I’m too aggro. Again, last night, I morphed into this other woman. She is loud, rude and really pushy. I’ve had anger issues for a long time, mostly fuelled by Toby. One of Toby’s friends claim I used to be very sweet. LOL. And that Toby made me bitter. He’s probably right. I mean, this guy gains nothing by telling Toby he is the cause of my anger.
I’m so embarrassed. My friends were embarrassed. Mind you, I was only looking out for them. Honestly. I guess I took it a little bit too far. Especially when I wanted to know “What’s with the finger pointing?” and using “dude” and getting closer and closer to the guy’s face. I swear he thought I was going to hit him. I probably was, who knows?
Last night’s little altercation probably did a lot of damage to my relationship with Beatrice and Susan. Because I also got into a tiff with Susan’s friend. Ai. No, it wasn’t just the wine that got me acting like this. I think it’s all my pent up anger that is only now boiling over.
This is not a very pc thing to say, but I’m itching for a fist-fight. I’ve never been in one, and I would love to start one. And I’m not talking about a slapathon. I want a properse fight.
I neglected to mention, your entourage is welcome,
Why does this bother me so very much? The fact that I do not have a close-knit circle of friends, as popularised by most television programmes, including SATC, Friends and most other random television shows.
I’d love to have a smallish circle of nerdy yet glamorous friends. A smallish circle of friends whom to meet for breakfast on a Saturday and not everyday as in SATC. Friends I can rely on not to cancel Friday drinks, and friends who would like to travel with me to Mozambique next month (Yeah, I might be going).
I’ve always been a loner. Is it not time to learn that I will always be a loner? People just don’t “get” me. And I don’t get them. But this means that I am always doing things alone. It’s nice, up to a point.
Sure, it could be advantageous, I shall not argue with that. I don’t have to wait for anyone’s approval to do something. If I want to go to the Aquarium, I can. If I desperately need that cup of Java, I can walk down the road and get plastered on caffeine. Had Balkanology stayed at the original venue, I would’ve gone. Alone. That’s the best way to meet people. Problem is, who will take photos of you that can grace your MyFace page the next day?
At one stage, in late 2006, I had that circle of friends. We would all hang out together, but this didn’t last long. They weren’t my ideal circle of friends, though they fulfilled that need as best they could. But it was fun to feel trendy and, here’s the thing, wanted and recognised.
(No offense meant to actual retards reading this)
Spending a quiet Sunday with the newspapers is just not the same when one is distracted by mediocre copy.
Where’s the apostrophe? Surely they missed an apostrophe?
I might be wrong, but I’m pretty sure breathtaking is one word.
Not nearly as bad, but I would prefer them writing three, and not 3. But space is tight, so…
But at least they’re not as bad as their baby publication, The Times. And I’m very sorry to say this, but it’s mostly black journos who commit these foul mistakes. Then they blame their incompetence on English being their third language. Yes, I am referring to the former O Magazine editor. Sorry, that’s no fucking excuse. If you want to make it in the big, bad world of English journalism (even if it is Women24 – LOL), you need to feel comfortable writing in it.
It makes me wonder where the fucking sub-editors are? Lalita is a journo, and she doesn’t know the difference between comedienne and comedian. Didn’t even know comedienne is a word. Fuck me.
It’s really not difficult. Read. Read. Read. Read more. Read even more. Read The New York Times. Read. Read more. And then write. Write more. Write until you’re fucking blue. In the face. Edit. Edit some more and give to sub-editor who will check for any misplaced apostrophes or umlauts. Or whatever.
See, this is what happens when journos are the ones who spend four years reading Jane Austen instead of getting practical skills, or reading Eats Shoots and Leaves.
To my fine German friend:
Fine… I’m only happy because of all the material goodness in my life. The rest is a hollow shell. I feel hollow cause I am hollow.
I have hardly any good friends left. The few remaining ones I get to see perhaps only once a month if I’m lucky. More often I don’t get to see them for months on end.
