Please stop calling me. If you persist, I will not be held responsible for what I will do. That will entail stringing you along for the next two or three months, using you as a substitute for Victor.
You don’t want it. Hell, I don’t want it. So stop now. Please understand that when I say I am in love with someone, I really mean it. Saturday’s lunch was great. Thank you. You should’ve let me paid my bit. And good god, you should stop being so very homophobic. It isn’t endearing.
The outfit told me you tried too hard to impress. A more liberal way of thinking would’ve impressed me.
Do you want to know why I always sound miffed when you phone me? Because it’s you, not Victor who’s calling me. That’s why. Yes, it’s a terrible excuse, but I want to be honest with you.
See, I just can’t see myself with you. It’s not your lack of a job (though it certainly does not count in your favour); it’s about your attitude towards some things. The homosexual sex thing just clinched the deal for me. Surely two consenting adults are allowed to do whatever they want to? As long as it does not involve small children or animals, I’m quite happy for them to explore their sexuality.
Oh, and the reading thing. If you want to get into my pants, you’d have to learn to do better than tell me you find reading boring.
You’re a very attractive guy. I’ll admit that. And you’re rather smart, or else I would not enjoy talking to you as much as I did. But that’s about it. Oh, and you’re a great dancer. lol.
But yeah. You’re too needy. Which is funny, because I’m like that with Victor. You should’ve seen me on Friday night. 😉 It wasn’t a pretty sight. Funny, yes, certainly. Pretty? Nope.
So, anyway. This is it. No more. I have made a pledge to myself that I will not indulge in gratuitous sex any longer. And that’s all you will really be. A pretty boy with nice lips.
Fabulous! Although I think they could’ve done it sooner. Even I am a bit slow to take note of it, as MyBroadband has an article on it here. I wonder how many people fell for the iBurst promotion? I mean, come on now, paying R49 for 40Megs is a rip off that not even Telscum will inflict upon us. Or perhaps they do, in the form of paying R88 for 80Megs. But at least they spell it out quite plainly.
At first, I only noticed black women who wear shoes like these. It used to make me wonder “Why?”. I would look at their pretty outfits, and compare it to the shoes they’re wearing, and get slightly angry. Don’t ask me why.
Eventually, I started noticing this disturbing trend among white women as well. I initially thought it must be a class thing. How else to explain it?
But no, the woman I photographed this morning appears to be part of the so-called middle class. I’m pretty sure she would be able to afford R20 at her local Nanucci’s to repair the shoe’s heels. R20 is really not much to pay, right? But if R20 isn’t a lot of money to pay, why do I see so many women with heels like these? Do they just not care? Are they not uncomfortable, walking around in shoes like that? And no, I’m not just referring to emotionally, though I would be traumatized if I had to wear shoes like that. I’m talking about physically uncomfortable. Surely the shoes scrape against the pavement when they walk?
What’s more, it doesn’t look pretty. That is my biggest problem. Sure, you can’t zoom in on the photo in the way I am able to, so it doesn’t really look that bad. But, trust me, it is.
Sure, Cape Town is known as “Slaapstad” or “Aapstad” or whatever silly names you can think of. But. Surely there must be women who still take some pride in their appearance? Women for whom spending R20 to fix heels might not sound blasphemous?
(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.
Two weeks. 26th March 2008. It’s a fucking struggle.
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 have absolutely no desire to go to work today. It’ll be the same old, same old: no work to do, surf the interwebs until I’m blue and then go home.
Yawn. True, I do write for myself when I’m at work. But it shouldn’t be like that, right? I should have work, right? Problem is that it we got paid yesterday, so it’ll look pretty suspicious if I stay away from work today, no matter what good excuse I can come up with.
I need a life. I’m stalking Natasha again on Facebook. Browsing her photos. Wondering where Toby went wrong, wondering where I went wrong, wondering where everything went wrong. Iamastalker.
It’s still difficult to believe how he could fall for someone who’s probably double my size, but then again, I guess it’s not all about the outer appearances. I hope she’s making him happy. Really, I do. I didn’t make him happy.
I just couldn’t respect him. I out earned him, I thought I was smarter than him, I detested his weed smoking, I was always grumpy, he just couldn’t make me happy, no matter how hard he tried. There was always something wrong. Yes, you guessed right: I blame myself.
Only during the last couple of months did I finally realize he’ll always earn less than me and I’ll be the breadwinner. And, eventually, I started to make peace with that. But it was too late by then.
So, I doubt we’ll ever be friends, but … argh. Fuck her! (Not quite sure where that came from, promise)
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!