Faux-fanatic chicks rule! But I rule more.

Messi: It’s a state of mind rather that a state of room.

MUD! Glorious mud! Ew. Get it off me.

Know what I mean boys? *wink

FUCK THAT. I don’t know what I mean. I can recite the names of all the football players in most of the FA leagues (except whatever team my love interest supports cos wow do they suck), but don’t ask me to actually play a minute of football or run around a field because I’m too busy pretending to be way cooler than all the other girls out there.

But sure, I’ll get a beer at the bar with all my guy friends. I’ll even throw in a spot of girlfriend teasing for free. Actually, he may think it’s free, but he doesn’t know the shit-storm he’s headed into. Let me break it down for you:


1: I will be nice. Maintaining this sugary sweet demeanour is imperative to my cunning plan.
2: I’ll compliment you on your outfit: “I LOVE these shoes; I can never wear such pretty things due to my man-like clumsiness.”
3: I’ll casually enquire about your boyfriend’s friends: “How long have you known Jack? Oh, me and Jack go WAY back! Hahaha, the rhyming was pure accident! Haha. I kill me”. This will disarm you and your belief that you are the only girl (of importance) amongst the men in the group.
4: I am going to tell a very funny inside joke. All the boys will chuckle. I will roll on the floor with laughter, the more I exaggerate, the better. You will start doubting yourself and your standing. Perfect.
5: I am going to ‘talk shop’ for a while, mostly about this fantasy football league I’ve entered and why I’ve chosen more players from Arsenal than Liverpool. You, meanwhile, will be playing with the water droplets forming on the glass of your Mai-Tai. (Seriously, a Mai-Tai? You make this too easy)
6: Your obvious loss of interest is growing. I will choose this moment to point it out. You’ll say you have no interest in football, F1, rugby, whatever. I’ll say that I couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t!
7: I will talk to your boyfriend for the rest of the evening.

The thing is, even though he’s talking to me, he’s leaving with you. I will never understand why he finds you more attractive. I drink like a dude, I eat like a dude, I watch all the right sports, given more time I could be the ULTIMATE dude…

Wait… where’s my lipgloss?

All this pretending is wreaking havoc on my beauty regimen!


I am a snooty shop assistant

Hi! How may I help you?

… Is what I would say if I wasn’t too busy being a bitch to give a damn

Listen lady, I know you think you have a right to walk into my store and peruse my damn merchandise, but you don’t. I spent all of five minutes flat-packing that pile of cashmere tights and you’re just disturbing my hard work with your indecisiveness. Don’t you know how chunky you are? The only way you’d look good in cashmere is if you used the paper bag as a headdress and threw yourself off a cliff.

I do not deem you worthy.

And what makes you think you can afford this stuff anyway? This kind of tailoring combined with this fabric… Oh wait, here’s my manager. Crap… say something helpful… shit shit. YES!

“That dress is STUNNING, why don’t you try it on? Sure, I’ll watch your Mr Price bags, don’t worry!”

Cue fake smile. Hold for 15 seconds. Make sure manager has watched demonstration. De-commencing forced niceties in 5… 4… 3… 2…

I bet that dress would look frumpy on you. I practically made sure of it by sending you to the changing room with the fat-adding mirror. Please, don’t bother asking me how it works, this is very technical stuff.

Can I help you find the right size? Not a fuck! Is it on the rack? Is it on the pile? No? THAT’S BECAUSE IT ISN’T HERE! It’s probably in the back somewhere and I’m too lazy to get it for you. I won’t even bother mentioning that I can order it from another branch because looking at the computer would mean I have to stop looking at you with my bitch-face on.

Oh! Have you chosen something? After 20 minutes in this store I damn well hope so. No, the red sticker does not mean that this item is on sale, I just put it there to mess with you. Haha!

As I fold your purchases, longingly… lovingly. I will say goodbye to the sweet lace dress I imagined would be mine. I’m sorry I have to send you away with this cretin, dress. Just know that I will miss you. *Sniff

So what if you have a real job and this dress is worth more than I will make in a month? I have something you will never have: The secret of the fat-adding mirror and the ability to spot a nada from a Prada!

You have a lovely day now. I’ll enjoy bitching about you when I’m on lunch with my friend that works at the MAC counter.

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If this post were any more hip, it would be wearing a skirt.


It’s been so long since I’ve last posted, my blog is practically underground. Why, Mainstream (that’s you, by the way), because I’ve been too busy bathing in golden afternoon light, drinking at that coffee shop with a particular air of pretentiousness and filtering my amateur (albeit ridiculously artistic) pictures of arb objects to worry about such carnal frivolities.

Blogging = Self loving = Carnal Frivolity.

In fact, I do not partake in any carnal frivolities. My dress sense does not hint at the slightest bit of sensuality, just try finding my boobs under this vintage waterfall t shirt, I dare you.

Expensive brands? NO WAY HOMIE. I fashion my own wares. I call this one “Whimsical”:

 Notice how I avoid eye contact? I’m portraying “ethereal” which is just a lank fancy term for “too good for you”. Please, don’t ask me why I’m wearing pointless knee pads, if you have to ask, it means that you have no hope of being as awesome as I am.

See this? This is what awesome looks like.

Sometimes I dabble in music. By dabbling, I mean collecting names of pointless bands that sound a lot like another famous band but are too busy rolling in grass and drinking conflict free green tea to bother with pointless things like making money.

Money? Who needs money? Who needs a career? I am an adventurer of life. I write my poetry on coffee stained napkins and throw them to the wind!

I’d recite a poem here but I threw all my napkins away and frankly, I don’t think you’d get it.

Have you lived, Mainstream? I mean, really lived? Have you ever looked at the clouds with the soundtrack of Simon & Garfunkel playing in the background? They made some good shit, those Simon and Garfunkel fellows. So unlike this poppy, flashy trash that you hear on the radio. I don’t even own a radio, I just make mixed tapes. Don’t ask me for a copy, I’ll cut you with the splinters from my wooden iPad case. But listen, cut down on the voilence please, this is not an xBox game. The only game I play is the game of life, and I’m so winning. Not that I care about winning…

Gravity doesn’t even phase me. Just look at this lovely photo. Does it look like I’m concerned about that pendant hitting my face? HELL NO! All I care about is the feel of the wind through my recently washed (organic avocado shampoo only please) hair.

You know who really had it going on? Those people from the 70’s. They’re like, totally my idols, or something… If I allowed myself to have idols.

I don’t even watch that crappy Idols show on MNet, that’s how anti-idol I am. Your life just sickens me, Mainstream. I can’t even stand to blog at you right now.

Hey… your dad is from the 70’s…

Is he single?

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I love call centre agents… *swoon*

A long long time ago, I had the fortunate luck of working in a call centre. Fresh out of  university, this was the only job I could find with my limited work experience, so I was not complaining… Yet.

It was difficult. The hours were long, my conversational armoury was devoid of chit-chat and to top it off, I have the voice of a little girl (I know this for a fact because one of the customers asked me what grade I was in and whether my parents knew I was using the phone). I was very put out afterward, I decided not to speak to anyone for a week, except at work because I got paid to do so. The speaking I did at work outweighed the speaking I did out of work so this was a very moot exercise.

That said, I’m generally empathetic towards Call Centre agents but I loathe receiving calls from them. I feel like I’m on the Call Centre Agents Association most wanted list.

I'm Dustin. I'm here to make a mockery of your existence.

Typical conversation between me and a CCA:
CCA: “Hi, this is X from YZandBullshit Incorporated”
Me: *Shame, a call centre agent. I know how difficult their lives are. I shall be nice to this fine fellow (Because I think in an old British  accent, evidently)*
“Hi, this is ChocMilk from Planet Earth”
CCA: “…”
CCA: “I’ve called to tell you about an amazing opportunity that your friend Bla thought you might be interested in”
Me: *Bla, she’s a really good friend of mine, she wouldn’t give my number out to just ANYONE*
“Go on…”
CCA: “ Great, well, we at YZandBullshit Inc are offering some amazing discount vouchers that you could use when you go out for dinner with, say, your boyfriend”
Me: *It’s very presumptuous to think I even have one, what if I had a girlfriend and interjected to correct him? Wait… I totally should interject! WOOO! CURVEBALL!*
“I don…”
CCA: “Awesome! Now, you may be wondering….”
Me: -zones out-
2 minutes later

CCA: “… and all that for just R95 a month! How does that sound?”
Me: *Shit! I just made him recite that whole speech. I know that doing so takes a great deal of effort and builds a false sense of WIN! I should have cut the call when I had the chance! I SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM THAT I AM A LESBIAN! Fuck. FUCK!*
“Great but I don’t think I have my banking details on me…”
CCA: “Not a problem, I’ll call you at another time”

And he did – multiply. Even though I avoided calls from private numbers for days afterwards, he managed to break through my barrier and make me feel even more guilty by saying that he realises how very busy I am…
As a result, I have to give him 5 recommendations – of close friends that may be interested too.
Not only do I have to suffer through the pain of speaking to him again, I have to bring my friends down with me and they will hate me for it and I will be alone and I’ll have to get a dozen cats and my house will smell of tuna and the kids in the neighbourhood will refer to me as ‘that crazy cat lady’ and when the kids in the neighbourhood tell tales of my infamous lack of sanity, they will say that I was brought down by a call centre agent.

That’s the very last time I let a call centre agent assume that I am heterosexual.

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I don’t love you, dear reader.

I would like to say that I don’t blog because I’m too busy. I could even settle for ‘I have no drama to blog about’, but; with 2 break-up/make-ups, pending parental divorce, the wallowing pit of depression that is unemployment, a quarter life crisis AND absolute elation in finding my way out – my life is anything but drama-less. The fact is, my mind is a plethora of highs and lows just waiting to splatter itself on a screen and wiggle their way into the innocent mind of my reader.

Readers: THAT is the problem. I used to enjoy writing when nobody read my blog, offering sexual favours to my bf if he promised to. Social media erupted and when I decided to leak my blog on twitter, I was taking a leap of faith. A faith that people would see my work for what it was, ramblings from a nonsensical girl on their screen. We shared good times, uplifting ones even. Now that I have regular visitors, I find myself re-thinking the amount of crap I want to share. Unfortunately, this is entirely my fault. I started writing in a clever/sarcastic tone and assumed the reader would pick up on my breadcrumb trail. I have raised the monkey bar for myself and I’m afraid I can’t reach it.

My blog writing process:

I think I have blog writing performance anxiety.

If I was a dude, I’d totally suck at it.


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ChocMilk: On being 25.

I have been on this Earth for exactly 25 years, 1 month and 13 days. At this point in my life, I would have made a serious impact on those around me, my career and my  environment, right? Right? Wrong.

Fresh out of high school, with my optimistically pink-hued shades and training bra, the future I had envisioned for myself was like something from a prime time show about a successful 25ish female with spidery eyelashes, high heels and a glamorous air that wreaked of romance and mystery. Truth is, I would have been utterly dismayed with that kind of life, and even though my glamorous airs are purchased and smell like Escada, I’d rather have it this way than another. I may not have a prime-time worthy life right now, but , after careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that knowing what I know now might have made me considerably more boring.

Things I would have never predicted to happen when I was 17, but did.

I can’t watch porn.
Let me just get this out there, I have never watched porn with company, I can’t even watch a sex scene without feeling the need to disguise the fact that my cheeks are getting flushed with embarrassment. So, on the listless Sunday that Nick suggested we watch some (boys, I don’t get it) I was hyperventilating under my rapidly warming cool exterior.

Me: (thinking) “What do I do in this situation? Look sexy? Do I even know what that looks like? I need a mirror. ZOMG that guy looks douchebaggy. Do I really have to watch him do that? There’s no way those could be real”

Me to Nick:  “There’s no way those could be real”

Nick: “He seems to like them”

That summarises the whole 5 minutes I spent watching porn. As is fashionable, women of my age are supposed to be ‘sexually liberated’ and I thought I had crossed that line the moment I bought condoms from a garage at 2am. NO. They don’t show that part in Sex and the City. I feel inadequate. I should watch some porn.

