O.K...Listen up sucker...

Kindly tagged by Beth, and thus saved the embarrassment of having to tag myself again. In the same way, I am tagging all those sorry souls who have been missing out on getting tagged and are feeling it. A letter to 16 year old me. Thank God for the Internets for this letter would never have gotten posted.

This is probably my only chance to come back and virtually bitch-slap you for being the 16 year old fuck-up that you are and I'm a make the most of it. Whoever came up with this idea is about a decade and two years too fucking late but... like Bernard Shaw once said, better never than late. Yeah, for you anyway.

First, the world does not, and for that matter neither does your mother, your absent father nor anyone else unfortunate enough to be related to you, owe you a thing... nada! So you ranked in the top five in your fucking district when you sat your KCPE and still were not called to the National School you had picked. So what if your somewhat best friend who did not happen to have as high a score as yours was able to get into the same school just because his father knew the Minister of Education... it's called life in Kenya, at least back then. You didn't get to pick your parents, none of us did, but guess what, I doubt they'd have picked you either if they knew you were going to turn into such a sour puss. Move the fuck on.

Second, you don't know everything. Heck! What am I saying? You don't know shit so please stop acting like you do. A closed mind is an impediment to learning and, conversely, a stunter of growth. Eventually, you will open your eyes to this reality and it will hurt coz you will have no direction. You will look out to the world and your vision will be blurred. You'll reach out to the stars.....

O.K.... o.k...o.k... I realize I am about to completely lose you if I haven't done it already. You hate being told what to do and you hate even more being yelled at. Let me tone this down and see if perhaps I can get something through to you.

Here goes nothing.

Girls aren't nearly as fragile as you've been brought up to believe, they can handle way more than you think and they know it and will use it against you. Do not cater to their every whim. If you do, they will like you but they won't want you; you will want them but you won't like them. They told you back in primary school that girls are nothing but trouble.... that was not entirely true: They are trouble yes, but worthwhile trouble... trust me on that. So throw out the caution, you'll need the room for some condoms.

The boys on the other hand are hardly as tough as they seem. They may act and talk like it but they are not any tougher than you are. They are given to bragging... you are smart not to be quick to believe everything they claim to have or to have done. Especially when it comes to girls: You'll look back one day and realize that your history is replete with girls who've apparently lost their virginity multiple times. And do give in to the urge to brag too, sometimes. It may not win you friends, but being envied is not necessarily a bad thing.

Oh yeah... you don't speak much which is a good thing; too many words are wasted on too few ears. You probably should say even less.... trust me my friend, very little of what you say is necessary. But when you do speak, speak louder, and clearer. Those you talk to will appreciate not having to have you repeat it and who knows,they might think that you know what the heck you talking about.

Last but certainly not least, do please learn to say no. You will certainly get your fair share of those. You need not please everyone. Actually, you can not please everyone. All you will end up with is a shitload of tags that everyone expects you to finish but with no time to get to them all. Oh! Wait, did I actually tag myself again. Scratch that last point, but the others stay. You are freaking 16 years old, do you know what I wouldn't give to be you right now? No? Well me neither.

So I murdered my muse month or so ago...

Unlike Bob's shooting of the sheriff, mine was not in self-defense. It wasn't a shooting either... more a drowning. Just like the well meaning but inexperienced pastor who, while upriver doing his first dipping into the murky waters of river_X baptism of his flock, forgot the words of the baptismal prayer and as he grasped desperately for the elusive incantation lurking somewhere in the recesses of his brain, succeeded in keeping his would be new devotee under the water much longer than the poor fellow could hold his breath.... and thus the good Lord's will was done or so the heartbroken mother and devout follower of Christ would later allude; So too would my muse, in what can only be summarised as an unfortunate event, fall to the zealous ministrations of a spiritual devotee... me in this case.

Having read somewhere and believed (to read is to believe, no?) the supposed magical properties of absinthe - the green fairy, and having for the last few months been suffering a serious bout of the block, I went in search of this fairy. Slaying numerous dragons of fear and doubt that lay in my way, and leaving in my wake half empty bottles of rum and of coke (a cola), thus discarded unconsumed as I tried to cleanse my body of any intoxicant that could in one way or the other hinder the workings of this magical spirit, I finally sighted this holy grail (more like a watered down version) of the writing world on the shelve of the local alcohol dispensary of my town. Imagine that.

So, to cut a short story short, I partook and I passed out. When I came to, my muse was no more.

Of Toothless Dogs and their incessant barking

There was a time not too long ago when calling me a girl would have gotten your face punched in... not by me mind, but by the legion of loyal fans that I had somehow amassed in the relatively short span that was my meteoric rise to fame.... That legion, btw, has since disappeared in pretty much the same way that my star burnt itself out... unceremoniously.

Twice now, in less than a week, two girls have gone on to call me a girl to my face and I have done nothing but cower in the hole that I eventually sunk into.... not that I would hit a girl... heck, I don't beat girls except, perhaps, when in a race to reach an orgasm... thanks to having what one might call an unfair advantage in the form of hair trigger something or the other.

I don't know if it's something I said or the way I said it. Boy do I miss those fans.

One Score and a half......

Or to be more precise, one score and 9 years ago today, folks, unto a young beautiful woman hailing from along the ranges known as the Aberdares in the heart of the Kenyan highlands, a new babe was born.

