liver on strike

I have been a bad blogger for the past while. i would like to apologise for this.

it goes withouit saying that things have been extraordinarily insaaaaaaane! why else would i stray from my beloved place of mind-peace-keeping? but i am back now, and i shall do my very best to ‘keep it real’ in the way of writing good posts – consistently and without censorship.

the past couple of weeks have been surreal in a sense. at first, i was wanting to jump right off one of these massive skyscrapers that litter the horizon. it makes me wonder why there are so many, as i am almost certain that i am not the first to feel suicidal about having made a bad decision. but then, something happened, something inexplicable. i started to feel as though i was on holiday, and i have tried to see things in this light ever since. and i must say, this place really lends itself to this kind of thinking.

i also know that i am feeling slightly more human than before, as i managed to have my very first ‘bender’ this weekend. jisslaaaaaaik, ek se! after two whole days of being on the trot, vokda tonics on standby, i felt the pain yesterday. i was rudely awakened by feelings of absolute and utter death. not the kind that you belive will ever go away – more the kind that you truly believe in that moment will swallow you. you then go on to think about who exactly is going to discover your fermenting body in between the heaps of clothes and discarded water bottles on your bedroom floor. there is something very rob zombie about what i am trying to say, so i hope y’all are getting the picture!

after writhing on the couch in front of my new flatmate, whom i now thinks i am in need of a new liver – i came out of it. i pushed through this hangover harder than a large american football player on cheap steroids. i then felt peckish and made my way to the nearest place where i could find a snack. i saw something truly beautiful on my way to the supermarket… it was a…

A KrispyKreme doughnut shop

There is no other way to describe it but as a quasi-religious experience. I’m going there for supper tonight. chocolate-covered custard doughnut – yes please!

lost in space

There are crimes – and then there are CRIMES. This is one of them. Not only is there a typo in the name of the band, six beatles instead of five, the wrong hairstyles etc – it’s printed onto a t-shirt that is for sale at a respectable photo outlet. I find this disturbing, in massive proportions that I simply cannot describe. I stood in the shop, my mouth literally hagning off my face like a beard, trying to figure out which one is ringo. (That, by the way, is still pending – all the kids have small noses so it’s too hard to tell) Is this the level of novelty i am going to be dealing with? Because if I caught someone walking around Cape Town wearing this, I’d call the police or the neighbourhood watch or whatever. And if our cowboy-esque authirities took too long to arrive, I’d certainly deal with the matter myself by throwing eggs at the perpetrator from a moving car, or bits of wet toilet paper.

I spent a few hours of my day in the same mall where I had the displeasure of witnessing this shameful atrocity. I had to go on a recon mission for linen and a beach towel. I was inadvertently assaulted by impatient passers-by, who clearly do not understand that the trolleys do not have power steering and make for awkward movement. But it was actually the acquiring of the trolley that was a real joke. I went over to where the trolleys are kept in neat rows at the entrance of the shop, and tried my usual wrist-jiggle that normally loosens the trolley from its mates and lets me steer it onwards toward the aisles. This time, however, I was met with what i presumed to be a trolley that did not want to go on a shop tour and carry my groceries and shit. Ten minutes later, and after being stared at like a freak by passers-by, i noticed this little device:

I must give the developer ten points for ingenuity, but as far as my embarassment levels are concerned, I want to slap someone. Anyway, i shoved a dhiram into the slot and made my way through the jungle of retail victims – all who believe it’s okay to buy shit you’ll NEVER use. (I know this because I do it sometimes as well, and it’s only through close observation of this behvaiour of myself that i have managed to see how it’s a downward spiral that leaves you feeling you can’t breathe without the necessities that are not what they portray themselves to be)

And if anyone out there is reading, what do you think of these shoes? I need an opinion:

monday

Woowee! It’s been a very long and hard few days! Not becasue they have been particularly bad in any sense – they’ve just been tough on the ol’ emotions. Plus, I’m feeling a dash hung over from some very sexy Chardonnay consumed last night. Smash: if you’re out there, i am sorry for putting my foot on your throat and funnelling it down at a merciless rate! I hope you’re not feeling too much like a badger’s arse today!

