I was out for a walk during my lunch break and after a series of thoughts that started with my purchase of yoghurt yesterday (heartburns), my thoughts led me to the realization that we ‘carry forward’ baggage from our past relationship into new ones and put them under the label of ‘Experience’ when it really isn’t.
I am not dismissing the entire notion that experience is important but just because your previous boyfriend didn’t take you out on dates and just wanted you to constantly go over to his place (then call you when he is out with his boys plastered later that night), does not mean that this new boyfriend wants to hide you. It could be because he is broke and you going over is the cheaper option!
FYI: If his brokenness is an issue to you, move on. You are not bound to them. You are dating the guy, not married to him.
That said I was looking at my current one-ness-ness and how a lot of what I do is dictated by my previous relationships and such like interactions. For example: when a guy says he likes me for the first time and the feeling is not mutual I am always tempted to blurt out ‘bull poo!’ simply because the previous guy who told me that wanted us to exchange bodily fluids that I was very keen to keep to myself.
And this right here is a ‘carry forward’ moment.
My best friend’s mother once said, ‘Not every guy who likes you wants to date you.’
A man may be genuine but there I am being la feminist, Little Miss Independent (I am acknowledging my height here), Miss I Don’t Need A Man To Make Me Happy… So my suggesting ladies is, check yourself! If you react a certain way towards dudes from Mars then ponder on why that is so. Marsanites are humans too with feelings; sometimes we Venusaites overlook and treat them like machines- there to cater for our emotional and financial needs.
So ladies let’s play a game called Find the Root. The persons who is able to treat a man as a person with a unique and individual identity wins 😀
PS: If there are typos pole. My eyes are dry and grainy.
I pulled the trigger one more time but once again missed on purpose. I was not afraid that I would kill him, no, that was not the issue. I was just afraid of killing what we had, whatever that was. See I loved the dysfunctional relationship we had. He would not listen and I was not gentle with him. I wanted him to roll over and he just wanted to laze around one day and cause havoc on the next. I was tired of the roller coaster ride but wouldn’t give him away. I was never good at sharing.
One day he ate a small screw driver I had hidden in his bowl and when the doctor said he couldn’t get it out- the incompetence of the village folk in the town is great- I took him back to my ranch.
The riffle was still smoking and dust was just settling. Three bullets were now launched to the ground a distance away from him. I took it all in- his flinching, his panic when the gun went off and the relief, whimpering, the big eyes. He would plead, the whimper getting louder with every bullet. I bent down and hugged him, giving him the security he longed for. Though he was laying on his side on the ground, his tail wagged.
I stood up and walked away, leaving his intestines to bleed out within him.
I came back in the night fall. His breathing had slowed, his cries labored, his eyes closed.
I was the one going to say when he died.
PS: This piece is metaphorical. I am against animal cruelty.
You know how they say inspiration is everywhere?
Skype is one of the quickest ways to communicate
gossip small bits of information around in an office. Like every tool, Skype is abused. And such was the case before this post/rant came into conception.
Thus goes the conversation between a colleague and I:
click to enlarge
At this point I 1) find this totally hilarious 2) really don’t care if he sees this post because if he has a problem with it he can 3) take a number! 😀
I make me laugh…
I can’t help wonder at the change in gender roles in society. My elder brother likes making sexist jokes like, ‘Why do women have short toes? So that they can reach the kitchen sink better’ or sometimes when he gets me doing the dishes he says something like, ‘It’s good you know your place.’ But as women we have come a long way from that. HowEVER, I think the ‘what a man can do a woman can do too/better’ is hogwash. This is because when the sentence is flipped round, it is still hogwash. Men are better at doing men and we are better at doing women. If you giggled after reading that statement just know you are not alone, society has managed to make common verbs sexual.
I believe in women doing what are considered ‘male roles’ but not doing ‘what men do’. That is why we have a good percentage of women in the US in top level management. But this is Africa and this is Kenya so that ship, like that which brought forth English, will take a while to get here.
See my problem with the above conversation is not that I cannot buy him a drink. Really, I can, if he had just asked nicely. Okay that is a lie. I have to know you well enough and consider you a friend before I buy you a drink. Why? Simple: you are not a priority in my budget. But let’s ignore what I just said and stick to the ‘yes I really can do this manly role and buy a
female man drinks.’ My issue was the word ‘owe’ was introduced to the equation. I know you know what owe means but there is need to emphasize this. Besides, Google is our friend.
- have an obligation to pay or repay (something, especially money) in return for something received.
At this point I have nothing to say. I mean, really? I have only had small talk (beyond the ‘good morning how is work’ pleasantries, once. ONCE!
Surely. Come on son!
So I subscribed for daily 10 minute writing prompts and today was ‘write about a character named Pillow.’ At first I was blank but once I got writing, I amused even myself 😀
We have a thing, he and I. I always seem to think about him whenever my eyes are at half mast and my body wants to collapse, or when tears threaten to overtake me. Pillow… I say his name dreamily, as though he was here with me. But alas, he is! There, in my thoughts he lingers. He floats by depending on what I dress him. Today he looks girly- he looked manly in pink last week- yea, he can pull it off.
I am tired, I want to sleep, so when you tell me to write of a character named Pillow, I will write about him as though he has breath.
I want to inhale him, I want to touch him softly, let my finger tips linger at the edges, caress him gently whenever I want to turn. I want to sink my head into him, laugh into him and sigh in relief and pleasure; the ease he brings to my mind. I want to occupy all of him. Not greedily but piece by piece and leave his other spaces yearning for my skin, for warmth. I won’t be long love, I whisper. I don’t like him wet, no, he is not that type. I leave my mouth shut and let my digestive juices rest in a pool inside my cheek until the next swallow.
O things I could and will do for you!
You take me to a world that I yearn to stay in where honey flows, but you are still my comforter when crimson themes slamberland. I can’t wait to see you tonight Pillow. Heck, it’s the only action I get- everyday. I love you.
Sleep depraved (and slightly nuts) Wambaire.