of my secret crush... who i love and want to marry

Have I ever told you my secret crush? Well, not so secret really. Everyone knows.

Well, now they do.

I think he is lovely. I drool when I see these pics.

sigheth.

Oh - Jonathan Breeze, how I love thee. Come here and spank me.

Please.



ok. I'm embarrassed now. Ignore above.




drool. drool. drool.



hmm. milkshake anyone?

...sigh...

of randomness... because I am

Boi ya ka sha (that’s how I would spell it anyway)


I want to tell you the story of my dear friend who we shall refer to as Nu.

She’s generally very sweet. And she burps. Which is incredibly funny. Especially when we are in a bar, or at Woolies. (The other day she burped inside Tappa’s and someone said “oh my god, are we on the Bluff?)

That was me. hehehe.

Nu is older than me, by I think about 42years? No. Not really. But this post is about age. And most importantly, Nu’s age… She is 42, I am 29.

My dear Nu was telling me just the other evening, while we were sitting outside on the grass drinking Bacardi and coke zero, smoking a joint and eating parmesan, that she wished she had more friends her own age.

“But Nu” I said. “Anything much older than you is dead!”

And we laughed. But not because it was funny. We were high remember?

Anyway – I’m still in a bit of shock after hearing all this. Trade in the younger model for an older model? That’s just absurd. It does not make sense to me. Either way, I’ve devised a plan of action. I’ve come up with a few ideas on how to meet people after 40. (any other suggestions welcome)

Start a book club
Do your shopping on Tuesday’s afternoons. Its pensioner’s day.
Volunteer at TAFTA – drive the bus on Tuesday’s.
Get a “ring” tan. Join a “Divorce Support” group.
Start bird watching.
Start accepting invites to your friends children’s weddings.
Decoupage is the new Pottery class. If you are over 40.


I told Nu that I was disgusted that she would say such things to me.
I’m not straight enough.
I’m not tall enough.
I’m not old enough.

I feel like the kid at the funfair who is not allowed on the rollercoaster because I’m less than 1meter tall (which is just about right).

And we laughed. Because that was funny. And by then we weren’t high anymore. So we smoked another joint and then we were. And we laughed.

I looked up to the moon, which we all know I adore, and it was full, with a milky gold hue around it. I confessed to Nu, that when I was younger, just a wee little Wozzlet, that I really believed there was a man on the moon!

Nu burped and said “when I was younger, there had not even been a man on the moon”

And we laughed. Because that was funny. And we were high.

And then we poured another Bacardi and coke zero. And I went to look for more cheese.



The end.

my thong song

I bought a thong.
I don’t really understand why I bought a thong. But I did.

And I wish I had not.

I was there. I saw them. Lying exposed in the men’s underwear display – thongs. And I thought to myself “everyone deserves the right to feel sexy. Thongs are sexy. Right?”

Wrong.

Very, very, very wrong. You are allowed to feel sexy, and by all means, please do. But not everyone is meant to feel sexy in a thong.

So there I was, in my new HOT RED (yip. Mistake number one) thong – modelling around the bedroom, my very own man hips swaying involuntarily of themselves, trying my utmost best to get my boyfriend in “the mood” when he blurts out “You look like a giant tomato pulling a zap sign at me walking around in that. Destroy it”

Well, I tell you, that’s not all that was destroyed on fatal evening : code named : thong cock up. My poor heart was too. And so I said “dam you! You’ll get this thong stuck in your head!”

And then we both laughed because thong sounds like song. With a lithp.




thank you. that is all.

some early morning C&H

of goldfish and people and their similarities

I’m a manipulator. I am quite proud of this fact. Not in the evil, bitchy way the villains in a soapie are manipulators. More of a “I know how to and so I use it to get my way”

I’ve come to believe that people are very much like goldfish. I have goldfish and I’ve spent a lot of time observing them – goldfish do nothing really. They swim. They eat. They poop. Once a day I feed them. They know now, I’m sure, that every morning at 5am Daddy Wozzel comes through and sprinkles flakes into the tank. Like manna from heaven. Only it’s fishy. I can walk past the tank anytime of the day and tap the lid and what will those little fishies do? They frantically swim to the top in expectation of food.