After 25 years, I still know jack-shit about relationships.
Post hight school, I got into a hot and heavy tête-à-tête with a to-be-accountant. He was the alpha to my beta, the present value that would result in favourable time value of money outputs, regardless of the inflation constant. I was with him for 5 years and barely escaped impending nuptials with my sanity intact. I needed to grow up before I decided to have 2.5 children and a joint bank account. But, even after all this drama, I will never be prepared for new love affairs and I’ve decided that I prefer it that way.

I’m too old for this shit.
Rather, I’m ecstatic that I don’t have to do this, ever again:

  • Two minute noodles
  • Inflatable mattresses
  • Justin Beiber
  • Loud ‘woooo’ noises
  • Glitter anything
  • Scrapbooking

It’s okay to say no.

I am not my degree
When I decided on my career choice, I was 17. I liked the Backstreet Boys and belly tops. What does that girl decide to do with her life? Study finance! Obviously. Oh, my misguided youth… I don’t regret my career choice at all, I just wish I had a bit more exposure to the choices available. I am not my degree any more than blogging makes me a successful writer. It’s never too late to re-invent, it’s the whittling down on choices that’s the mind-bending part.

On winning the lottery
As opposed to several years ago, I won’t spendit all on one massive shopping spree. Also, actually buying a lottery ticket is imperative to winning it.

I don’t want to take over the world anymore
I’d have to wear lycra and come up with a name, an evil laugh and group classifications for my army of minions. Actually, I do have all of the above, except for the lycra.


Writing about my personal life isn’t as tacky as I thought.
In fact, I’m finding this rather therapeutic 🙂

I still feel like I’m a few inches too short to get on the rollercoaster ride, but, at least I wear big-girl bras now!

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Is there a party in your pants? Because I want in.

Valentines day. It’s like cleavage day only way more expensive. Unless you’re one of those people that are blessed with perfect gravity defying D cups or listen to Bono. I know right, no-one cares about Bono.

The origins of Valentines Day date back to 496 AD, a celebration of love, red roses and things that go ‘bump’ in the night. Or in the day, some people are into that. The commercialisation of this event happened many centuries later (in 1797) and has resulted in a boom of massed produced soppy declarations of love/adoration/hate/I’mjustsendingthistoyouhopingthatitwillhelpmegetlaid.

I know what you’re thinking.

But I hate Valentines Day Virginia! Why should I give a damn about your crappy blog post?

Firstly, my name is not Virginia. Secondly, that is a lie. You love Valentines Day. You want the tasteless candy and the tacky cards. You want someone to tell you that the mere sight of you turns them into little puddles of scmaltz. I know this, and as hard as you press that submit button, seconds away from spewing your distaste about it on twitter, you know it too. I don’t care. I don’t judge. I have no boobs and a pathalogical hate for Bono, you’re safe with me. I’m writing this blog post for you, because I care.

3 Valentines gift ideas that don’t entirely suck.

Something for everyone.

Sometimes feel I like that Leona Lewis song. Only tastier and more anatomically correct. I want to convey my affections in a way that’s both gross and educational at the same time.

This Giant Bleeding Heart Gummy Candy isn’t for the squeamish. We’ve had them custom-made just for you. Each yummy gummy is loaded with special extra goodies inside – squishy candies full of liquid blood candy. That’s right; this heart bleeds when you eat it. And just so you can make sure to make the best impression (and biggest mess) possible, we’ve added an extra little vial of liquid blood candy. Because there’s no better way to say, “I love you,” than with a Giant Bleeding Heart Gummy Candy.

You can get it here – http://www.thinkgeek.com/interests/valentines/d19a

Something for the boys.

Virginia, I’m a cautious soul, how do I make sure my man and his package are safe at all times?

Sadly, there is no fool-proof way for ensuring the well-being of any man, let alone yours. The least you can do is protect him from 3rd degree burns and let him know how much you care at the same time. Forget silky boxers and tighty-whiteys, fire resistant underwear are all the rage these days. Maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to post this picture. This is just an example, there is no limit to your creativity. I, for one, prefer a print similar to that of the Starfleet Command uniforms or something darker like skulls and bones and lolcats. What? Lolcats are evil. Also, this could double as something he could wear to make your toasted cheese sandwiches for breakfast. I know, this picture is awesome. Good luck getting this out of your dreams tonight.

Something for the girls.

Virginia, lingerie is nice, but it does get a bit boring sometimes what with all them ribbons and buttons and things with clasps THAT REALLY DON’T COME APART AS EASILY AS THEY SHOULD. I want to get her something special that both her and I enjoy.

Easy. Vajazzle. No, it’s not a dance MC Hammer does. It is a process in which a lady bedazzles her area, post waxing, with swarovski crystals in a shape of her choice. Recommended by sinful ladies such as Jeniffer Love Hewitt, vajazzling may bring some illumination into your love life, or just shine like a disco ball.

Cindy Barshop of Completely Bare hi-tech spas in NYC has offered this shizzle of a vagazzle since 2000; first an ouchless Brazilian wax (everything removed) followed by a Swarovski crystal tattoo design in a starburst, butterfly, heart, or numerous other shapes. “Hip, trendy and confident women like Jennifer get this done,” says Barshop. “It’s like buying a new pair of lingerie or getting a mani/pedi. It’s a feel-good service…and men LOVE it on women. They love it even more when it’s a surprise.” http://bit.ly/dy3NIz

I’ve tried to google images of this, for the sake of my reader I swear! Alas, such a picture does not exist so I’ve had to meticulously Photoshop a sparkly heart on some porn star’s lady area, such in the level of dedication I have to you and to the integrity of this blog. You are welcome.

Also, please stop calling me Virginia.

Schwoar Harold! That zombie almost looks real!

Date: 31/12/2011

The world celebrates the dawn of a new year. Jocks, hotties and other semi-cool people are celebrating with copious amounts of alcohol, karaoke, dancing and picture taking. Almost everyone is doing it, even that Joey guy from Friends. Whatever happened to him anyway? Oh, no-one cares about Joey, his hair doesn’t glisten half as much as Rachel’s. Damn that Rachel.

Somewhere, in the basements/attics/3rd bedrooms of parent’s houses around the world, sits lonely late-20-somethings,  frenzied with scouring the internet for hentai porn, playing World of Warcraft or homing in on their Guitar Hero skills. These people are the scourge of society, your boss or that guy you’ve been flirting with for over a month – ladykiller765.

In the midst of their revelry, something tragic happens to all the socialites of the world. Dr X, an evil mastermind tripping on peyote, accidentally transmits an ultra high frequency sound-wave that triggers a part of people’s brains that turns them into FLESH EATING ZOMBIES. Unawares to the mayhem occurring around them, the nerds, geeks and miscellaneous misfits remain unaffected, safe within the protective layer of their noise canceling headphones. I know what you’re thinking. What about the deaf people Miss blog writer person? You doubt the genius of Mr X. Don’t get all stroppy with me!

The fate of humanity lies in the hands of ladykiller765 and the like. Who will save our species? Who will boldly go where none have gone before? Who will turn off the LHC? Who will blog about the event?


One whose IQ exceeds his weight. Places much value on learning the technicalities on almost every subject without feeling the need to put this knowledge into practice. Ignored by society, the nerd becomes a hermit, sharing his thoughts with a select group of individuals, usually using the internet as a medium of communication. Nerds have little to no social skills, possibly eliminating the likelihood of procreation through ‘traditional’ means. The nerd is ill-equipped to defend himself, though is not a novice in terms of knowing what it’s like to be a victim. This may or may not be considered as an advantage. Easily identifiable by his attire, demeanor and reliance on medical apparatuses which often leads to him being the butt-end of the joke. Unless the zombies have a wicked sense of humour and an acute case of  jock-syndrome, it is unlikely that the nerd will be the victor, though he will be able to explain his demise in clinical detail.

Not necessarily as smart as a nerd. One that puts on the façade of superior intelligence through  fixating on a certain type of genre that does not fall within social norms. Not as inept as his nerdy counterparts, the geek’s social prowess ranges from zero-Pete Cashmore. The geek is able to use his technical skills to his advantage, depending on his chosen genre. Therefore, a fitness geek might be more capable to defend himself than a portable geek, a special-effects geek might get too distracted by the realism of the zombies, missing the opportunity to flee or a die-hard video game geek might know all the tricks of the trade.  Most geeks possess a certain amount of sex appeal. Disguised as ‘the dark silent type’, they are able to find a mate in many social settings and even online, either using their natural talents or through acquired knowledge, example: The Game by Neil Strauss.

I don’t know about you, but my money is definitely on the geek. A geek is most likely to survive, find a mate, procreate and continue the species, one well thought out role playing adventure at a time. Although the future generations might be very elitist, it does look bright enough for us to forgive Dr X’s slip-up with the sparkly cactus. In fact, if such a situation were to occur, the future would most likely be run by an operating system, have a soundtrack featuring at least one synthesizer and we’d be able to hyper-jump through the space-time continuum with one click on our i-Pods attached to our jet packs.

Many thanks to the lovely twitter people for all your help in my, at the time, absolutely pointless research. Especially to @LeeAnneOlfsen and @NickJackson for your meticulous proof-reading 🙂

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Like sands through the hourglass…

average-housewife-afternoon-soap-operaI like sordid. In fact, I revel in it. This is mostly due to the fact that I’ve watched cheap soap operas whilst in my impressionable teenage years. I adored Taylor, Brooke, Sammy, Carrie and the other soap opera babes. All of them… It was only during my cynical early adulthood that I realised what they were – ‘Ambitious women that achieve their goals through questionable means’, otherwise referred to as whores, skanks, slappers, tarts, ho’s and sluts. I know, it’s easy to give them all a label and you think that any of those words apply. Wrong! There are intrinsic differences, subtle and equally dirty, but differences nonetheless.


Bio: In many cultures, they are referred to as the fore mothers of the modern variants we see frequenting our daily lives, labelled as such by those that prefer to use Old English to define them. Often portrayed as the most vulgar of them all, these women conduct daily life making a living through means of prostitution or stealing husbands. Once their acts are vindicated, they become martyrs, often seeking solace in exotic places such as Babylon or upon silk sheets in hotels along the French riviera.
Habitat: The whore is a nomad by nature, moving to places that allude to offering them wealth, though inclined to settle once their materialistic needs are fulfilled.
Mating habits: The whore uses sex as a trade, through a voluntary process, weighing her outputs against the value of her actions.

Bio: One of lower class, predominantly found in trailer parks or on the arm of Dennis Rodman. Often viewed as dirty, displaying a lack of personal hygiene and complete disregard for the condition of her skin. May be considered to be less beautiful than her peers. Also, a type of dance that white people do.
Habitat: A native of trailer parks, abandoned high-rise buildings and the back of Ford Cortinas.
Sexual habits: Elusive, often conducted in dark corners. Their sexual partners tend to deny any involvement, often evading questions through a semblance of logic. Ex: “I’d never sleep with her, she’s fugly”.


Bio: A party animal. A frequenter of bars, parties, clubs and pubs. That hot girl that’s a friend of a friend of Joe’s cousin who denied you the pleasure of her company and you’ve secretly been lusting after her since then. In it for the good times. Mostly considered as easy when under the influence of alcohol. Uses the power of suggestion to get what she wants without actually keeping to her promises.
Habitat: Trendy nightspots such as Manhattan and The Baron. Photographic evidence usually documented on Thunda.com, later tagged on Facebook.
Sexual habits: It seems as if she’ll do anyone except you.