Had massive fight with ‘guy who likes me in a way that irritates’ this morning. He was meant to collect me from the airport yesterday, but decided that he’d rather live it up in Stellenbosch. He rocked up at my door this morning, while I was stumbling about the flat with a hangover headache and trying to get ready on time, but not really making any headway in that department. He opened his mouth to say something, but I just closed the door in his face. I know that maybe it was rude, but so was he. Next thing, I see a letter shoved under my door, which I then read and become even more pissed off by. What, did he come up with this silly contingency plan on his way over? The handwriting ceratinly suggests that the letter could have been composed in morning traffic. The pressure of the pen to paper defintely looks like he might have been in any number of aggravating situations: traffic being one of them.

So what do I do now? I really am genuinely pissed off wth him – enough to warrant silence from me forever. The good part of myself tells me that I should ring him up and say that it’s all ok, but to be honest – I want him to feel like a giant dickhead having a bad day at high school.

4 days until I fly off to le desert. It’s geting to me now. In waves. Of anxiety that I can’t control. But it’s also the most exciting thing that’s happened for years. I think maybe the state of my bedroom is not helping things. I should tidy the jungle of dooooooooom.

Shadowplay…

 

When you can buy a beer (and a flavour that you just happen to like) for just ZAR6 – you know that life is good. It hit me quite hard, in fact, sitting with a bunch of crazy people in a dodgy bar in Cape Town, drinking this well-ppriced beer like it was juice. I am going to miss this. I am going to miss the ease of transaction. (which is only said for all things not govt. related) I am going to miss the lazy, unkempt waiters and waitresses that you somehow end up befriending just because the service is THAT bad and you can really empathise with them from your days of doing the same thing. I am going to miss how everything is just around the corner, so that when you stumble through the streets in a drunken haze, you know you don’t have far to go. I am going to miss how you can rock up at any store on the corner totally stoned out of your bean, or pissed as a coot, and the person behind the counter serving you not only doesn’t bat an eyelid, but mught even engage in some kind of quirky banter. (Kind of like: their sense of humor at 4 in the morning vs. yours)

I’ve been trying to find an opportune moment to say goodbye to ‘guy I like’, but this just seems like an absolute impossibility. I sent a text last night asking if he’d like to join me for a quiet drunk and i got a reply that pretty much told me he ‘has stopped drinking’. So i didn’t reply. he clearly thinks ill of me for my somewhat robust drinking habits, but sorry buddy, it’s too late to change now. And besides, who wants to talk about monstrous buildings when they’re sober anyway? No wonder his judgement is impaired – fucking cerebral architects and their ambiguous lives. Bleh.

So, I’ve been making up all these scenarios in my head about my mum spotting my new chop and having a seizure right there on the floor and then her fiance kicking me out of the house. She cannot, under any circumstances, get a goosy gander at this tattoo. Not that I care, but I WILL be disinherited on the spot. The trick here, I think, is to wear LOTS of clothing at all times. And scarves! There must be scarves! stripy, spotty, glittery, whatever, they’re invited! I don’t wnat to hurt her any more than I already have by choosing to bugger off to a country that she wouldn’t even ask the exterminator to banish the parktown prawns in her house to.

Again, sitting at my desk, sipping cold coffee, because it tastes better than when I think about how madly I want to get the hell out of this office. I wonder who’s going to replace me? I should write her  a set of tea-making instructions so that she at least stands a chance. I sometimes think it’s the only reason I lasted this long here – because the CD was certainly not my biggest fan. Maybe in my next life I’ll be an officer of the law, a-knocking on her trailer door to arrest her for having too many illegitemate children by Robert Mugabe (or his equal in that life). Who knows?