This is why I think people are like goldfish. I read people well. I know what to say to who, when and how to say it. I bat my eyelids and smile and try put the cutest sweetest face on when dealing with a lady. When I’m dealing with an obviously straight “man’s man” I just as easily put on the more macho “howzit bru” look. I look for the weak spots or soft spots in a person – I learn what persons interests are, what makes them tick, what makes them think. And once I’ve gathered all of that I use it to my own advantage.

So far, so good.

I have a great job. The best office space in the department. I get to do pretty much what I want. I get to take time off when I want, I am asked for my opinion. I’m included in things that others in my department are not. And this is because just like my little fish that get fed a little bit each day – just enough for them not to get greedy – I feed people the information they want. I tell them what they want to hear or what they need to hear, sometimes stuff that they don’t need to hear. I befriend them. I make them number one. And again, just like those goldfish, when I walk past they come swimming to me hoping for more… but they only get what I give them and when I want to give it to them. And in return I get what I want. The truth is, and I don’t want it to sounds terrible, but people are jealous of me at work and I'm seen as someone who always gets his way - yet I’m still the favorite amongst them all, because I know how to handle them.

Only I am the one scoring because I’m the one playing the game and I’m the one keeping count and when I’m the one who wants something or needs something I know exactly where to go and who to speak to – to get it. I have ambition. I have goals. And I'm not scared to step on a few heads or scratch a few backs to reach them.

Yes. Yes. I know. Quite ingenious isn’t it?

cut and blow

I had my hair cut yesterday. I went to a salon I had not been to before, so naturally I was a little hesitant. You see, I have very mean, spiteful hair that refuses to co-operate with anyone, being temperamental and all, I get nervous when someone new cuts it. I’m always a little worried my hair will say something rude or bite them.

One just never knows with obnoxious hair.

So there I was – seated, and this young lady started cutting my hair and chatting away. Next thing I realise she is flirting with me. I’m terrible at reading signs and can never be sure of these things. She said “you have beautiful curls” and so I said “thank you, now cut them off please” and then she said “you’re quite a good looking young man” and I blushed and said “thank you, my boyfriend also thinks so” and then she was like “oh, you’re gay? All the good guys are gay” and I said “well, there was this one time…” and she laughed, and I laughed…

And I only paid R50.00 – for a haircut. In Mount Edgecombe. That’s unheard of.

I was quite pleased to learn I can use my looks to get what I want (and discounted hair cuts) and so immediately started thinking of all the things I could get and how I can use my looks to do so.

Only then the bubble popped and I came back down to earth. I mean really now, 29 years and I’m only realising this now. Clearly I’m mistaken.

Which just made me feel sad. At least I have good hair today.

of packing boxes... which I hate

When my boyfriend and I met I was living with a roommate in a beautiful large Town House. It was my roommate who suggested / invited my boyfriend to move in with us. It was a crazy and intimidating situation considering that the boyfriend and I had only been together for 4 months at the time and the dynamics of all three of us living together was scary. And after much consideration and debate it was decided that he would move in with us and another year later it’s all worked out wonderfully.

Of course people change. And the last year has been one of great change and shift. We have had a few issues here and there. Now and again something crops up and there is a disagreement amongst the three of us. The last two months have been particularly tough. There have been a few more arguments. A few more outbursts. And slowly I started hating home. I did not feel comfortable anymore. I felt like I had no space.

This weekend the boyfriend and I went and looked at a new home. We fell in love with the space. We still have a safe secure inside, lock up parking. We still have our own private garden (this is huge for me) – we are still in the same area, central. Close to the beach. Just outside the city. And I am in my element.

It worked well while it lasted all of us together, and now my boyfriend and I get to start doing things our own way. In our own space. And I think it’s bloody marvellous.

I just hate packing and now I need to get some boxes…




(ps, for those who follow my blog… the new place happens to be the apartment that “the friend” lives in, he is moving… no one can say this was not meant to be, it all just seems to fit together perfectly)