Bio: A type of confectionery. Easily identified by her bubbly personality and/or complete lack of brain activity. A serial flirt by nature, the Tart manages to get a lot of attention through very little use of thinkery. Mainly used as a derogatory term amongst older woman of English heritage.
Habitat: Your mom’s tea party/braai, often engaged in conversation with the husband of that bitch Maude, whilst her friends stare at her in aplomb.
Sexual habits: A Tart will deny that she’s ever slept with your husband. You will believe her because she’ll do it in a very ditsy manner. Even if you could prove it, you would never allow yourself to believe that you got ousted by someone perceived to be less intelligent than you.

Bio: A product of hip hop. Not restricted to gender (see man ho’s and faux ho’s). Not necessarily a derogatory term. Created for means of use in rap songs. Words that rhyme with ho: mo’, fo sho’, blow, dough. A ho is a product, usually starting out as a shawty then yo’ girl then yo’ baby mamma and finally, a ho, when she demands alimony.
Habitat: Different area codes.
Sexual Habits: Usually sleeps with rap stars, older women of elaborate means and yo baby daddy.

pic4smBio: Usually sleeps with anyone as long as they flatter her ego. A woman with the morals of a man.
Habitat: They’re everywhere. Capable of adapting in the most harsh of environments. The Slut is also mobile through means of paying for lifts with sexual favours.
Sexual Habits: Anywhere. Any time. Any place. What? Did you just tell me that I’m beautiful? *pounces*

I must admit, defining these terms took a while and was very difficult at first, but I had lots of fun attempting to. Thanks to those that pushed me to write it. Slappers, the bunch of you.

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Sent from my smart phone.

I know what you’re thinking, not another social media article. Truthfully, I agree, we’ve reached the stage where no-one cares about articles on how to increase the girth of your social media profile. Also, no-one actually uses the word girth in normal conversation. I bet you’re about the google the definition of the word ‘girth’ right now.

Social Media is better than a phone call.
So you went to Vida-e to meet with @missfuzzykittenIloveNickJonas. You don’t know why you went to Vida-e, it may be that the people on twitter are subliminally sending you messages through their ‘I’m off to Vida-e!’ tweets. @missfuzzykittenIloveNickJonas is going through a very difficult stage in her life, which is quite evident through her exaggerated sighs. You are unperturbed by this and continue your story about the Don Packett youtube CV rip-off. You laugh. Alone. Manically. @missfuzzykittenIloveNickJonas does this weird twisty thing with her mouth, not a good sign. She then asks you if you’ve noticed that her Facebook relationship status has changed. Pennies drop everywhere. How could you have missed that? You practically live online. You sip on your Vida-e coffee slowly, at a loss for words.Social Media has made you a bad friend.

Social Media promotes fake laughter.
You’re at work. Your Outlook notifies you that you have a new mail. A combination of intrigue and disappointment flutters. We get it, Outlook sucks. Oh, the mail is from Mr. Joke Sender, it’s a joke you’ve seen on twitter three weeks ago. Your facial expression remains unchanged. Ten minutes later, Mr. Joke Sender comes into your office, grinning with more gusto than Jim Carrey. ‘So… how funny was that mail… hey?’. You like Mr Joke Sender, he’s a bit corny but he’s actually a good person to have around if the printer gives you problems. You can either A – tell the truth and say that you’ve seen the joke, whilst watching him breakdown emotionally, or B- fake laugh. You fake laugh to save Mr. Joke Sender’s ego. You’re going to hell.

If you attend an event that was not mentioned Social Media, chances are, you stayed at home with your cat, watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s in you pjs.
Oooh. Is someone getting married today? Are you attending the wedding? Tweet about it. Are you at a braai with other social media folk? Tweet about it. Are you at home with your cat, watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s in you pjs? Don’t tweet at all. Put your phone off. Instead, muse about the fact that 5 years ago, you were perfectly happy with the idea of NOT telling the world about every little thing you’re doing.

Social Media promotes emotional outbursts.
OBAMA WON THE NOBEL PRIZE! OMG THEY’RE BOMBING THE MOON! FUCK AMERICA! LET’S BOMB THEM AND SEE HOW THEY FEEL! ALSO, KANYE’S AN IDIOT! I just can’t take this anymore, I can’t believe he didn’t call. OMG YOU GUYS! NICK JONAS IS SO HAWT. I JUST LOVE HIM. I don’t know who to turn to, my life is over. I’m serious this time guys. Get your teeth whitened! Ask me how. Lady, no-one cares. Average person’s reaction to emotional outbursts: ‘Awh, that’s too bad/awesome/hardcore, I hope this phase passes…. OOOH 10 OF THE MOST AMAZING WORDPRESS THEMES ALL IN ONE POST!’ *click* End.

Social Media endorses contradictions. No they don’t! Yes, yes they do…
You’re facebook chatting, posterous’ing and tweeting at the same time. If you were any more awesome, you’d be Guy Kawasaki. You resent that I said that, you hate that I compared you to Guy Kawasaki. You’re shit hot right now, you’ve manufactured your personal brand, have a water tight alias and a very own domain, but something is missing. You live online but crave a simpler existence, hence your constant need to use the ‘lighter’ version of any social media platform. You like the clutter free look but still crave the meatier version. You want a young Sofia Louren but you’re getting Paris Hilton and as much as Paris tries, she’ll never do that hip sway like Sofia. This saddens you. Please refrain from having an emotional outburst.

Social Media turns you into an elitist.
You’re having a pretty decent conversation with a budding entrepeneur. You wonder why you haven’t heard of this cat before. Light bulbs flash – he’s not on the interwebs. You suggest he get on it ASAP in order to increase his brand awareness. You do not pay attention to local internet user statistics. Turns out, ‘this cat’ has an ad airing on SABC 1, a station you vowed not to watch after their recent financial crisis. This does not concern you, the internet dweller. If it is not on social media it does not exist, right? WRONG.

Social Media makes you a bad person.
You’ve seen it, you’ve laughed at it, people have suffered. http://www.latfh.com http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com http://dontjudgemyhair.com http://www.peopleofwalmart.com Didn’t your mother ever teach you to NOT make fun of other people. Save it for family dinner punk.

As much as you want to, you’ll never give up Social Media. Ever.
You laughed at every point I made yet silently agreed at the same time. Addict. You’ll be off to Vida-e to drown your sorrows in a bottomless cup of coffee. You’re hardcore like that.

I have no words. Rather, I do, I’m trying to condense it in 140 characters or less.

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I am a weapon of mass destruction.

I like to dream about cataclysmic events. I wonder where I’d be when people realise that we’re all going to die. Would I get trapped in a sadistically impenetrable traffic jam? Would I be at home with my family? Feeding my cat the pink salmon I intended on having all by myself?

I enjoy thinking these morose thoughts, mostly in the mornings, forcing myself to realise that  no matter how completely crap my day will be, it could get worse. Also because I’m slightly sadistic.

I call this motivation method ‘brain bargaining’. It is the belief that given sufficient time and resources, you can dispel any preconceived notion that you are less than awesome. I’m going to expand on this, bear with me, it’s about to get Newtonian.

Common beliefs that mess with your awesome-juju:

  • I am not the centre of the universe.
    Think of the universe as a ball. Somewhere in this ball is you. Lets imagine that one day you decided to make a bet with that annoying spreadsheet lady in accounting, for some reason she demanded that you provide all the receipts from every transaction you’ve ever made in the past 5 or so years that you’ve worked at the company as a glorified high flying corporate monkey, your response was ‘I might have to go to the edges of the universe to aquiest your request’ which is totally not something you would say in real life but I’ve decided that you need a bit of spunk. Got it? Okay, you get into a spaceship and try to do so, only you’ll never get there. If (assuming that the universe stopped expanding) you travelled to the ‘edge’ for years and years,  you’d eventually end up exactly where you started. This is because the universe ‘bends’. Any spot in the universe could be considered to be at the centre. That means that you, yes you, in your polka-dot tie or tweed skirt, are at the centre of the universe. And tell annoying spreadsheet lady to stuff it, just not in her mouth because she definitely needs to lose some weight.
  •  People tend to gravitate around others more awesome than me.
    There once lived a dude named Newton, he got hit in the head with an apple and turned into a genius. After much thinking, he came up with the Law of Universal Gravitation which states that ALL objects attract each other with a force of gravitational attraction. Mr Awesome does not have some secret power, he’s just as awesome as you, he just possesses more of that characteristic that supersedes gravitational law – confidence.
  • I must be a vacuum because I suck.
    A natural vacuum is created when a very large star dies. Basically, in order for there to have been a vacuum, there must have been a star. In essence, you’re admitting that you were once something of greatness and now you’ve lost it because you’re de-motivated after you made that bet with annoying spreadsheet lady from accounting. Stop that. No cookies for emo bitches.
  • My actions are not important
    This is an atomic bomb. An atomic bomb is created through the nagasaki_nuclear_bomb1process of fission. To conduct the process of fission one would need a fissionable material such as uranium.  On average, approximately 90 micrograms of uranium exists in the human body from normal intakes of air, food and water. If harnessed, you have the potential to become a weapon of mass destruction. You ARE a weapon of mass destruction. People should listen to you, you’re shit hot right now.

I did not use ‘The Secret’ as a reference in this blog. I have read it and subsequently filed it under ‘new age hippie bullshit’. Yes, lady in the loose fitting cotton dress, I’m talking to you! Stop reading this blog with that worried look on your face (I know this is your worried face because it’s the face all hippies get when they’ve discovered that they’ve run out of soy milk) and actually do something. The only person that could make the universe more awesome is you.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to stare at myself in the mirror and think great thoughts.

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World Domination – A Manifesto (part 1)

So you want to take over the world do you? You’ve meticulously orchestrated the perfect pitch, duration and type of evil laugh to accompany the sound of thunder. You look good in black/ with your brain in a jar/ wrapped in the fur of 101 dalmatian puppies. Well, that’s nice.
I doubt you’ve given this endeavor much thought. Let me elaborate:

Taking over the world – Not for Morons.

There are a few things you need to get through before you are even remotely close to commanding the attention of the world’s population. Right up there, amidst dreams of Eva Green feeding you Swiss-chocolate-dipped strawberries with her perfectly manicured fingertips, is the crux of this ‘undertaking’: The motive.

Possible motives for wanting to dominate the world

  • You want more money than Richard Branson with the addition of a pimped out cave along the border of Nicaragua, servents addressing you as ‘The Magnificent’ and your very own jetpack – one that doesn’t burn your legs to a crisp when you take off
  • Your mommy didn’t love you enough: She didn’t get you that blue Power Ranger action figure you wanted when you were six. Everyone must die, even that blue Power Ranger guy, he totally deflowered the pink Power Ranger and you’ve been in love with her ever since she… you can’t remember, she’s that hot. Everyone must die, except you, and pink Power Ranger and your mom. If you mom found out you wanted to kill her, you’d NEVER get that blue Power Ranger.
  • You’re a hippie. You’ve watched ‘The day the Earth stood still’. You agree with every assumption made by the aliens regarding selfishness of humans. When everything got nommed by nanobots, your little earth loving heart danced for joy whilst you thought: ‘They deserve it, the bastards’.
  • You believe that you can fix the worlds problems. World hunger? McDonalds franchises everywhere! Poor people? Wealth distribution. Racism? Thing of the past, I’ll just make everyone uniform so they don’t have a reason to discriminate… blond hair, blue eyes… oooh, nice man fur, totally matches your swastika.
  • You live in a basement with your cat Wellington. Everyone hates you, especially your cat – you named him Wellington. What kind of crappy cat name is that? You want love, adoration and power. You want to be Tiger Woods without all the golf playing, or Lance Armstrong… without the cancer.