You might see me here again today – I am not anticipating a fun one. Also, you might see myself and Smash at theblackalbum.wordpress.com, so go check it out!

Living in South Africa: a tale

I have always tried to be optimistic about the state of South Africa today – firmly beleiveing that there was some kind of valid explanantion for the outrageous behaviour and corruption that our members of parliament and higher-up people (ahem: mr zuma, fatty selebi) so brazenly displayed (and still do display) on a day-to-day basis. I’ve thought “There must be some kind of explanation for what they’re doing, because if there isn’t, then we’re fucked!” Now, I’m not saying that optimism is a waste of time, but I do believe that we need to think more carefully about the situation as a collective of events, instead of trying to brush them off. The small things add up, people!

Here’s a prime example:

Part 1

A few weeks ago, when I found out that I was off to the desert, I understood that I would have to have my dinky diploma attested by the UAE govt. in order to have my visa all sorted. I was told that all I would have to do is go to the dept of educucation in the Cape Town city centre and have a copy stamped against an original, and then send it off to the UAE embassy. So, hopeful and happy, I set off during my lunch break and stood in the queue of this dirty, smelly, linoleum-clad hole – only to be pushed and sworn at by a crack-addled fucker wearing one flip flop and one takkie. I stuck it out, however, thinking that it would all be over soon. Not to be. I watched the resentful, incompetent, fat bastard behind the counter belittle and humiliate some of our ethnic folk in the most horrible way. And it was no different for me. he sent me packing, without much of an explanantion as to why.  I don’t mind that he fucked with me – I’m used to that by now, but the way he treated the timid people who had traveled through to town from rural areas on a mission devoted to education appalled me. Because you see, for people who do not know any better, that doos behind the counter is their last port of call before they just don’t ever bother to try and get hold of their matric certificate again. This is all they know, and this is all there is – because so-and-so’s doughnut was cold and he messed hot coffee on his minute crotch area.

Part 2

With renewed vigor, I make my way back to the department of education, again believing that I’ll get shit done, simply because I am motivtated. Not so. No matter how motivated you are, the people who work for our government are not. So I wait in the line again and get to the front – this time being served by a woman who can barely count the ten fingers attached to her hands. After talking to her through my teeth for about half an hour and trying desperately not to punch her in the dish, she agrees to put me on the phone to someone in Pretoria who can apparently ‘help’ me. Yes, of course, why would they have a single person in the entire priovince who knows WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? Why would they waste time employing people who actually know what they are doing, or even want to be doing it? That’s just unheard of? Good heavens! The nice man in Pretoria, who was patronising to a sickening degree, explained that they could not stamp my documents or issue me with any kind of approval paperwork, due to the fact that too many people are going across the waters with fraudulent papers, and that I would have to take this matter up with the NATIONAL Dept of Education. (By this time, i’m thinking that a bigger department means only one thing: more idiots) I put the telephone down and leave, defeated once again, as I try to do the right thing by getting documentation that is accurate and legitemate. I walk off into the sunset…

TO BE CONTINUED…

So what’s the deal with anxiety?

This is an idea for another tattoo in the future. This is also a means of escape. I wish I had one now – and a top-hat wearing operator who would be secretly drunk.

So, I drank some wine last night and got well pished with my very good mate Smash. (Smash, if you’re out there – it was enormous fun and I was thinking about Castle Lite in my fucking sleep!)