Today while the rest of the world marches along on its quest for survival or whatever ambitions drive it, seemingly oblivious of our very existence, the owner of this blog has declared this day a holy day... nay, a holiday... nay... arghhh who friggin cares. Thing is, we don't gotta do shit coz you know what, it's his effing birthday.

So here's to doing nothing.

Inspired but without direction....

'A morning of awkwardness is far better than a night of loneliness...' I couldn't have said it better so thanks Hank Moody (Californication) for those bytes of wisdom. Actually, it would never have occured to me to say something like that. I wouldn't know about morning awkwardness, having majored in lonely nights for the most part of my life. But then again, who wants to admit on his blog that he's once woken up with a 'broner' - another Hank coinage (I think) for an 'unintentional male inspired boner'. Not me for sure, so don't expect any talk of morning awkwardness on this here blog.

So, I was crawling through the KBW aggregator the other morning.... my only access nowadays to all y'all's blog posting nowadays, when I ran across 'Tamaku's List of blessings.... and, I know I don't get to give enuff props for all the shit y'all write in your blogs.... this cat - gay as he is, is quite funny. And no, not in the broner inspiring kind of way. I am protected from self incrimination... aren't I.

Anyway, Tamaku's list, while not necessarily rib cracking served to inspire me to make a list of my own - but I am having trouble deciding what kind of list to make. I would make one of blessings like he did but that wouldn’t be too original now would it. I already made a Christmas list and I can’t quite think of any other interesting list that I could stand writing.. Can you?

I'm Hurting Inside

I'm Hurting Inside

When I was just a little child,

Happiness was there awhile.

Then from me, yeah, it slipped one day.

Happiness, come back, I say.

'Cause if you don't come, I've got to go lookin'

for happiness.

Well, if you don't come, I've got to go lookin',

Lord, for happiness, happiness.

- Bob Marley

A crappy post

September of 09 will go down into the annals of blogging history as the month that this blog almost went without a single posting... almost. But not quite. I could have also used the following line as the intro - 'I am back... this time not by, or to be depressingly candid - despite the conspicuous lack of, public demand....' but I did not.

No... this is not what you think it is. Self-pity, while obviously being a large part of my make up, is not what drives the publishing of this blog. No, I write on whims, and publish only when I have the courage or, as some might be tempted to call it, the audacity to think that what I wrote might provide y'all with an interesting read. The only difference this time is that, as I have tried to hint at by the title, I don't quite give a crap.

See, it's not, as I may have alluded to somebody earlier, that I have been lacking blogging inspiration or the mojo as some of you are fond of calling it; no the inspiration has been there, only this time it's been largely negative as opposed to the waxing positivity y'all have grown to expect. Forgive my vanity... a man can wish can't he? I do like to think of myself as an artist after all... but what is an artist without an audience? Anyway take this one for instance.

So there I was going through my day yesterday, when an urgent call of nature came in....

Irritated, I take the call and I'm further dismayed that it is a number two call. I glance at my clock to see if I have time to take it.... I didn't but I didn't really have the choice of postponing it anyway, hence the 'urgent' before call, right? I had to make the time. So excusing myself from my busyness, I find my way to our remodelled crapper.

So there I am, feeling all warm and invited a la the new warm and inviting ambiance that is the result of the remodelling, when a hissing noise above reminds me that I shouldn't quite get too comfortable. And as if the noise wasn't enough, a pungent gas suddenly envelopes me and in no uncertain terms lets me know that I have not only wasted the last five minutes not doing my work, but that also the waste that I have been getting rid off has resulted in the polluting of the air.

O.K.... so why should I give a crap about that? I ask myself. And while I'm at it, I decide to ask myself twenty other questions.... like what's with all the automation of this crapping business?

Has anyone noticed that they are taking away all the things that mattered away from the crapping experience... I mean, does it not piss you off that you can't even flush the darn shitter anymore? I know it does me. I mean I reach back for my mid-crapping flush but the handy lever that we used to flush with is nowhere to be found. No sweat, might as well count that as my contribution to a greener earth.... Then, as I shift around to efficiently and hopefully effectively, use the toilet paper, the auto-flusher senses my movement and flushes. I stand up and it flushes again... I walk out the door and the trigger happy thing goes off again as if to mock me.

I suppress the expletive that is threatening to explode from my mouth, mindful of the fact that anyone walking in on me cursing out the shitter might get spooked, and walk to the fancy new faucet ready for some hot hand sanitizing action but alas! no handles here either. Instead a stupid sign directs me to place my hands under the spout but the water that spews from it can not even be classified as luke-warm: Not anymore than the foam that comes from the automatic soap dispenser be called soap.

Disgusted after an un-thorough hand washing, I turn, now fully resigned to my powerless fate, and insert my wet hands into the hand drier and wait for it to do this apparently mundane task. It starts to enthusiastically attempt to blow the wetness off of my wrists. It is only after I have angrily wiped my hands off of my pants and I'm pulling the door open that I notice the directions etched on the fastest most sanitary drier in the market that say I should move my hands in an up and down motion for it to be effective.

Aaargh! I walk out feeling shittier than I did before walking in. I tell you, this would never have happened in the good old days before the automation. On the other hand, that means that this post would never have happened... and God forbid but September 09 would have gone down as the month this blog went postless. No Shit!