There are many motivations I’ve left out; revenge, madness and *cough* the good of humanity. If you are under the blindingly obvious misconception that taking over the world for ‘the good of humanity’ is without evil or malicious intent, you are wrong. That’s like St Peter saying “Sure, we’ll look over the fact that you took away people’s freedom. We’ll even look over the fact that you killed all the bad people. There’s just one thing though, since you did commit SOME murder (bad people, we get it) you’re allowed into heaven… but your left leg will burn for the rest of eternity.” before he chops your leg off and tosses it in THE PIT OF ETERNAL DAMNATON. Do you have any idea how hard it will be hitting on the heavenly honeys whilst your left leg is on fire? Do you? I thought so.

Lovely, now that we know what we want. Notice how I switched ‘you’ to the familiar ‘we’? That’s the type of thinking we need to get used to, taking over the world is bigger than ‘you’, you have to be more than ‘you’, its imperitive for the next step in our master plan: Getting Shit Done.

Part 2 to be posted as soon as I… Bad Wellington! Stop ripping the furniture!

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If your site is more anal than awesome – you’re probably a prostitute.

I’m pro personal blogs, I like the fact that its a means to which one can express their opinions, observations or share vivid details of that one time they walked in on their parents smoking pot, giggling like a bunch of teenagers – swiftly eliminating any chance of thinking that weed was cool, emotionally scarring them for the rest of their stone cold sober lives.

Actually, I really don’t want to talk about that. Lets move on shall we?

As of the last few years, blogging has become the new hotness. Everyone has a blog these days, even airhead celebrities like Milan Marriott*, though, I’m pretty sure her blog is written by her PR people because if she did write one herself, she’d end every blog about a great achievement in her glamourous life with “that’s hawt” as well as spell it as glamorous. I know you’re constantly on diet Milan*, but there’s no need to drop a vowel.

*name changed for purposes of… actually, I have no reason, I just want to avoid bad SEO juju.

South Africa has group of talented bloggers, given that roughly 9.7% of our population has access to the internet and uses it on a daily basis, sad when you consider the fact that the percentage of people who know who Vernon Koekemore is surpasses that exponentially. Hopefully, in the next few years, this statistic will increase. The number of future bloggers out there will look to us for inspiration. I think a review is in order. When was the last time you read a blog? Did you take notice of the fancy profile picture? The attention to detail as conveyed in the blog layout? The bright, flashing adverts conveniently located on the left? If so, you’re doing it wrong.

 Its shocking to note that many of the bloggers drifting around local interwebs are writing ‘blogs’ for the sake of it. I read a blog post recently that made me feel kinda sad inside, the blogger posted an excuse of an entry involving the amount of ad revenue he received in that month just from blog visits. Now, I have nothing against smart-assed-ness or blatant arrogance, but upon reviewing the rest of his (frankly) dismal attempts at writing anything of interest, I got a glimpse of a not so bright blogging future, where ad revenue and blog hits outweigh the intrinsic pleasure of writing something that will entertain, interest and inform its reader. Its like a Shakespear classic adapted for screenplay, ravaged by crappy dialogue and directed by Michael Bay, with a cameo appearance of Milan* at the end. Not so hawt.

If bloggers put more thought into their musings, we might just inspire boys and girls (and that weird guy in the corner with the emo hair, I told you to leave me alone because, ew, you’re way more pretty than I am and that’s just WRONG) into writing posts of value, void of that annoying text speak. At this point, you might be wondering where anal and prostitution fit in the context of my blog. It doesn’t. I’m using it as a means to attract bad SEO juju.

… and you’re welcome.

Scandinavians: Beautiful but disturbing

Nothing like a bit of Royksopp to put you in a strange place.

Betty in the sky with flying burritos

This blog has been waiting to be published for over a month merely because I’m lazy and have the tendency to get easily distracted. As my life is somewhat void of fascinating happenings… the time has come Betty. You, me and a big slander-filled burrito fight, now!

I was interviewed by The Times one random Monday, sauntering aimlessly through the sunlit streets of Rosebank’s epicentre, when I was politely interviewed by this random reporter. Being the nice person I sometimes am, I obliged and answered her question about my most favorite and least favorite TV shows, pausing in between comments so she could write it down in her little notebook. This interview lasted 3-5 minutes at most. Admittedly, I did embelish about Ugly Betty more than I did about Grey’s Anatomy (which I mentioned was my favorite TV show at the time, given that my TV watching is sporadic). I paused for the picture and went on my way, hoping that I answered her questions to the best of my ability and maybe some 23-ish females would feel the same way. Alas, no.

In her comments, she stated that she ‘was lucky to get a word in’, which I laughed about in great length. Those two quoted sentences was all I said on the matter. There was no interaction on her part even though I gave her ample time to voice her opinion, which, may I remind readers, was not the point if the sole purpose of the interview was to get feedback on the best/worst TV shows on circuit. She goes on to state that ‘every teenager in the world would relate to something about the series…’

I’ll repeat that last bit: ‘every teenager in the world would relate to something about the series…’

Teenager, I am not. I do however, fit into the demographic target audience of the show. Lets break it down:

  • 23-ish (Betty has made reference to her age many times in the show)
  • breaking into the career scene
  • person of colour in a minority
  • doesn’t give a fuck about ‘diet’
  • likes fashion and stuff
  • at one point in life – had braces

So, what is wrong with the show?

< That.

In her 3 years of working for Mode magazine, Betty has learned nothing about fashion or the very basic techniques in hair care. By doing so, she shows a complete disregard for her peers, the career path that she’s chosen and struggles to show any real ambition.

In the real world, that is known as incompetence.

I get that Betty is a poster child for rebelling against conformists, but what message is she really trying to send the world? If you stay true to yourself, you’ll be accepted as part of a clique even though your actions prove that you are doing everything to go against them? Its acceptable to blunder your way through every major event in your career because being nice to people gets you through all that?  Being nice shouldn’t be the best thing about Betty, anyone can be nice, it’s a social obligation. Tenacity, although a formidable trait in many circumstances, does not prove that she is ambitious because she would have moved on from being a lowly PA to something with a bit more substance in her 3 -or-so years there. Betty needs to, excuse my bluntness here, grow some balls.

I don’t want to watch a show about a nice demure girl from Queens that makes a complete idiot of herself before the opening sequence. That does not inspire me to be a better career woman. You know what would be really cool Betty? If you took some tips from Wilhelmina. She’s a royal bitch I know but she’s got some serious business/fashion/editorial savvy. Now THAT is a woman.

And that is all I have to say about that.

The double fallout.

National Cleavage Day.

Three words that do nothing for me. I don’t have cleavage. God, as awesome as he is and all that, did not have the foresight to bless me with breasts capable of obtaining that lust inducing valley all by themselves, I need help, help in the form of  Wonderbra/La Perla/Triumph/other bra brands I can’t think of.

Oh Bra Manufacturers and your clever product design, I thank you on behalf of the B-cupped population and commend you on your endevours in increasing upliftment and general sexiness for humanity. I’m sure there will be a place for you in heaven, nestled in the warmth of eternally perky lady lumps.

The brassiere was invented in 1913 by a Mary Phelps Jacob, not a man as many people have been lead to believe for all he did was trademark the idea. Aside from the fact that the bra was created by said woman, she also happened to be one of  great social importance, proving the age old premise that it really is who you know dharling . The story goes that she was desperate to show off her oh-so-fabulous-you-may-orgasm dress, unfortunately the traditional undergarment (the corset)  was not suitable for it. Desperate times, as they tend to do, bring out genius.

You know what else was created during one of those said ‘desperate’ times?

I lied, the atomic bomb was not created out of desperation. It was an unfortunate idea born in the minds of scientists that stuck their noses in places they weren’t supposed to. Darwin would be displeased.

Mary P. Jacob sought the help of her seamstress and concocted the basis for what we know as the ‘bra’ or ‘mammary gland upliftyish-sexy-making device’. To date, there are numerous upliftyish-sexy-making-devices depending on the style of the garment a women chooses to wear. I’ve included this mainly for the benefit of my male readers.

Relevance to male specimen:

< a bitch to remove



< still a bitch to remove but with more of a KAPOW!


< If you get past the maternity part (unless that’s your thing) this would be endorsed by guys.


<whatever happened to that sporty spice chick? Exactly. Not sexy


< a lie… I can see them


Ideally, men prefer no bra at all given that the ideal varies between cultures. Ancient Greek women tried to make their bosoms seem less ‘kapow’ by restraining them whereas some cultures prefered them to be left to ‘dance in the wind’ like that socially inept chick in Nell. In another movie, she was salivated over by a cannibal so it really didn’t work for her.

National cleavage day started here in SA (another reason why SA is so much better that everywhere else) a few years ago and is endorsed by Wonderbra. By use of a clever, somewhat controversial, but generally enjoyable gimmick, the day aims to bring about awareness to the issue of breast cancer. This got me thinking, why isn’t there a National Testicle Day? Don’t get me wrong, I like breasts, both on myself and attached to the bodies of other women, but I think *flaccid penises* we should *flaccid penises* also pay *flaccid penises*attention *flaccid penises* to  *flaccid penises* testicular cancer too.

You’re thinking about flaccid penises aren’t you.

That’s probably why we don’t have a national testicle day. I’m sorry. Here, I’ll make it all better…

Now if only there were a ‘really great legs’ day…

Houston, we have lift off.

Dear Internet,

I have been a very loyal patron for many years now. At first, I used to regard you with awe and fumble my way through the intricacies of our growing relationship, marveling at your wealth of knowledge on aspects I’ve never had the time to figure out by myself. Now, I fear, you bring me nothing but disdain, and all because of one little pop-up.

Apparently darlings, it does. So much so that at least one ad involving penis enhancement appears on almost every site I visit. I’m not going to beat around the bush here (haha)… I FUCKING HATE PENIS ENHANCEMENT ADVERTS. Look, if a guy has a small penis and is so insecure about his manhood and apparent lack thereof, it is his problem, not mine. I could bring up (haha) a string of cliches that would fit in the context of this blog… so many puns, so little stamina (haha). I kill me.

I suppose that the ads must have worked because it brought on a research expedition worth a few dozen trees. When it comes to the issue of penises , there are three types of  products offered;
-ones to make you more of a man
-ones to make you more of a man and increase the potential to reproduce more manly men
-ones to make sure you stay a man even though your manliness has retired.

This is the Viagra VGR 100. It sounds like a rocket fuel, and according to the write-ups I’ve read on it, quite rightfully so. See this isn’t just a pill… its a means to a better and more fulfilling life because without sex, life would be quite boring wouldn’t it? So what if you and your partner can talk for 7 blissful hours about the state of the nation… you’d rather spend those 7 hours doing utterly sinful things to each other and after you’ve done that, you can walk around holding hands with your lover,  a smug smile on your face. At least that’s what they promise on the ads.

Just look at them, they make me sick. The sad thing is, this guy probably doesn’t have any problems with his ‘manliness’, he’s just a random attractive fellow holding the hand of a random attractive woman (that’s either pregnant or has gas, I didn’t want to make an observation in case I got it wrong) and he got inadvertently labeled as a poor performer. The things these marketers will do to make you buy into their crap… The pills I get, its quick and painless and if it doesn’t work, there’s enough fine print to explain away the inadequacies of the product. What I can’t understand is this:

Firstly: Ow. Secondly: WHY WOULD YOU PUT YOURSELF THROUGH THAT? I’m all for self inflicted pain, don’t get me wrong. I’m one of those ‘pain increases pleasure’ people, but I don’t mean it like this… There are other ways of getting your shit together. If she thinks you’re too small and frankly, you aren’t, easy –  dump her, you don’t need her slapper ass anyway. If its all in your… er… head (sorry) get therapy. If you really are small, start a revolution! Napolean did. Or, start a new era in pornography. You could be ‘the amazing small dick-ed guy’. You don’t see that often do you? Variety is, as they say, the spice of life.