So, anyway, the sleep I attempted to have was fitful and frought with anxiety. So, what I’d like to know is: What’s up with all the anxiety? Am I worrying about things because it’s actually going to help the situation, or am I worrying because people can be such assholes and I just don’t want it to get to that stage. So far, in terms of preparation, I’ve had a bit of a shit time trying to squeeze blood out of the stone that is South Africa’s beauracratic system. They really are a bunch of twats. (I know there are a few competent ones out there, but your few-ness is just not cutting it right now)

Also, I have to give my Tazz up on Friday. This does not sit well with me.  We’ve been through so much together: drunken nights in Long Street where Tazz thought it was ok to kiss other cars and leave little blue marks on their shiny paint, driving along Ocean View Drive smoking spliffs and hotboxing one another, falling asleep together outside my block of flats, nice drives to Hout Bay to buy expensive bits of fancy cake, and so much more. She is the coolest, srsly, she even has a pimp chair so that my guests can chill and max out when they’re visiting us. And now I’m off to another city, leaving her in the hands of a man we barely know, to drive a fancy air-conditioned, MP3-player brandishing shiny new mobile. I am so sorry Tazz. It is hurting me too, if it means anything. I mean, how would I feel if Tazz just stopped off on the side of the road and told me “Yeah, sorry Beesus, get out. I’ve decided I’m off to the Dakar Rally for some excitement and sexy times with those endurance vehicles. They really know how to shake a leg.” I’d be devastated!

My excitement is starting to turn into a well-balanced mix of fear and sadness. It might just be the wine though. Dunno. But I’m also starting to freak out about the attire I will be taking with me. I have this mad idea in my head that I need vests that are long around the torso. You see, I am a tall girl, and my undies are always sticking out on account of me wearing the skinnies of doom. And I most certainly don’t want to be waltzng around the Emirates with my cotton specials from Woolies jutting out of my behind – I don’t know if they’ve cottoned on to ‘homeboy undie style’ yet. Must buy long tops this week. (Hate shopping)

Sitting in this office right now is really getting me down. I really feel as though I am wasting precious time. I eeven feel bad about drinking the free coffee, if you know what I mean. I just want to get the fek out of here and go run important errands. I mean, who ever says shit like that: I WANT to go run errands. This is how I know the situation is dire.

weeow weeow – oh chosen one!

 

Happy Monday to all. It is sunny, yet bitterly cold. When the weather does this kind of thing, i can only imagine that god (or whatever he is to you) is up there having a laugh in front of his giant fireplace, as he pads around in flannel socks in his fancy under-floor heated apartment. Anyway, I’m sure the man has a lot on his shoulders, so maybe i should not be so envious.

Yeah, so preparations for Dubai are going ok. I won’t lie – I am strung out to a maximum degree. I keep on having nightmares where I’ve forgotten to pack the toothbrush, or (dare I say it) have left my passport behind. But I’m comforted by the fact that these are your garden variety, run-of-the-mill concerns before traveling. No, actually, the truth is: I hate having to choose between clothes! FUCK! I’m not a poppie or anything, but it’s taken so long to collect a wardrobe that understands me, you know? I am paranoid about having to go to this slick, glossy city and having to wear designer labels, simply because there’s feck-all else to buy. This thought upsets me. If i want to look like I’m just gagging to get onto the ‘Tyra show’ i would have started making an effort years ago. I would have learnt how to walk in heels without looking like a newly-born foal, I would have learnt how to blow-dry all the hair on my head (not just the front bits and leaving the back all frizzy so look like aging comedian who just woke up drunk and), I would have learnt how to buy the right colour make-up (and not making purchase decisions based on the ‘rad packaging’). You get the idea – I’ll tell the world’s secrets for a pair of fancy sneakers! (this is a call-to-action, by the way, I’m very into high-tops at the moment – feel free to send gifts for information that could change your life)

I acquired an absoluetly splendid tattoo on the weekend. It was very painful, as it covers about 80% of my chest, which is supported by a chest cavity full of bones (I’ll never take the sternum for granted again!). As the needle was doing its thing, my arms felt like they were going to detach themselves and run off on the tips of their fingers. Yes people, tattoos are THAT sore (but Steers burgers are not THAT good - I know this from eating too many of them on countless occasions), just in case anyone is thinking about it. So when you sit down to get chopped up, you have to shut your mouth and smile, because the person holding the needle is an ARTIST, not a nurse who is supposed to quell your pain. If it hurts, you’d better damn well believe that it’s worthwhile. (provided, of course, that you have style or taste or whetever it’s called)