Toby and I …. eish. still not happy. it’s not working. i’ve tried to break it off so many times but it just didn’t work.
he cheated on me.. many times. i forgive him constantly. why?? cause i’m afraid of being single. cause we have build a semi-decent life together (with my money).
i want to run away from myself. can one do that?
i constantly dream of being killed, or of dying. the last dream i had like that was where i hear a noise from the front door. i open it and it’s a thief who then stabs me in the neck.
it hurt briefly but then it was bliss; i’m dead with no more responsibilities or tasks waiting on me. no more sadness. that sounds divine.
sorry.i just had to write to you. i know you’ll understand. or, i hope you’ll understand.
As I’m writing this, I have someone standing outside my door, banging to get in, trying to “evict” me. LOL. They’ve been at it for half an hour or so. I called the police, and they’re sending someone out.
Actually, I haven’t heard anything much from them now for a full minute. I saw a shadow a minute ago, but that’s been it. That, and the normal noises of people opening their doors to get outside. The funniest thing is that they got here just as I was about to leave the flat! I heard some noises, and closed the door just in time. I am dying for a cuppa, and to return the videos I rented. Argh.
Let’s see what’s gonna happen. Victor offered his help, should anything happen. Leigh-Anne tried to help, too. Thanks, honey. You’re a darling.
Well, that was a rather interesting two hours. I learned that there are some very cute Afrikaans constables out there. Some of them do have a rather wicked sense of humour, and I didn’t receive the second season of Sopranos. I’ve got seasons 1, 3-6, but not season 2. I wonder…
This was just what I needed. Some excitement. Wow. I feel alive again. Argh. Anyway. That was completely random. I’m no longer under house-arrest. The landlady threatened to evict me, even though the cops told her she’s not allowed to. The cops were excellent, especially my Afrikaans boy.
Let me know when you want to move the couch.
That’s from Cute Afrikaans boytjie. LOL. I think he really liked me!
Anyway. I’m in desperate need of a coffee. Especially now that the landlady’s daughter threatens to move in here. We’ll see about that. I doubt she will, though. Well, it’s nice to know the law is on my side. And thank Jebus for stupid landladies.
It’s Saturday 16 February, 9 days before pay day and I woke up at 5:30am. Well, I didn’t wake up this early because I’m excited that pay day is one day closer, no, sir. I normally wake up this early on a Saturday because of butterflies in my tummy: I’m gonna see my darling.
Today is different. I thought I heard someone outside the flat. I’m paranoid like that. But I became like this for a reason. I suffered 3 break ins in 2006/07.
The first time was rather funny. I got home one Sunday afternoon and noticed the DVD player is gone. I call Toby. “Hey. The DVD Player is gone. Did you take it?” I ask him. “No, why would I do that? We’ve got a DVD Player.” he says.
Now I’m perplexed. If one stays on the 6th storey, you feel rather immune to the ravages of the outside world, and this includes being burgled. Who would honestly want to scale up your building, only to take a single item? But it happened, so it has to be someone.
The second time it happened, wasn’t funny. I got home at 2am to find out that my laptop, tv set, DVD player were gone. I didn’t hesitate calling my then flatmate. “Jou ma se ****!” I shouted at him. Over and over again, I insulted him. It could not have been anyone else who took the stuff. I locked the damn security gate and there was no fucking sign of forced entry.
The third time was fucking scary. I was living with Asanda and was alone in the flat that morning when I woke up at about 4am. I still thought to myself: “Cool, now I can finish Half of a Yellow Sun!” Alas, that didn’t quite happen that morning. I didn’t wake up by myself; I actually awoke from some rather strange noises in the flat.
I was thinking to myself what to do and worried they’ll come into the bedroom. Well, I didn’t have to worry they’ll do it; they had already been inside the bedroom by that stage. The bastards took all my stuff, which were in the corner, and they threw about half of it in the lounge. They didn’t touch Asanda’s stuff. They took fuckall of hers, only my stuff. I lost memories that day. I lost my funky Swarovski earrings, which I treasured immensely. They were one of a fucking kind, those earrings. Very similar to my skanky red shoes, these earrings were so very unique, I’d be complemented about them on a daily basis. No one else had them. Or rather, no one else had ever seen earrings like those. My heart was broken. Is broken.
