Hi, Miguel

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.


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

Twee Ingelsmanne


“Let’s call the whole thing off”.

This is almost what we did on Sunday. I was crying, snot en trane, on Sunday. He wants us to “talk”. Instead of just “calling it off”.

Fuck, Sunday was horrible. I am struggling to adjust to this new Victor. I really miss the old one who used to inundate me with thoughtful sms’s and emails, facebook messages and phone calls. Wow. The first month or so was amazing, this isn’t.

I miss him. And I’d be very happy if this does work out, but right now, I don’t have much hope. I’ve heard nothing from him this entire week. Instead the cute Afrikaans constable is irking me with his flood of sms’s. It’s getting pretty annoying.

Is this what Victor feels like? That I’m annoying? What a horrible thought. I really hope not. Anyway. I just needed to get that off my chest. No, I’m not feeling much better … not yet. I’ll only feel better once I’m home and chugging away a glass of vino. Oh, it also helps that I did some actual work today. I’m feeling slightly more confident at work.

And I wrote an article for the popular Afrikaans daily. Such a pity Richard can’t read Afrikaans… wanted him to proofread it for me. Yeah, I know, I’m silly for asking an Ingelsman!


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.

A little present


Got this yesterday… Haven’t had time to watch it yet. Thank you. 😉

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?

That’s my question, folks. Lee told me I should never show him (you know who) this blog. Richard reckons that he’d be damn stupid to dump me if he does ever read it. Mwah @ Richard.

What should I tell him? Should I tell him that I got fired from my job at a big retail company for stealing? It was, admittedly, a very grey area: virtual money. And it wasn’t even a lot. Should he know that my local Woolies banned me from “shopping” there? That is, until they got a new store manager and a new security guard. Should Dubbeld know how worried I am that the old manager or security guard will show up there, see me and tell me to get lost?

Just how much does my “Facebook complicated” need to know?

In late 2006 I had dinner with a friend at one of our favourite restaurants in Kloof Street. We were having a lovely time and all and all; I wasn’t worried about my Virgin Card being declined and we had a lot of catching up to do. I regaled her with my latest dating horror stories and she amused me with anecdotes about her well-endowed boyfriend.

Eventually, we asked for the bill. Our waitress stomped to our table, looked a little sheepish, and handed me a business card. I thought that perhaps it’s a talent scout who noticed my fantastic cleavage, and who wants to cast me in his latest block-buster. Alas, it was an old, old man. He was enarmoured of my dewy eyes, good skin, but most importantly, my ample cleavage.

I emailed Anton the following day: “…So why did you send your business card; why didn’t you buy us a drink instead?”

He acts surprised by my question. As if. We were supposed to meet for drinks the following week, but I just couldn’t let myself go: he’s old, fat and fucking ugly! This happened a couple of times and then finally I relented. He took me to The Codfather in Camps Bay – fuck, now it’s forever tainted with his memory, and then proceeded to give me R200 for food when I got out of his krok later that evening. I didn’t want it; he insisted. Fuck.

Men were always trying to save me back then. But as soon as they find out just how much saving I really need, they fuck off.

We went out once or twice after that, but nothing ever came of it. I told him I’m only interested in friendship, nothing else. He wasn’t pleased with that and tried to get me to reconsider. I didn’t, but still kept in touch once a month or so.

Fast forward a couple of months and I’m once again without a job and on the verge of being evicted. I phoned Anton, asked him if his offer to put me up should anything ever happen to me, is still standing. I didn’t even bother asking about his offer to sponsor my University Fees… He hesitates for a bit, then tells me that yes, it’s still standing. I tell him “…good, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Some random Gumtree guy had given me enough money – R800 – to afford a moving company’s services just two days prior to that phone call to Anton. So I thought I was sorted.

Ha! I moved in on that particular day and exactly one and a half weeks later he kicks me out. He cited my messiness as reason. I reckon that one and a half weeks I stayed with him were some of the most fucking soul destroying days I ever experienced: I was far away from my familiar haunts; I was out of job; my money was fast running out and I had very little motivation to find a new job. The deal was that I could stay there for as long as I needed, yes, even if I wanted to study. Oh well.

I’m glad he kicked me out. Really, I am. I still find it difficult to believe that I thought he would treat me with respect. I wasn’t even allowed to watch videos on my iPod, and he played music throughout the night. He had a maid but he expected me to clean up his mess, especially the fucking carpet. Whenever I go anywhere I had to explain myself. He even once made me sleep on the kitchen floor when he had a girl over… But please don’t think we shared a bed. No, we didn’t. I moved in with my bed, bookcase and everything else bar my white items.

Perhaps I’m casting myself in a very favourable light; perhaps I gave him too much grief. It was, after all, a bachelor flat. But. I was desperate. Anywhere would have been better than on the street. I didn’t really want to become a larnie bergie. Even though that fictional experience would have given me much material for my forthcoming best-sellers.

I don’t know why I’m sharing this. Perhaps I want to get it out of my system. Perhaps I want to warn myself not to ever trust anyone again. Perhaps I want to tell myself … oh fuck it.

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!