This is what I got. Laurika Rauch’s 19 Treffers van 21 jaar. I love it, I love it, I love it! I got it last night at Musica. Was listening intermittently while watching The West Wing, which is my current obsession.

It brings back fond memories of the early nineties, when I would watch television and Wielie Walie or Liewe Heksie would be punctuated with ad breaks featuring Ms. Rauch’s music. My all-time favourite song? Mmmkay. It’s Stuur groete aan Mannetjies Roux. I’m not quite sure what makes this song so special. Back then I didn’t even realise how sad it is. I only liked the cadence.

But now I listen to the CD with a more mature ear and I marvel at her wonderful words. It’s lovely. I think I’ll buy an Afrikaans CD every couple of months or so. God, it’s fabulous.


…that I feel happiest when I think of dying.

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.

Two weeks. 26th March 2008. It’s a fucking struggle.


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.


I don’t think I can do “dating” again. I’ve been on so many dates, most of which were awful. A big number of them turned out to be non-dates.

Take Young Jewish Guy for example. We met on JDate. Yeah, I’m a wanna be Jew. He made it quite clear that he’s a student. I was fine with that. I made it quite clear that I’m not exactly white, and that I’m not exactly Kosher. He was fine with that.

I didn’t, however, realise that Cape Town is a fucking fishing village, and that he’d probably know Toby. Fuck number one. Half an hour before our coffee date, I spoke to Toby (this was in 2006, btw) and told him I’m going to meet Young Jewish Guy. Toby snickered and told me Young Jewish Guy is a prick.

I didn’t believe him. Young Jewish Guy phoned me ten minutes before we were supposed to meet, telling me some of his friends had decided to see a movie, and would I like to join them? I was really keen to meet him, so said “Yeah, sure” and skipped to the movie house. It was around the corner from where I was waiting. Working, sorry.

I got there and saw that Young Jewish Guy is balding, short and fat. I can do two of the three; I can’t do a menage a trois. In fact, I have done two of the three before, and it didn’t bother me too much. But all three? Eeeew.

Determined to be pleasant, I sauntered up to the little group, noticed that he’s drinking white wine out of a plastic (or foam, I can’t really remember which) cup, and introduced myself to him. Oh, I forget, Glen was with me. He spotted Young Jewish Guy in the crowd. Glen decided he’s not going to waste a lovely Friday night protecting me from whatever imaginary evils are lurking there, so he left. I stood next to Young Jewish Guy and his friends, we chatted for a bit until Young Jewish Guy casually asked me if I would mind paying my own ticket.

I gritted my teeth, gave him my best voice-dripping-with-sarcasm, opened my wallet, and darted to the booth to pay for my ticket when I realised I shouldn’t have to pay for anything on the first date.

He shouldn’t fucking expect me to 1) pay anything, 2) have to mingle with his dorky friends, 3) watch him drink wine out of a plastic (or foam, I can’t remember which) cup and 4) date a short, fat, bald guy.

So I told him that actually, I have a slight headache and could I take a rain cheque, please? He looked absolutely dejected. I nearly felt bad, but another look at the plastic (or foam) cup, and I steeled myself. I bid them a pleasant evening, and ran to catch up with Glen, who was already way ahead of me.

I’m sure there are great men out there. But they’re married. Or gay. Or emotionally unavailable. Or all three. So for now, I’ll just remain as comfortably numb as I am and worry about where I’ll sleep tonight.

There are some stuff happening right now that’s a bit much for me to handle. I can feel things may slide back into a maelstrom if I don’t stop it …

But do I want to stop it?

I saw two good friends today. Uri and my darling Glen. It’s the first time in months that I saw Glen again (fucking dodgy grammar, please find it in your heart to forgive me). And I was able to vent to Glen about some of the kak that is hitting my fan at the mo. Uri, well, I kept mum. It’s not as though he won’t understand, but he’s so good at pinpointing what’s wrong, it makes me want to cry. Argh. And I hate crying when I’m wearing mascara.