My not so intelligent friend, Beatrice, reckons Asanda asked some of her friends to do it. I mean, why would they not steal any of her stuff? Why only mine?
So. What did I learn from all these incidents?
- Insurance companies are stupid. I claimed for much more than just a DVD player.
- Insurance companies are stupid. I claimed for much more than just a DVD player, tv set and a laptop. Do not trust people who are substance abusers (my now ex flatmate). Just don’t.
- Insurance companies are clever. I claimed for too much and lost my insurance cover. Don’t crash at a friend/frenemy’s place too long.
I want this to work. Really. I wouldn’t spend so much time and fucking energy fretting about it if I didn’t. He’s busy, I need to deal with it. C’est tout. Finish en klaar. But I also don’t want to feel neglected. Tricky. But I do not have energy for too much D.R.A.M.A
I thought of taking up a part time job. I actually applied somewhere. A bookstore, obviously. I could really do with some extra money; my rent is astronomical. I’m also working on some shitty articles for a popular Afrikaans daily. It’ll do me good. Remember I spoke to the Editor about writing something for his newspaper? I need to use Malcolm‘s Press Card for free movies on a Thursday – I’ve only been twice. Hell, I could even ask him if I could write a review on the movies and then he can publish it… I’m even thinking of doing volunteer work. But all these are not to become busier, so as to keep up with Victor. No, I have been contemplating doing all of these for months. I’ve been meaning to join Toastmasters for years. Well, for one and a half years only.
Although it is very satisfying to come home and not to have anything to do: no art exhibition opening to attend, no book launch to mingle at and no Christian birthday partay to suffer through.
In other news
It’s V’s day. Argh. At least he sent me an email. He promised last night that he’ll try to be more communicative. I guess it’s a step in the right direction.
Tonight was supposed to be a girlie evening with my spessal fwend – Susan. But I don’t really feel like trekking all the way to her anymore. Instead, I’ll spend tonight at home. Lalita might pop in for an hour or so. If not, then it’s still cool. I’ll have myself some Pongraz then.
And then I’ll spend a couple of hours with Victor this weekend. But first I need to spend some quality time with my pwetty lady!
It was Lalita’s birthday yesterday, so she invited me and 8 934 378 other Capetonians to partay. At first, I didn’t think I’ll go; it’s exactly two weeks before pay day arrives again… and I’m practically broke.
At around 8pm , I get an sms from one of our mutual friends, let’s call her Alice. She wants to know if I’m going. I tell her, “Nah, I don’t have a lift, and I’m very broke.”
She offers to give me a lift to the partay, so we go.
After the initial introductions, we sit down – me with a veeeeeeery expensive Johnny Black: R10 more than the average price in town – and get to talking to everyone around.
Now, Lalita and Alice are both quite religious. Lalita is probably more religious than Alice, but is not as much of a Bible-basher.
So, somehow, the topic of religion got brought up and Alice mentions, in a condescending (or perhaps I was just feeling fragile, hence I thought it was rather condescending) voice that I’m an atheist. I immediately got rather defensive. It’s not the first time that she pokes fun at me for not believing. At first I joked about it, but then I got serious: “Alice, I’m gonna moer you if you say something like that again!”
Now, Alice isn’t fazed by many things, but she paled (just slightly) when I said that. Which is funny, because I have never been in a fight, ever! I wouldn’t know what to do…
But what I find so horrible is that they are allowed to mock us for not believing, yet we’re not allowed to do the same. They see their jokes as freedom of speech, but we’re not allowed to make any jokes about religious people, or about being religious.
The weirdest thing is that the girl we were in conversation with, Tracey, could possibly be described as a closet agnostic. Me and Tracey got along excellently much later on, talking about relationships and religion and … stuff such as art exhibitions, et cetera.
