up and up and up and cause an assembly line of fat blood clots to form from where the tampon is stationed to the top of my cervix, thus making bleeding an even grimmer experience that it should be.

Thinking about this makes me cramp, even more than that stupid S.3 theory that cramps come as a result of great chunks of womb dropping off and horrible wounds forming. Jesus.

And the insertion! Fucking hell. They’re so. So unwieldy. So cottony and gross. Don’t even bring  lube up. I don’t want to know.

And the stupid string that hangs out like a penisette? How is one supposed to pee around the bastard?

They should be apologizing for all their stupid ways by being super cheap. Msw

Days later. Ahem:

Hey! There are instructions. All hail the internet: How to avoid being horribly paranoid the whole day about smelling iffy as a direct result of pEeing on your tampon string which is really just ASKING FOR IT!!

Going corporate. Again.

Lady Sinister is scared. She loves advertising; the rush, the bustle, the money, but the last time she word-ked for an agency, her writing suffered.

The quality of her articles diminished.

Her loyalties to her editor waned.

This depressed her so very fucking much.

😦

And now she’s going back. Sundresses don’t just appear ina-di-wardrobe, yo. You need money for those.

And I’m good at this, right? I won’t even notice that I’m working regular hours.

And Maad Advertising is NOTHING like Lowe Scanad. Right?

SIGH.

Bright side: I get to dress like this again 😀

ZIG

You must understand, ex-acquaintance that the terrible vengeance I am wrecking upon you is nothing personal. Its all on principle.

Accept it.

No. High roads and (wan) indifference do not feature here.

The need to violently express my displeasure with your shenanigans by robbing you of your comfort and peace of mind is strong.

Take it

Take it

You dished it first.

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