Ah, yes, almost forgot. Made shocking discovery this weekend: I am independent of the male species. I like knowing this. It makes me happy. (for now) So, ‘guy I like’ has taken a backseat in my mind, and i’m down with that, because I’ve been sitting in his backseat for long enough. And If I’m in the front seat, I get to make the choices at the drive-thru! (nom nom nom)

mouthing off…

Okay, I’ve had enough of this sick business. I woke up this morning with my mouth feeling like one of my brothers had snuck into my bedroom in the middle of the night and super glued my tongue to my palate. (this is not a nice feeling, I’ll tell you. ) It kind of makes you wonder whether or not you’ll be able to speak if you try. I’m guessing that all of this comes about as a result of a blocked ‘dose’ (flu-speak for nose), which results in dehydration. I have also been wondering for the past few mornings as to how many insects have made their way through my mouth, while it hangs open in an attempt to provide oxygen to my ill body.

 

You see, there are a lot of cockroaches in my flat. And these are not just any cockroaches, dear reader. These are the boldest, rudest kind I have ever had the displeasure of coming across. You try to stand on them in the kitchen, and do you know what they do? The little fuckers run after you! They chase you right back! Since when did the world start working the other way around? The last time I checked in: Humans ran after insects trying to squash them with their shoes, and the insects obediently obliged by scurrying away and then letting you squash them.  I don’t know where all this “I’m a brave insect” rubbish has come from, but I’m telling you – I WON”T HAVE IT! Because no matter how big we girls are (and some of us really are) we are far more frightened of the insect than it is of us. We are well aware that it is a non-sensical way to live, especially given our size in comparison and awesome array of shoes now available to us.  But these are no excuse when faced with vermin of such kind. (I’m sure even Julius Caesar would have said this had he made it this far)

 

I would like to propose that all readers of this blog compile a list consisting of reactions to cockroaches. Who’s in? See my weapons below…

 

 

how NOT to self-medicate!

Please see above for my current frame of mental reference…

This is no good at all. I am here, but I am not here. And today, this is even more so. By the way, ‘here’ is work. This is a place that I have already mentally left, and although I am trying to care as much as I possibly can about it, I just can’t help but daydream all day about what’s on the other side of that 9 hour flight I’m going to be taking.

 

Well, that and the fact that I am super-high on flu medication. Jayzuz, winter really is a cruel bitch. She has seeped into my lungs and has set up a giant snot factory, where squillions of little green goblins spend the day (and night) toiling away. I am beyond the polite use of 2-ply kleenex tissues; those are just too fancy at this point! I’ve started using the hard stuff: that’s right, the scratchy loo roll from the toilet roll holder at work. (How can you tell that I didn’t attend finishing school?)

 

So, here I am, slumped in my chair behind my desk, almost (just) wishing that I was hung over instead of this narky flu business.  It’s bad, maaaaan! I didn’t even manage to get after-hours work done last night – I just sat, staring at my laptop screen in congested resignation, switched it off and went to bed. Now, that’s no fun at all.

 

I have some news as well. There is a new thingy on the net called ‘Goodreads’, where you can create a profile for yourself and review and cross-review books with your ‘mates’ online. I quite like this idea, so I’ve signed up. And even though the last thing anyone needs is another profile on a desperate man’s attempts at recreating the Facebook phenomenon, I really think this is great because I might get stuck in between a bunch of twits in Dubai. And if this does happen, at least I’ll be able to debate over literature (even though it be a bit modern for my palate) online. But what I’m really trying to say is “Hey y’all, go check it out!”

 

Here’s the URL: www.goodreads.com

 

Also, if anyone out there has managed, at any stage, to jack some morphine from somewhere, I’ve got a splitting flu headache and I’m willing to give out my residential address for it. (But only for anonymous deliveries)