One last thing on this penis craze (coming from a person that doesn’t have one): Mind over matter. If it works, yay! If it doesn’t… take on a life of a celibate. God and you have a lot of issues to work through, in your next life, it might pay off.

a mini ramble about nothing in particular.

I have great respect for people that can turn mole hills into mountains. It must take some gusto and unbelievable ego to turn something with an average height of about 18cm to a jagged angry mass of rock jutting out of the ground.

I don’t like mountains. They scare me. I have an irrational fear that they’ll somehow move from the designated area they’ve settled in over millions and millions of years and topple over, crushing me into female humanoid fragments of my former glory. It doesn’t make sense I know, that’s why they refer to it as ‘irrational’. Quite funny when you think about it long enough, I’m a very rational person. Rational to the point that I find I can detach myself from almost anything with the right argument. Even if it was something really important to me, like global warming.

Global Warming: Is it a conspiracy? I’m beginning to think that it is. A year ago I would have bitten anyone who even mentioned it, spreading my venom like words until my poor opposed has no option but to let me win. I’m very good at that; not listening to people. It keeps me sane. In my head the world makes sense. I can’t explain it, I can’t elaborate… If I tell you what I think, you’ll think like me. The only problem with thinking like me is that I won’t be me anymore, I’ll be part of a group of people that think like me and if I think like people that think like me, would my thoughts be mine or theirs?

I wanted to take over the world a while ago. I thought it was my ultimate mission in life. I’ve let go of this dream. I don’t want the world anymore, I don’t want to fix other peoples mistakes like a janitor (not a hot french maid because we all know that they don’t do any actual cleaning up) and I’m not janitor material. If I had my own world: I’d have fields of strawberries for lovers to run through. It would be so much better than daisies because there won’t be any bees to sting people and no pollen to give people allergies, you could just run through and pick a strawberry if you get hungry. Some people have said that daisies are more romanic, even going as far to say that I’m not romantic enough. Bullshit. I am romantic… I’m just more a realistic sort of romantic person. Sure, I get the whole ‘doing the impossible for the love of another’ thing, but the story has to make sense. I’m all for parting seas and moving mountains… if it was realistic, like moving a mountain through means of some heavy machinery.

Getting back to mountains though, if a mountain does decide to topple over me, could I still call it a mountain? The official definition for bits of mountain breaking away and falling off is ‘rock slide’. Which leads me to my next question- what came first; the rock or the mountain? If I’m correct in my assumption, as I usually am, a mountain is just a really huge rock. So if a rock is a rock is a mountain until is breaks off and becomes a rock again, does that mean that an egg and a chicken are one in the same? Yes, it does. I don’t know why people have been arguing over the chicken-egg debacle for centuries, they’re one in the same. Without a chicken, one cannot have an egg and vice versa.

I think the reason that people ponder over trivial things like this is because they can’t associate themselves with it on a personal level. How can Mr Joe Average fully understand the intricacies of life as a feathered clucking marvel of bird? He wouldn’t fully understand unless it was personified. Regarding the chicken and the egg: its the same as abortion isn’t it? If an egg is just an egg and not a chicken, then an embryo is just an embryo and not a potential person.  Right? No. See, its not so easy when you make things personal.

Humans have huge egos. We think that because we know a lot about a lot we should be able to prevent things from happening or explain things in vague ways even though the correct explanation is usually the most shortest and most rational one.  We try to be profound for no reason and trying to be profound is not profound at all. I think that I might be profound to someone someday… maybe someday I’ll inspire people. Maybe that’s my ego talking. I can’t be sure about this, I blind myself with my own awesomeness sometimes.

Look what thinking about nothing gets you…

Everyone is equal but some are more equal than others

Before I rant, I would like to state for the record that I am not a feminist. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not hiding a penis under my skirt nor am I a woman that believes that her rightful place is in the kitchen or washing cars in a bikini.

I’d go as far as to say that I HATE feminists. ‘Oh boohoo! I’m belittled in the workplace! But I know what I’ll do to get my point across, I’ll burn my bra!’. Hey, I have an idea, how about you spend less time complaining about how unfair life is and actually do something about it. That ladder isn’t going to get climbed on by itself. Its things like that that works against everything you’re trying to achieve.

When I’m having an off day, I like to spend time in book stores. Sure the internet is a fanciful thing with all them search engines, but nothing beats the smell of inky pages with the occasional strawberry jam stain. I read a lot, at any given moment I could be reading about 4 novels at once. I’d love to say that I can pick up right where I left off but I can’t. I’m not THAT awesome see.

I love the little ‘gift book’ sections for their silly antidotes and nonsensical rambles. I’d never actually bought one of these so I figured I’d look for one to give as a gift to my niece. Cute as a button with curly hair, she eats sand and plays with worms and believes in fairies and watches War of the Worlds avidly. She’s by far one of my favorite people in the world (there are about 12 in total so you know I mean business). 

 This looked, for lack of a better word, perfect. Its great, its big and its glorious. One doesn’t often come  across  a  title so boastful that you are compelled to read it. And I did. I read the crap out of it.

 The contents spanned a whole page, written in fancy letters. You know, the types of lettering only a girl  could appreciate. Here is a selection of the afore mentioned contents-
 – Needlecraft
 – Make up and beauty
 – Home Spa
 – The Great outdoors.

  Yes, ‘the great outdoors’ has its own section. I was particularly intrigued with this one. Here is a list of  things a girl should know when in ‘the great outdoors’:
 – How to fall
 – How to not throw like a girl
 – How to climb trees

Very admirable things every girl should know. Sure she should know how to fall, if she falls in the wrong way, she could get hurt. Sure she should know how not to throw like a girl, even though she is a girl, because throwing like someone other than a girl would make her less cool right? And it is imperative to learn how to climb trees because apparently it would impress the boys. That last sentence was taken from the book.

 So I took a look at this one only to sate my curiosity. I was, literally, standing in the isle with my mouth open. Not the most attractive visual, but I’ve spared my appearance for the sake of this blog. THAT’S HOW MUCH THIS MEANS TO ME.

The contents are written in a no nonsense typeface with a considerably smaller font size. The list covers 1.25 pages AND is presented in two columns. Not only does this one have a schwing title but it also contains more factual information, such as-

Understanding grammar: I love grammar. Its more important to me than the price of oil. I’ve been      known to stop talking to people if their grammar is anything remotely below my standard. Where are the  corresponding pages in the girls book?
The Golden Age of Piracy:  I love pirates. I loved them before they became popular again. I wanted to be  a pirate… a pirate with good teeth. I wanted to start that revolution. Arr ye reddy to floss ye scurvey hag?  There aren’t enough girl pirates. 
–  The greatest paper plane in the world: Nuff said
Girls: There is a whole section for girls. I think this says a lot. From a guys perspective, the matter of girls can be compartmentalized. In the girls book, there are references to boys in almost every section. 

A message to writers of these books, could you try to make the girl version more awesome? Thanks. Until then, I have resolved to buy both. Why should my girl miss out on all the awesomeness just because of the colour of her pretty frock.

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now why’d you go and put stars in their eyes?

So Ash and I watched Twilight… and it was crap. A note to reader, if you intend on watching this movie, please direct your attention to the red x on the top right corner of your screen.

If you have watched it and think its BRILLIANT, please direct your attention to the red x on the top right corner of your screen. Thank you. You’re obviously not cool enough to read my awesomeness.

Let us begin with an analysis of the movie poster:

Firstly: The makers of this poster really loved photoshop because she (Bella) looks nothing like this. Secondly Eric/Edward/That-Sedrick-from-Harry-Potter has these wicked cool eyes that fools the poster viewer into hopes of watching an ass kicking mutant hero adventure. Not so. (and I know that sentence construction was like something 17 year old would write, I was going for that effect because, oh you’re gonna love this one, 17 YEAR OLDS WOULD LOVE THIS CRAP)

Let us introduce Bella. She’s a pretty little thing from Arizona where its always sun-shiny with cacti and what not but then… dum dum dummm! She moves to a dark and forgettable place where it always rains and its cold enough for the frost to permeate through the screen in ways only dark cinematography can. I wasn’t too happy about this already as I’m one of them tropical people that need solar power. I’ve taken the liberty of skipping the boring parts because, seriously, it is forgettable. She joins a new school in a skedonk of a car but through all the adversities (namely, driving a skedonk and being a new kid at a high school in the middle of the term) she manages to make friends with randoms on her first day. Not only does she do this, but she also catches the eye of the brooding male hottie in one flick of her perfectly maintained locks. Realistically speaking, her locks would never be so pristine in rainy weather but you won’t see any frizz on that coif because realism is not very pretty.

The afore mentioned hottie is Eric/Edward/Dead-Harry-Potter-extra. I’ve got to give props to the casting agent on this one, he is absolutely perfect for this role. In true broody manliness, he never changed his facial expression. He reminded me of a young Keanu Reeves. Anyway, he’s a vampire, not just any vampire, a ‘vegetarian’ vampire. Oh the sheer horror! What that means for us normal people is that he doesn’t drink the blood of people, he drinks the blood from animals. I think PETA may disagree with your vegetarianism claims buddy.

The inevitable happens. Bella falls for Eric/Edward/whatever, because she can resist his broody manliness. He in turn cannot resist her, so much so that he watches her sleep. Sweet isn’t it? Until she discovers that he is, in fact, a vampire. When she confronts him about it, he admits to his dietary habits.

Alarm bells should be ringing now Bella.

But no, Bella likes a challenge, or maybe she wants to die or she’s into blood sports, I don’t know. Eric/Edward tells Bella that he’s a vampire AND he really wants to ‘suck her blood’ because he can’t resist her brand of damsel in distress. “You’re like my personal brand of heroin”

AND SHE STILL WANTS HIM. Pfft. Teenagers. Really.

Our manly hero man decides to step into the sunlight to show her what a monster he really is. During this point I was literally on the edge of my seat, awaiting a grotesque transformation of ‘The Incredible Hulk’ proportions… only to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He doesn’t turn into a monster, his skin glitters like a million diamonds.

Oh no! Anything but that!

Very clever mister screenplay writer person. Now all of the female audience will forget about the million holes in the plot because he’s so beautiful. I saw through this only because I’m too self absorbed to focus my attention on anything other than myself for too long. I see their tactic though:

How could Bella resist him now? Even though he’s likely to devour her and probably get her family into cliffhanger like predicaments, we’ll forgive her because he shines like a fucking million diamonds. Its in our chemical makeup. Why dear reader? BECAUSE WOMEN LOVE DIAMONDS. We’re part human-part magpie. Some woman are more magpie than human but that’s not my point.

The rest of the movie isn’t worth mentioning. He saves her life. They end off in a beautifully lit setting and one bad guy remains, smirking into the camera lens. They need a point to start the sequel. I get it.

All in all… it was ghastly. The first thing I thought when I walked out of the cinema: ‘I really need to pee’.

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Of Mice and Men

I overheard the term ‘soapbox’ this morning. Strange term that. Before I go on, let me state that this blog has nothing to do with the political and humanitarian rights aspect associated with protesting on discarded soap boxes.

When people say ‘soapbox’ I think of the endless lectures I got from my mom about how sad life was when they lived on the farm that she had to go to the river to fetch water so she could have a bath and she used this certain type of soap that was in a blue paper wrapping. You know the wrapping I’m talking about, the wrapping that gets all goo like after you’ve run from the shower to wherever the soap is kept, trying not to slip on the tiles as you pray that no-one is awake to watch this debacle in mild amusement. Then when you finally get to the shower, your hand is covered in this oatmeal like grunge. I hate that type of wrapping.

Times, as they say, are changing. Not only can you get soap in boxes that don’t disintegrate, but you get soap that promises cleansing capabilities of unfathomable kinds of dirt. Observe:

I know that the makers of this product developed and marketed it as a sort of ‘kitch-cool’ thing that’s meant to be taken very tongue in cheek, see, I don’t. Why are there only two options? Where is the purple one with the ‘Not a virgin but definitely not at slut status’ title? I demand a purple soap!