So I bought myself some pwetty things to make my heart sparkle again. I got new skanky red shoes yesterday already. They’re my new fuck me shoes. Every girl should have a pair of FMSs. Today I got new jeans. From Edgars, nogals. But they’re no-name jeans; I don’t do labels. I’m a label snob. It makes me look thin and pwetty! I’m so very thrilled with myself.

And then I got some new red wine glasses at Clicks. I’m far too easy to please. I don’t have to spend a lot of money; I spent R200 on the jeans and the shoes. Only!

Yes, I know I shouldn’t use shopping as therapy. Yes, I should tackle my problems instead of dodging them. But what if I just can’t? What if I’m having nightmares from them? What if my paranoia is so bad I refuse to believe what people tell me? Who can help me?

I’m pregnant


No, I’m not. LOL. But.

I’m bored. Of life. Of myself. I need some excitement.

So I’m planning a getaway of sorts. Two weeks, possibly a full month. It’ll do me good and it’ll probably give me some perspective on a lot of things. I need that.

I’ll put my furniture in storage and hitchhike across SA. Fine, then, I won’t hitchhike. But I need some sort of adventure. Anything.

Right now.

I want to touch


Fuck. Steve Jobs is da man. I just now read on IOL about the new iTouch. I then did a search for other news on the iTouch on the interwebs, but only found the same regurgitated press releases.

I’ve been traipsing to my local Incredible Connections store for the last couple of weeks, admiring the sleek iTouch, touching it, prodding it, fingering it. LOL. I’m disgusting.

I have fallen in love! Besides the astronomical price tag, I was also put off by the memory storage: a measly 16GB for the upper-end model, and a pathetic 8GB on the smaller model. My current iPod is the standard 30GB video and I have almost run out of space. Another 6GB and I’m screwed. And I have less than 3000 songs on it… I blame the porn…

So now we’re waiting on the superb 32GB Jobsian wonder to arrive in Efrika. But who would be able to afford it at $499?? Or rather, I’m sure they’ll push up the price just ever so slightly to “accommodate” us Efrikans. Just slightly, hey?

I paid a visit to my parents recently. They were pleased to see me, I think. I don’t see them very often; only ever couple of months or so. Now, the previous time I paid them a visit (dodgy grammar, I’m so sorry), I had Victor with me. We were in the area; why not go visit them?

He spoke Afrikaans to them, even though he is very much English. I thought it was sweet of him; never mind that he speaks Afrikaans very often, almost on a daily basis. I don’t have any difficulty understanding him – bar his dodgy grammar and his reluctance to use the Afrikaans double negative! – so I didn’t think they would have.

Even more surprising was when I noticed him quietly chatting to my mother just before we left an hour later. We didn’t stay long; it was almost dark and we still wanted some hanky panky during the daylight hours…

So, yesterday, I had a chance to speak to my ma-goed. I asked her what’s her – admittedly very brief – opinion on Victor. She couldn’t really say anything and declined to comment. (Ha! I make her sound like a celebrity!)

My sister finally said what was on my mom’s mind: he mumbles when he speaks. Now, this isn’t such a big deal to me; I also mumble. Ek praat binnensmonds. And I’m far worse than him, actually. They’re used to me; they’re not used to him yet, which is why they find it difficult to understand him, methinks.

But I’m sure that’s not the only reason they’re not too keen on poor Victor. I’m just too scared to ask.

But. And this is a rather big but. My paternal grandparents weren’t too keen on my stepdad when he was courting my mom and even when they were already married for a couple of years.

They kept gossiping¬† about how very stupid and very Bushman-like he is! Well, dear reader, my parents have been married for over 20 years. So parents are not always right. Or are they? As long as I’m happy with him …

  • He reads
  • He thinks I’m amazing
  • He can cook – even if it’s only bean curries and bunny chows thus far…
  • He can talk about just any subject with authority
  • I think he is gorgeous
  • We’re sexually compatible … mostly
  • He makes me feel valued and feminine and clever and treasured
  • He isn’t a pauper

Nuff said!