But I was a little freaked out by Tracey (I must’ve been feeling very fragile, or very drunk) because somehow she knew that Victor didn’t have access to a car and wasn’t really surprised when I told her his car will soon be fixed.
I dunno, but it really freaked me out. It’s as though she knew him, but didn’t want to let on that she does. Eeeek. I’m being paranoid again. I hope.
I’m in love. With a girl. She’s a girly girl, though she pretends that she’s rof-en-ombeskof. We “met” on Facebook when I joined a group that expounds on just how amazing mixed-race girls are and she was already a member.
I then took umbrage at a certain word they (coloured people) use to describe girls. I no longer have a problem – or that much of a problem – with people calling me love, sweetheart, darling, doll, chicken, chica, et cetera. But I do have a problem with that particular word – kinnes/kind. I think it’s so demeaning!
So of course we exchanged heated words! Looking back, I think she was taking the mickey out of me.
I didn’t like her and avoided her as much as I could.
Some days later, a friend request appears in my inbox. Christy now wants to be my Facebook buddy… LOL. I accepted, thinking I’ll delete her after a while.
Going through her profile, I discovered I would actually like to befriend her: she reads!! OMW. A coloured girl who reads Nietzsche is a treasure. Fuck, I don’t understand Nietzsche… She loves fashion; therefore I am naming her Christy, after Christy Turlington.
We’ve never met but we know more about each other (or is it one another?) than does most of our friends. She’s done some crazy things. Things I’m envious of. I’m starting to realise I haven’t lived yet!
Some days ago, her Facebook status update was the following: “Misses Xxxxx,Xxxxxx, Tarah And Xxxxxx a moerse hou lol bak on sunday mwah.” So very sweet!
We chat all the time. After she friend requested me on Facebook, I added her to my Gchat. And then to Mxit. Even though I no longer use Mxit.
I don’t know why, but Malcolm also added her as a friend on MyFace. So I told her to beware: he’s a playa, and a big pervert. She wrote back that she’s as big a pervert and playa!
So, Christy, if you’re reading this, and I don’t think you read blogs, this is a shout out to you. You’ve made the last couple of months tres interesting. Mwah, mwah, mwah.
You’re crazy but oh so darling. And I hope you feel better. I don’t know why you’re upset, but I can guess. You deserve someone (boy or girl, who cares) much, much, much better.
My friend Lalita is great. We don’t see each other very often, but when we do, it feels as though we saw one another just the previous day. Or week. Or something. We’re not very alike, to be honest. Methinks the only thing we have in common, is our craziness, though she sometimes think I’m the really cuckoo one!
I often invite her over for dinner. Well, I used to, when Toby and I were still an item. So this week, I was supposed to host her once more and I was counting on Victor to be there as well. He mentioned something about needing to be in Cape Town for something specific, and it would’ve been perfect timing: introduce Lalita to Victor and get her approval. Even though she’s slightly younger, she is very wise and I trust her judgement.
Alas, it was not to be. Victor was too busy at work and Lalita decided she’d much rather return all the dinner-debt and cook me supper at her place. She’s so sweet.
We got to talk about finances. It’s not really such a sensitive topic between me and Lalita. I guess she earns about the same as I do, perhaps just an extra R1000 per month, possibly an extra R1500 a month. Sad, really, when you consider I’m older, but anyway.
She reckons I should do what she does: spend R400 a week on everything. Besides rent, of course. Is this possible?? Could I honestly only spend R400 a week on everything? I’ve been used to not being able to spend any money, but it was only this month, when my finances just took a turn for the worse. I was hoping February, the month of love and romance and goetertjies, would be much, much better.
I’m not so sure. It’s not as though I gorge myself on food; I’m actually rather stingy with my spending on food. And I would be quite happy to have a sandwich or Cuppa-Soup for supper once or twice a week. Being single, I can do that. I no longer need to worry about Toby and his constant moaning.
I’m just not so sure if it’s doable. I’ll give it a shot, as an experiment. My thinking has changed, ever so slightly thanks to our conversation. Call me gullible, but perhaps she is onto something?