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind sluts or virgins. I believe that they are an integral part of the economy. Virgins are the fantasy, the ideal.  Sluts are harder to explain without pissing one gender off… so I have come up with a clever solution:

-A slut is a temporary distraction used for purposes of a sexual nature. Does not require any consideration thereon as she is freely available or disposable.
-Someone you can blame when things don’t go as planned, using her ‘wanton’ like ways as an indication of her moral character.

-A slut is a term made up by men that need their fragile egos stroked once in a while so that they may become productive members of society
-A slut is a woman so envied by her counterparts that her less than equal enemies have no defence against so they resort to mud-slinging by ways of implying that her sexual appetite is morally wrong.

Just about anyone can be a slut. Take this woman for instance


I know which soap you would use Ms Palin. Don’t even try to talk your way out of this one missy.

While we’re in Alaska, did you know that the plural for Moose is not Meese or Mice but actually Moose? Well that’s no fun at all.

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The sky is falling.

The good news: I’m not lactose intolerant.

The bad news: I’m still a drama queen.

My life is tragic.

I think I’m lactose intolerant. This makes me sad.

Refer list of things I like to eat/drink when I’m not so happy:
-tea with milk
-coffee with milk
-coffee with milk AND cream
-cappuchino with milk AND cream
-toasted cheese sandwiches
-cream cheese on crackers
-chocolate milk 😦 😦 😦
-strawberry pops with milk
-milk tart
-milk chocolate
-ice cream
-ice cream with milk chocolate

Do you see the problem. Without milk I’d be sad and confused with nothing to console me but my cat who’s on the brink of puberty and doesn’t give a shit about me anymore. That’s so depressing.

Once upon a time, my tummy had the temperament along the lines of this:

Ignore the person in the picture. I don't eat people. People taste like pork.

Ignore the person in the picture. I don't eat people. People taste like pork.

and now its more like this:


…which gives people the impression that I might explode like an angry person if I don’t get any milk, which is not true, I’d probably mope around feeling sorry for myself…

unless I see someone like this:


Haha, very funny. Die bitch.

P.S: I know you’re that Claire-what’s-her-face from Heroes and you can’t die so when I said ‘Die bitch’ I meant that in the nicest way possible.

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Question: Why is the O before the C? Shouldn’t it be in alphabetical order? And if it was ‘COD’ instead of ‘OCD’, would it be too fishy?

I spent 3 hours organising my iTunes yesterday,  I could have went on all day to be honest. I used to think that I do things like this because I don’t have a life but recent developments in my somewhat tranquil existence has led me to believe that I may have a slight case of OCD. You see, I enjoy this. I enjoy sorting things so that they slot into their correct categories, typing out the track names when they’re not there, scouring the internet for information to make my methodically compiled lists more meticulous.

Scary innit?

As I was searching for album art to link to the albums so that it makes my iTouch look more pretty (why don’t the cd making people put the digital version of the album cover on the cd? don’t they realise that there are people like me that EXPECT things like that to be readily available?), I came across this:


Notice something there? Who in the world has time to do things like this? What kind of sick pleasure do they get out of it? People that make things like this ^ have no lives. What is surprising is that there are so many parodies of album covers out there. Parodies I shall not post on my blog, if I do that, it means that I support and endorse said people with no lives which means that I in turn have no life, thus creating a sour vicious cycle of self contempt that I may or may not take out on a poor album cover.

I do have a life. A life with OCD.

OCD is not a disease, its an organised art.

So there.

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I surround myself with stupid people so I feel more intelligent.

The world has a way of making sense just when the outlook gets more mangled than Amy Winehouse’s dreadlocks… A strange visual I know, but that’s the only way I can look at it.

For months now, I’ve been complaining about my job. Everyone knows this because I bitch about it almost every day. I know I should have acted on this feeling a while ago but I didn’t because I got scared. Poor little pampered girl with a fetish for shoes that I am, I was more concerned about the fact that I enjoy and rely on a regular income to keep me fabulous. Also, I didn’t want to lose all that I worked so hard for over the past two years, and I know that knowledge can never be truly ‘lost’, but a reputation and a working record can, especially if I move out of my field.

I’m one of 5 people in the whole country that do what I do. I like saying that because it makes me sound so important, but I’m not that important really, any monkey in a skirt could do my job and still have time to spare.

If there is one thing I could possibly miss about my job, its all the free time, free time I use to stalk people. People that read my blogs. People like you. I know who you are. LOOK AT ME WHEN I TYPE TO YOU. I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. YOU OWE ME A MILLION DOLLARS.

Poor reader. I’m sorry you have to read my crap. I assure you that my drivel will cease to be only because I won’t have time to write crap anymore. I’ll only write the important stuff like mission statements and lists about things that are meaningful like ways to cut down on your energy usage or maybe, if I’m really stimulated, a well informed discussion on my views about the state of the economic climate and how it impacts the environment.

Which reminds me, I have another blog to publish about how misleading the scientific community is. If you are a scientist, BEWARE! My thesis lacks evidence and would probably frustrate you, but if you feel the need to send me some sort of message, feel free to do so. I’ll respond maybe, or never, probably never.

So, readers, no more theories about martian kangaroos and toasted sandwiches. I swear. 

… until I get bored of my new job or its totally unfulfillable or I decide to take over the world or clean my cupboard or decide that I don’t need shoes to make me happy and only I can make me happy and maybe I shouldn’t really give a crap about what other people think of me… *deep breath*

so, back to Amy’s dreadlocks, does she ever wash them?

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People love me.

So I write one blog about a famous person and suddenly I’m more popular than Paris Hilton after she flashed her girl bits at poor photographers.

Funny that.

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My nails are red like tomato puree therefore I don’t give a crap.

I don’t like to write stuff about famous people. Its simple really, why write about someone I don’t know? Its a waste of my time and all it would do for me is put me on a google search list. However, there comes a time in one’s life when one has to break all the rules because they don’t apply when bad taste comes into the equation. 

If I were to appear on a google search list, it would be for this:

Lil’ Wayne sounds like my idea of a bullet through Akon’s head

But I doubt many people are in favour of killing/acts of a violent nature, so maybe it could be something along the lines of:

Lil’ Wayne makes me want to pull the hair off my head with the meticulousness of a Spanish Inquisitor.

Evidently, I do not like this Lil’ Wayne character, not because he’s richer than anyone I know, but because he sounds like a wounded animal heading off to his imminent death. I’m not a fan of people that have whiney voices and somehow manage to convince people that they’re wonderful. How is it possible that this man managed to get eight Grammy Nominations? Eight! Have the judges lost their minds? Are they deaf? Please explain how that ‘Lollipop’ song is inspiring? I realise that he’s sold like a million records or some ridiculously large number like that, big deal… So did those High School Musical people (why are they all over the place anyway) and they didn’t get nominated because everyone over the age of 14 knows that they’re crapPEH.

I know there are some people reading this that think that this guy is the best thing since the invention of  the digital clock or whatever, but I would like to state for the record that I think he’s like a hot steaming pile of…

ooh my nails are pretty…

Fronti nulla fides [Part II]

I love books like this one. Not books about propaganda or mayhem, but ones that make you think about certain aspects of your life for hours on end. In fact, there are hidden messages in almost every form of written text, if you choose to read between the lines, I skill I fear many are losing.

I recently had the pleasure of reading a few fairy tales to my little cousins. On the surface, I was doing quite a reasonable interpretation of a pantomime drama queen, internally, I was beginning to wonder about the message behind the insane drivel I chose to read to them and how much of it would be to their benefit.

Cinderella: A damsel in distress, harassed by two wicked sisters and a ghastly step-mom for most of her life, her story is one filled with woe. After an interlude with a wand-yielding old lady, she gets lucky with a prince and lives happily ever after. They all live happily ever after these fairy-tale people.

Where is the moral of the story?

I thought about this for a while… and was surprised at how very intelligent I am. Not really, this is a lie. I was surprised at how easily I sifted through all the pixie dust and found something quite viable.

See, this Cinderella chick, she was a nice person. She did all the chores in the house and slept in the fireplace. [Maybe she thought that if she stared at the coal long enough, it would turn into diamonds or something, I don’t know, those middle-age people were a bit nutty]. Conclusion: you should be nice to others even though they treat you like shit because its the morally acceptable thing to do. Also: people love the underdog.

But then *dum dum dummmm* in comes a fairy god-mother. Her spell makes Cinderella pretty BUT it only lasts for a few hours. I think the message behind this is that occasionally in your life you get people/situations that gives you a helping hand but you can’t depend on it because it too will fade and after that its up to you to make yourself happy.

So Cinderella meets the Prince and he’s smitten, insane with lust, mouth agape at the sheer awesomeness of her newly magic-ified glory, blah blah. I think this prince is a superficial prick to be honest but I won’t go on to insult him because he’s not part of the story (he’s a Daryll). It took me a while to figure this one out, and I was mighty proud of myself when I did: We are all diamonds in the rough, all it takes is a bit of elbow grease and we could shine like a million suns or be used in telescopes or be used to shine other diamonds (these people are calles ‘life coaches’ or mothers or Oprah)

What about the ugly family members? Well, there is nothing to say about them. They treated Cinderella like shit and deserve to be left in the house, washing their own socks. The whiney bitches. That is karma my darlings, I’ve been on the arse-end of it many times to recognise it when I see it.

See Mr Anderson: 4 hidden messages! I’m over thinking things as usual I know. I can’t help it, its the book, its making me re-assess my perceptions of life and such.

*sigh* I love these types of books.

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Fronti nulla fides

The people that came up with the phrase ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ are actually very clever.

I’m reading this > The Master and Margarita

To say that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew is an understatement. There I was, aimlessly wasting time in a book store, when I felt myself ‘drawn’ to this book. I wouldn’t say ‘drawn’ exactly, it caught my eye because of the funky looking cat and I thought ‘hey, I like cats, how bad could this book be?’ Pfft.

The summary at the back goes like this…
 The devil comes to Moscow wearing a fancy suit. With his disorderly band of accomplices – including a demonic, gun-toting tomcat – he immediately begins to create havoc.

Looks pretty fun doesn’t it. I’m no devil worshipper, but I am a fan of chaos, and as I stated before – cats. Adding to this, I don’t know much about the ‘Moscownians’ so I thought I’d brush up on my post-Stalin hisory and maybe get a few (well educated) laughs. I’ve yet to laugh T.T

On comes page 11: the devil disguised as a foreigner with some really expensive dental bling, mentions ‘Kant’s proof’. I don’t know this Kant person. Off I went to Wikipedia for answers, and all it left me with were more questions.

Observe: ‘His most important work is the Critique of Pure Reason, a critical investigation of reason itself. It encompasses an attack on traditional metaphysics and epistemology, and highlights Kant’s own contribution to these areas.’Metaphysics? Epistemology? Wa?


Two hours later… and I still haven’t moved past page 11. There are 564 pages in this book, I have a feeling I’m going to get through it in a year. Maybe after that I’ll take over the world. Or give up trying to make people believe I’m really very intelligent and start my own line of beaded necklaces.

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A picture is worth 1000 words. This blog is worth 1325 words. Pending advertisements.

Sometimes my brother is very clever and does nice things like this:

Ignore the Land Rover. He did this using a wicked ‘leaving the shutter open for 40 seconds’ trick, two sparkles, and a helper. A helper I shall not name because he’s actually a (somewhat) famous person that makes nice doof doof songs and he’s family and I don’t want people to think I’m being ‘indian’ by endorsing him. That doesn’t make any financial sense.

