Writing has to make me rich.

Whatever

Every once in a while someone in the comments here says, usually as an aside to something else, that no one becomes a writer to get rich. So as a point of clarification, and to give everyone else who is slightly exasperated by this sort of comment something to point at:

Hey, I became a writer to get rich. I’ve always been in the writing business not just to write, and not just to make money, but also to make a lot of money — basically, to get rich at it. Why? Because speaking from experience, being poor sucks, and in the world we live in, things are a whole lot easier if you have a lot of money. The thing I do best in the world in a professional sense is writing, so if I were to become rich, getting rich through writing seemed like the most likely way…

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The Only Thing Worse Than a Disney Princess is a Disney Prince

This is so good, especially the  stupid messages.

via The Only Thing Worse Than a Disney Princess is a Disney Prince.

Also, if you follow me here and not HERE, beera mu kilaasi. I update Apenyo at least once a week.

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I am very much my hair.

Balamaga is even more dramatic than I am, if you can imagine that.

Whenever his tantrums start turning dark, I remind him that he found my hair and I in a relationship and I’m not going to break up with my personal style because he’s in the picture now.

This is what he’s quarreling about. A plum top.

Go to a quiet place (away from small animals, children and bosses) and read the hell out of his rant:

Mildred, I denounce your hair. rant rant rant rant…

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BEWBS!

In which Balamaga describes his encounter with a random pair of boobs. Click and see.

Random Cleavage.

I’ve got some.

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Beat the walk of shame

This is so incredibly cool. There are so many abandoned shirts at home, all of them huge. I vow to wear one the Katrina way for the next 5 days. I’m going to post pictures even. So excited!

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Have you heard about Proggie?

I hope your answer is yes because they’re awesome. And why are they awesome?

They pay better money than any News house in the county (they’re young and sort of new, so shame on you older, richer ones).

They notify you of all the events that are going down within a 6 month radius. If you’re bored and plotless, it’s because you don’t read Proggie.

Covering events means free tickets to EVERYTHING and lots of material for my Sunday column Stiletto Point. This is like fireworks for my wallet.

Every month, Proggie profiles a person they think is doing excellently in their field. This person can be involved in just about anything; the hustle doesn’t matter. They’re in as long as they kick ass.

Moroots is this month’s star because her voice sounds like chocolate and vanila and orange peel and one rogue husk, all blended together.

Here’s a link to the full profile: MOROOTS

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September: Life, Death, Zumba, Birthdays, Love.

I hate September exactly as much as I love it, and I love it very much. See, a year ago, in this shitty month, my uncle died, then my little babyboo Daniella was born, then it was my Joshua’s birthday, then my mother died. All this within a period of three weeks. And 18 days into October, it’s going to be mom’s birthday.

This September has found me madly in love, so add that to the emotional pie.

I’m too full of feelings.

I can’t imagine how it must be for dad.

I am too full of feelings.

I read a self-help book once (wrapped in newspaper and only in dark places) about this man who was  learning life lessons from his former college teacher; a man  full of life and wisdom.

In the section about grief, the old man talked about how at 70, he still cried for his mother every day because time had done nothing for the pain. First thing in the morning, he’d allow himself to cry and then make a conscious decision to stop grieving for the day.

I used his system to devise one of my own, one where I wake up, bawl, and then ZUMBA. I do the quickie session- 9 minutes, sweat, stare at my body in the mirror for a second, marvel at how firm it has become and then take my bath.

September won’t drown me, no. I’m too busy loving and crying and dancing to die.

Today is Joshua’s birthday.

Joshua is the most secretive of my siblings. He’s a middleish kid- the 4th of 6 and spends most of his time at home under a blanket with a computer, marahagaring. The blanket is necessary because dad has banned computer football games. Bad for the reading spirit.

Joshua is a beautiful boy with the largest, clearest eyes. He’s a silly, inquisitive inventor.

He’s one of those kids who still excel at mathematics in P.6, which means he’s going to do well in this system we have going that glorifies the coldness of numbers over the warmth of words.

Joshua talks too much and especially after he’s invented something. In the last holiday, he bent an empty beer can and stuck it over the front tire of his bike to make it produce rally car sounds. The boy chewed my ear about it for so long, I got malaria.

He’s a live wire and I love him.

And mom, he’s growing tall. He’s not remained short like you feared he would.

Sssssaaaaannnnkarai.

Happy Birthday, Cusi. You’re growing into daddy which is both terrifying and awesome.

a flock of crows

Yes, I’m wading into this whole debate. Well, not wading, more like already stuck in the middle and trying to be as quiet as possible. GAY-BASHING CHRISTIANS, the papers and protesters say. GOD HATES FAGS, the Christians say. And I’m there, sitting right in the overlap: I’m Christian, and I’m gay.

All this means is that 1) I happen to believe in Jesus: I follow his commandment to love God and my neighbour, upon which all other rules of the faith hinge, and 2) I also happen to be interested exclusively in women. The media doesn’t show us a lot, they like to show the two extreme views in the gay-Christian debate.

In the media: Christians aren’t fans of gays.

All the Christians in the headlines talk about is stoning the gays, how sinful being gay is, and how much God hates the gays. They mention how people like me…

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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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