On wednesday, out of the blue, the brother mentions that he came up with a totally brilliant and original idea that could change the world or something momentous like that. He made it seem so blase, like it was one of those things that happen to him daily. I stared at him in awe, nodding my head at the moments when it seemed appropriate. To be honest, I don’t think I understood most of what he said, programming jargon only made sense to me when I was 17 and thought that I’d take on a life as a hacker like Mr Anderson from The Matrix before he died and became Neo. See, he’s sometimes clever this brother of mine. Clever in ways which I am not.

In short: I’m jealous. I don’t have it in me to come up with visually/artistically/conceptually brilliant ideas. I’m only good with adding numbers and looking like a vaguely attractive person and talking about nonsense and phrasing sentences with the flair of a bull fighter finesse of an orchestrator… GAH!

Well not jealous per say… maybe a ‘pinch of salt’ jealous, unless he gets famous and stuff, then it could be ‘a pinch of salt in an old wound’ jealous. Unless he buys me a car of my choosing then I’ll love him forever 😀

Not that I won’t love him forever, just saying.

P.S: Damian, you owe me one trillion dollars for advertising your shit on my blog. Thanks.

Either way, I’m still getting a car of my choosing 😀

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The theory of the toasted cheese sandwich.

This is a blog about love. I don’t usually write blogs about emotional-touchy-feely things because I don’t like to read these type of ramblings, but I’m not having an eventful day and I figure that maybe I’d take a swing at revolutionising the way we view love.

So here goes:

There’s this guy see, his name is Daryll*. He’s hawt, like seriously hawt, super intelligent, he patiently smiles at you while you try on the 7th pair of shoes,  he cooks, he’s sensitive (but not in the Mommy’s boy way), he’s every girls wet dream, the kind of guy girls want to marry.

Now I want you to visualise this Daryll…

Meet Gary*: He’s a nice guy. He’s not like Daryll*. Fact of the matter is, Daryll* is not what you would call a ‘real’ person. Forget about Daryll*. He’s a figment of your imagination.

So Gary* meets Ali*.  They hate each other. He thinks she’s an elitist. She doesn’t like the way he tears up paper napkins and makes little balls, flinging them in her general direction. Two tequilas later, they’re exchanging numbers.

They go on dates. They watch movies together. They have sex, and its always good. ALWAYS. They call each other 6 times a day. They giggle, together. They make people sick. Their friends all hate them.
They fight. Its terrible. She thinks its over, he does too. They have more sex. Its nice. They fight more.
One day Ali gets sick. She looks terrible. A hot-wet-mucus-covered mess. Gary* takes care of her, its his job as caring boyfriend. They have more sex. Gary* gets sick.

Some time passes, they get more comfortable in each others space. They’re not so sickening anymore. Everyone is happy, their friends decide to let them back into the sanctity of the friendship-hood. Ali shops alone. Ali is fine with it because she finally realises that you don’t HAVE to do absolutely everything together.

Sometimes she thinks about Daryll*

Light bulbs flash. Gary* will never be Daryll*. Everyone is happy.

Gary* comes home from work. Its been a dismal day. All he wants to do is lie on the couch in the fetal position and watch CSI in the dark. No such luck. Ali* is home, the stench of her nail polish hits him like a blow to the head. She enquires about his day, he grunts a response. She smiles…

…and says: ‘Since you’re up… Can I have a toasted cheese sandwich please?’

Gary* removes his tie in a rapid wrist movement akin to that of a seasoned sword fighter…

He turns around…

and makes the toasted sandwich.


^ THAT is love.

And they all lived happily ever after. The end.


Theory of the toasted cheese sandwich: Love is when someone makes a toasted cheese sandwich for you even though they’ve had a crap day and really don’t want to.

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Me vs Me (and I don’t win)

The guy with his head on the table is me and the ghost is me too.


Pictures for sad children
I’m in a quagmire (which is like a swamp only it could suck you in and kill you).

Once upon a time, I studied this. I was young and naive, I believed that studying that would make me rich one day. I admit, The pay is far from dismal, but I’m not happy, the bank is sucking my soul. See, all I really wanted to do was become this. There is no possible connection between the two. This fact saddens me. I recently discovered that its not so easy to make a career jump. Or it may be the fact that I’m shit scared of failing. Failing is for failures, and I am no failure. I’d sooner take a job in payroll.

I think I should start my own business. I’d make it a revolution in the way we handle our energy. Maybe if I’m successful, I’ll end up being rich one day. Not evil rich like the shareholders of oil companies, but rich in a wholesome way. People would admire me. I might end up being on the cover of Time magazine, looking out of its almost-glossy-but-not-quite pages with a thoughtful expression on my face. I know this expression well. I practice it almost every day in front of the mirror.

All I need to do is connect the dots…


I think the batman signal is broken.

So we went to ‘The Hat’ for Halloween. It was nice.

Hot like firecracker. And by that I mean something very heated and hot like.

Hot like firecracker. And by firecracker I mean something very heated and hot like.

There were 6 Jokers in attendance (I counted them during a not so entertaining moment). Felt a bit bummed out that they did not bring out the general psychotic absurdity of the character. (Well, all of them except for Paul who pulled off a very good drunk Joker.)

But where was Batman? Poor Batman, I think everyone forgot that he was supposed to be the hero of the story. Its not his fault, Heath Ledger did die (and that’s a very big deal), and his character makeup was out of this world.

I’m sorry Batman. I’m sorry people don’t like you as much. I’m sorry your outfit is so passe. I’m sorry you fell down a well and there was no Lassie to save you. If you didn’t fall down a well, who knows, you could just have been a regular 30-ish playboy with dozens of illegitimate children strewn across Gotham City. For that matter, I’m pretty sure Gotham City would have been a nice place to live in. There would be sunlight and fields of strawberries to run in (because fields of daisies are so cliche) and chocolate milk would flow like rivers down its gold cobbled streets.

Why did you not come Batman? Were you ashamed that the Joker got away and managed to get all the attention? Were you scared?

I understand. Johannesburg is no city for a flying man rat like you. The Metro Cops would probably give you 4 fines on Rivonia Road before you even get to ‘The Hat’. And then you’ll be in jail. You won’t be happy. You’ll worry about dropping arb things like soap. Some big manly muscle man will take you under his wing, you’ll think of your trusty sidekick Robin, and then you’ll realise…

Batman, you are gay.

(But being gay is fine because gay people need love too)

 All those children aren’t really yours. Those supermodels you thought you had sex with formed a secret organisation with the sole purpose of tricking you. You will rot in jail. Yes, rot. Because bats don’t live forever, this is not a remake of Vanilla Sky. Its a sad day when you have to resort to Tom Cruise tactics. I think you should just give up. This town is too big for you.

We could have been good together Batman, I’m just sorry the Joker turned you into a withering pansy.

P.S: Now that I look at it Mel, you do kinda look like the Pilsbury Doughman’s wife. Albeit a hot one, so that’s okay.

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The list: Reloaded (but not like the Matrix because that movie was a bit meh)

Things I like:
-Flowcharts, diagrams, highlighters and post-its
: I love the sense of order it brings me. I don’t like it when a post-it loses its stickiness.
-Cheese: I could write an ode to cheese, but I won’t, because it would be a very lame source of distraction and I’d just start craving it. The only cheese I do not like is cottage cheese, I feel it is an imitation of the real thing, plus it looks like cheese puke.
-My iPod: I do not need to elaborate on this one.
Mojo: The cat.
-The ctrl+alt+del function.
-Watching movies under the blankets on a rainy day

-The smell of petrol.
-Pretending as if I’m being watched by some sort of secret organisation or an alien civilisation or ghosts
. (most of the time its ghosts. I do this when I start thinking about some person I haven’t spoken to in a while and then think they’re dead and they’re watching me. This usually happens in the shower for some odd reason, I doubt ghosts are as peverted as I make them out to be)
-Strawberry pops- yum
-People that pay for the evil they have committed. And I mean evil evil, not evil like me, I’m only a small fish in the pond of evilness.
-Developing characters for my many stuffed animals. These are not the most attractive of playthings. As of now I have a Russian mafia don, a pimp, a retired hooker, a fem-me fa-tale, a geek, a cat that humps everything and a Casanova with an obesity problem. They all have names and backgrounds. Most of the time they end up killing each other. I gave them away recently 😦
-The way my baby cousin speaks. She can’t pronounce her r’s and h’s. I swear its the most adorable thing ever.
-Observing people. People are strange, they never are as straight forward as they appear to be. I sit and wonder… and then wonder what they perceive me to be, then pretend I’m being watched. (see above)
-Eva Green. I want to marry her. I do not have any specific reason as to why I want to, I just do.
-Whipped Cream.
-Clear and comprehensive financial statements.
-My olive body butter.
I have a thing for papaya body butter now though.
-Organising things and messing them up: Especially my cupboards. I have to forcibly remove myself from the filing room at work because I’d just go and rearrange everything for no reason.
-Picking the mascara off my eyelashes.
-Anti-heroes, heroes, people that want to take over the world, people with alter-egos, people that parade around their local neighbourhoods in home made crime-fighter oufits
-Watermelon Martinis
I could watch cartoons over normal television if I had a choice.
-The word ‘delicious’
-Writing nonsensical ramblings
-Dancing around in my room, sometimes playing air guitar, sometimes not.

Things I don’t like:
Katie Perry’s ‘I kissed a girl’-
This is probably one of the most annoying songs and its so catchy, to make matters worse. More importantly, it has given rise to the return of ‘bisexual chic’. Please ladies, if you intend on being bi, don’t do it for the attention alone.
-Forgetting my tea for a bit and then drinking it when its cold.
-Bad sound quality.
Especially when some people put hectic bass in their cars and think its cool when their windows rattle… I’m all for earth moving and such, but not when it affects the sound quality. Or that robotic spastic sound of bad copies of songs, I don’t care how beautiful the song is, if its of inferior quality, I’d rather not listen to it.
-People that continue their conversation even though you are busy jabbering on about the same point and refuse to listen to what you have to say, later saying exactly what you said. It is annoying.
-People that think ‘Global warming’ is a conspiracy. Seriously, these people need a ‘common sense slap’.
-Bad remakes of really good songs. Most of the remakes of Michael Jackson’s stuff. He may be a plastic man/boy lover, but his stuff was awesome.
-The smell of raw eggs: For this reason, I can’t have my eggs done any way but scrambled.
-Shower curtains. With dolphins on them (shudder)
-That Sarah Palin woman
-Girls that wear low cut pants and let their bits hang out. Please, I’d rather not see your love handles, cover that shit up.
-That awkward moment after you introduce yourself to someone and they’re busy taking in your appearance and you don’t know what to do in return.
conscientiously typing the lyrics to the song I’m listening to in my emails and such. (where soul meets bodeeeeeeeeee)
-When I have to sit next to an unknown person and their arm touches mine
-Windows Vista
-Watching a sex scene in a movie when my parents are in the room.
I know I’m way too old to be feeling awkward about this, but it is my least favorite thing to do.
-Hangovers. I hate them, like a lot lot.
-People that deny the obvious. If you feel the need to ask whether your ass looks big in something, it probably does, and if it does not and you’re just asking because you want the other person to say it doesn’t, you are a poser, and you deserve a big ass. So Ha!

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Chocolate is the devil, that is why I love it.

When I was younger (around two years ago) I used to be sexy like Spock. I had these rock-like abs and legs that would make any woman dissolve in the acidity of her envy. That was before I started my career as a sometimes productive corporate monkey…

Now I’m only half as hot and totally unfit. The other day I took on the bold task of giving Mojo a bath. Not entirely the most genius of ideas, but I was getting bored of watching cartoons at 8:30 in the morning. Boy, was I in for a surprise. Not only did I spend +1 hour running after the little guy, but I did it with the gusto only an Olympic champion should possess.

Oh the pain… the sheer agony.

The next morning I woke up with the most excruciatingly sore thighs. I must have torn some muscle tissue. Not to mention the fact that I have to make myself pretty for work and wear these high pointy heels (because I’m a small person and small people need help) and walk around in them. So there I am, traipsing around like an old person, trying to look cool when all I really want to do is find a  semi-shaded spot to wallow in my self neglect.

That is when it dawned on me, I’m becoming one of those deluded people I despise so much. I have pretensia [An illness whereby the infected person pretends that things are a certain way, when in fact, they are not]. This blog is a written promise to myself to never get fat like Britney, because she too was hot once and now she’s just ‘meh’. I can’t be ‘meh’. Its not like I have buckets of sparkling personality to sustain me. One day, all this sarcastic venom that I spit out will lose its attractiveness. I need to have something else to fall back on. I need to be superficial for once (haha).

I need to *sniffle* give up chocolate.

I hereby solemnly swear that from the very moment this blog is viewable by public, I shall be a good girl and eat rabbit food (even though it tastes like cardboard). In addition, I shall come up with (and stick to) a regular exercise routine.

I am not destined to be a fat lady with a million cats.

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I may rock more than sedimentary, but I’m no geologist.

Kangaroos are martians. There, I said it. *looks around suspiciously for MIB type menfolk*

I have thought about this for a long time, given my somewhat limited attention span, a ‘long’ time means about 20 minutes roughly.


Correct me if I’m colour blind (or ‘color’ for you American folk. How’s that election going by the way? Oh wait… don’t bother, I read about it all the fucking time anyway) but does these two pictures look like they’re taken in the same regions?


Yes Yoda, they do. Red and dusty, rocks scattered along the landscape in a somewhat erratic natural fashion. I don’t know why NASA went and sent a space probe to Mars when all they had to do was look in Australia. I bet these kangaroos planned to picnic here some few million years ago and got stranded because their spaceships were made in the shapes of boomerangs and they weren’t clever enough to realise that boomerangs rebound (I know, clever enough to make spaceships but not clever enough to figure out the workings of a boomerang, I am still working on this theory) and they then educated the humans on everything from fire starting to rock painting before retiring to a little corner of the Earth that reminded them of home. Much like those Prometheus and Bob episodes except Prometheus had a tail and Bob was, well, Bob. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and ask one of them. I’m not sure if you’ll get that far though, not many people know how to speak kangaroo.

Another point worth noting: Kangaroos are ‘marsupials’. Get it? MARSupial. The official definition is something like this- an animal (usually a mammal) in which embryos complete their development in a maternal pouch called a ‘marsupium’.

Which, I’m almost certain, would make sense in the mind of a logically inclined person. Alas, I am not one of them.


I’m onto you buddy. Don’t look into the camera with those big brown shimmery eyes of yours and expect me to be pulled in by your apparent ‘cuteness’. You have caused me endless minutesmoments of turmoil. All this time I was happy with the notion that martians were green, pumping cream soda through their tiny alien type hearts, and you went and spoilt it for me.

I’m pretty sure all this means that boxing is a martian concept too, how else would your kind be able to give such precise blows to the head? That, my alien friends, was perhaps your biggest mistake. Look at Mohammed Ali. Poor guy, he’s no butterfly anymore.

I’ve also been without work for an hour. Is it obvious?

Pamela… I think your boobs are leaking.

We are all going to die.

This picture is not digitally remastered

This picture is not digitally remastered

This here picture was taken on Monday, not just any Monday, ‘The Monday’. The day when  mother nature finally decided to unleash her post PMS pent up aggression and splatter rage all along poor Durban. If any of you dear readers (yep, all 5 of you) are familiar with Durban, you will know that thunder storms such as this one never occur on the sunny shores of its tranquil albeit far too humid coastline. 

There are two possible reasons for this.

The first being slightly more rational and has fancy glittery logic supporting it: Global Warming. Made famous by politicians/celebrities such as Al Gore (more politician than celebrity) and Scarlett Johansson. This commonly used and often misunderstood catchphrase has born the brunt of all natural anomalies.

Example: Flies in your kitchen in the middle of winter? Global Warming.
Example: Pamela Anderson’s silicon infused breasts melting? Global Warming.

There are many scientific explanations and discussions I shall not interpret and provide hypothesis on, but for those (few) that are interested, this may or may not explain the recent volatile environmental activity. www.manicore.com/…/greenhouse/hurricane.html

The second, though not as rationally sound as the previous, is the much more fun alternative. That thunderstorm is a cloaking device for an alien spaceship. *cue dramatic music* This genius has been borrowed from ‘Independence Day’, that famous movie where the army man and the geek kick some serious alien ass just in time to coincide with America’s patriotic holiday. (Convenient isn’t it)

You may remember this scene. Clever aliens cloaking their spaceships with mean clouds. Reasoning behind wanting Earth is a discussion for a later date. (Or never, probably never) and then this happens:


Through a logical sequence of thought processes, I have deduced that we are indeed going to die. I’m not sure which will get us first, Global Warming or Aliens, but either way, Pamela’s surgically enhanced womanly bits are going to melt all over the place.

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More is more

I wish I was clever enough to build my own super computer.

I don’t know what I would do with it. All I seem to do on computers these days is use it to check up on the million sites I’ve registered on, write arbitrary nonsense and spy on people, random people, probably people that don’t read my blogs. I want to know why they don’t read my blogs, it intrigues me. I have shit to say. People should listen, people in positions of power, like bank managers. I’d welcome a bank manager. I could use him to get those pens on chains. I like those pens on chains, but I probably won’t like them if I could get them so easily.

I always want what I can’t have, and when I do get it, I get bored with it. I think I may just be a spoilt brat. Not that I am a brat anymore. Not that I ever was spoilt either. I don’t think I ever owned a Barbie doll. This fact disturbs and saddens me. Every girl should have a Barbie doll. I don’t know what I would have done with one. I used to make dresses for my friends’ Barbie dolls. I wanted to be a fashion designer like Brooke from ‘The Bold and The Beautiful’. I was too young to realise that Brooke was nothing but a trailer park ho. I blame my grandmother for making me watch ‘The Bold and The Beautiful’. That must be why I’m so fucked up right now. She’s the one that probably told my mother not to get me any Barbie dolls. Typical woman. They dangle a bright shimmery dream in front of you and then leave you deprived, making you believe that you’re worthless.

When I grow up, I want to be like my grandmother. The only problem with growing up is that you get old. I don’t want to get old. I’ll have to buy those face products that fools me into thinking that it would save me from the inevitable. Buying those means I’ve given up, I’m deluded.

I don’t want to be deluded. I like this universe I’ve created for myself. Sometimes. Even though I hate my job because its all numbers, people get impressed with my job title and I earn wads of cash that I spend on junk, being a part of the vicious economic cycle. Having knowledge on the inner workings of said cycle disturbs me. I shouldn’t have to create links in my head after every interest rate hike. I can’t help it, its part of me now, and I hate myself for it. This was not the dream I had for myself. Given, I had many dreams. None of them were useful. I wanted to be an astronomer once. I thought it was so cool. I grew up and realised I needed human contact. Astronomers lack human contact. Plus they live in arb places. Like Sutherland. Its freezing in Sutherland, and I’m an indian. Indian people aren’t built for cold weather. So I’d have to wear a sheep to work everyday. I’d also have to eat a lot to insulate myself. That won’t happen. I can’t get fat.

If by chance a female is reading this right now, I bet she hates me. I don’t mind, there are lots of people that hate me a little bit. Hate is a very strong emotion. I admire strong emotions, but I dislike emotionally over-bearing people, especially those that inflict their suffering on others. These people are a waste of space and should be offed.

I should rule the world. I’ll make it a nice place. Down with posers and beautiful people with nothing intelligent to say! I don’t like these people. I also don’t like people that think that ‘less is more’. Bullshit. More is more. That is why everyone is constantly updating the world with shreds of information. More is more. Information rules the world. It comes before money, power, influence and sex. If I desired to rule the world, I’d have to corrupt information. I’d need time, and money.

I’d also need a super computer. 

Blue lights an optional extra.

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How do I write a blog post without sounding like a total bitch?

So I haven’t written on here for a while because I suck. No really, I’m not even going to come up with excuses, I’m not going to tell you that my job is like running up a hill, being chased by Justin Bieber while a subsequent crowd of rabid Bieber fans run after him AND IN THE BACKGROUND, REBECCA BLACK SINGS ABOUT FRIDAY OVER AND OVER UNTIL YOU MEMORISE ALL THE DAYS OF THE WEEK. That’s possibly the worst scenario ever.

Anyway, to the point – Out of nowhere, this happens:

Firstly, Ew.

Secondly, there’s not enough breast-milk to feed this much of douchebag.

I’m sure this happens on a daily basis. At any given time, girls breasts are at risk of being dry-humped by dudes with lactose deficiency. But enough is enough, I’ve had it with these guys, the ones that hoot when I’m walking to the hairdresser, minding my own business. The ones that think that calling me ‘sweetness’ or ‘baby’ or ‘sexy’ is somehow going to get me to do 100 naked push-ups on their livingroom carpet. If you, reader, know of or are one of these guys (or girls, depending), this post is for you.

1: Sexy without subtlety is cheap

I know we women like our guys to be ‘in control’ and ‘affirmative’, but what we don’t say is that you have to beat around the bush for EONS until you get any actual bush (or branches, as is the style these days). The instant strong-armed approach only works 2% of the time, so making your instantaneous boning intentions known is probably going to backfire on you. Flatter, placate, be coy, walk away. Suspense mode: ON

2: Be present for the actual flirtation

Scenario: Attractive female walks along street, oozing Sophia Loren attitude, you see her, and in your mind, you go like this…

So naturally, you do what any guy in your situation would do.. Rev your engine, turn up the music, hoot and proceed to drive away in the most show-offy manner you possibly can. I don’t know how you expect Sophia Loren to be impressed by this if you’re driving off while she’s being enveloped in a cloud of your testosterone-flavoured dust.

Seriously, why do guys do this?

3: We really don’t care about if your card sparkles more than Edward in the sunlight.

Sometimes, you’ll meet a really nice girl who is more interested in you than your bank account. This may not apply to every girl, each to her own and whatnot, but flashing your wealth without being coerced to is a free passport to Tackyville in which you’re the sole applicant for mayorship. Sure, money is important, so is a personality. Close your wallet and grow one.

4: I like that! What? YOU DON’T? Mmm. I don’t think I like it anymore…

Don’t do this. Someone that does not stand by their convictions just to impress or to avoid conflict goes does not a good impression make.

5: Read the situation

Pay attention! Words betray body movements. If she maintains eye contact along with boundless smiles: #winning. If she’s agreeing with one word answers and looking at the shoes on the girl in the dress that totally does not go with said shoes, you lost her. See what I did there? Exactly.

6: The object of your affections is NOT YOUR PREY.

Do not back them into a corner, do not act as if they’re the kill you’ve just dragged from the unhinged-jaws of a zombie (unless you’re the hero in this situation, then by all means). Tease, don’t crowd. This is not an orgy.

7: If you want to talk to me about your gym sessions, expect to be hearing about my pathetic love of cats and shoes.

Flirty conversation should be light and general. If you’re picking me up at a gym or I indicate that it interests me, this would be the sole time that a gym related conversation would be applicable. Similarly, if you strike up a conversation about shoes, we would… wait, then you’re probably gay.

8:Flatter flatter. Lie lie. THIS TIME I’M SERIOUS DAMNIT!

“No” or “I’m not interested” does not mean “try until you make me say yes”.

9: If you want to pick up chicks, do not read The Game

South African woman are born with a bullshit detector, I know this because I’ve seen one of the classic ‘seduction’ moves in action multiple times, failed. If you’re approaching flirtation as science instead of art, you might have to work on your interpersonal skills. Natural charm trumps rehearsed gimmics/tricks every time.


So… yeah.

I probably bitch level-upped after this post.

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New Years Resolutions

1: Blog more.

2: Procrastinate less

3: Be fearless 🙂