alright, so I don't really have a reason for this blog.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
As Jah is My Witness
I just digested an insult.
I am shaken. Troubled. Distressed. Can things be that bad? Has the world disintegrated into a degenerate, callous, society of utter chaos?! Forget that I'm still in mourning from breaking my fav sunglasses yesterday and I must now resort to decrusting my eyes before leaving the house. Forget that I just realized over my morning cancer stick that I may have to adopt to give THA KID the little brother/sis he's been nagging me about for months, since I may be getting hot flashes before the arrival of Mr. He'll Do. (No, not a Nigerian, that I'm 72% sure of, but we can get into that another time.) Nay, this level of mental anguish is not something I would wish on my worst enemy's dog.
So I was surfing Nig blogs and stumbled across Naija Jams, where I happened upon a picture of Sola Idowu aka Weird MC. Seeing that I was too preoccupied then with partying my ass off during my brief tryst with a Nigerian tertiary education (I have since changed my ways o) to try to find out what the lady looks like, I was only mildly amused when my groundbreaking haircut (which gave wanna-be chicas the gumption to attempt and fail at such a feat in late-1990's Lagos--aptly named "baby curls" back in the day, go ahead and shudder) moved some closed-minded sonofabi**ch masquerading as my friend to comment that I sorta looked like Weird MC. It was my "sexy" tomboy stage, and being HHD (Hotness in Hi-Def), I paid him no mind. But now, the shock of it all...DAMN HIM!! So what if it happened almost a decade ago? The face I had then is sure as hell the same as I have now (plus, er, slight rosiness/bloat) and the wound that wasn't there has reopened and I am going to track down sonofab**ch and redefine his existence.
It's a dark, dark day in Dodge City. I'm running out of cigarettes. I need to quit, anyway. Benson isn't as good to me as he used to be. All men are bastards.
(Sorry, Nick, I know Jess' allegations are yet to be proved, but using Mr. Pitt's mug would have assigned greater status to BABY DADDY than he deserves. This way, he knows his proper station in life.)
Big ups to yours truly for arriving at Break-Up Grief Stage #II--Anger. (Apparently, Kubler-Ross jumbled them up cos depression came with and after denial, so I guess that makes anger #3.) I'VE FINALLY GOTTEN RID OF BABY DADDY!! Well, it took finding out about his confirmed x-outside distractions (x being equal to or greater than 3) followed by horrible, horrible fights to finally and irreversibly cinch it, but it's done and maybe I can now progress beyond my week-long juvenile fantasy of keying his ride in the middle of the night. And trash-talking him to everyone who'll lend an ear. Shoulda taken chica's advice two years ago--seeing that I'm quite the home improvement maven--and stuck some catfish in x+1 outlets in his apartment. (x represents each distraction.) Ah, regret. It's a b**ch. Especially after y-years of hell with Wandering Crotch (y being greater than 6). Trust me: if you choose to do this, trying to figure out where the smell is coming from will drive your ex to tears, but first confirm that you can work a screwdriver. These people obviously don't know what they're talking about.) Thank God for the good Christian woman in me who prevents the full exacting of my wrath. Assuredly, that still small voice whispers, "Let him go in peace and die a prolonged, painful, severe-priapism-inducing death from v venereal diseases after filing for bankruptcy in 2.5 years and being forced to live on the streets and contract more venereal diseases before aforementioned demise." The milk of human kindness does abound in my heart. Look here, if we were back home, I would have simply yelled, "Ole! Ole!" ("Thief! Thief!) and waited for divine angry mob retribution by way of tires thrown onto the offending party, with something trying to remember where they put the gasoline and matches. Ah, the smell of burning rubber in the morning. (Question: where do the tires come from? They always seem to be street-justice ready.)
So after ignoring my phone for almost a month, due to a bout of illness which allowed me to concentrate on the language of my death threats to BABY DADDY, I will tonight begin to reconnect with friends to whom my current silence indicates my return to the fatherland due to White House bugging of my phone. (I'll call them tomorrow.) Time to show off my recent weight loss before the battle of the bulge threatens to once again rear its ugly head. Besides, I'm 29--officially 22 still--and still available, so why not paint the town pink, as a certain venerable chica would put it? Whip out the skinny jeans. Let the fellas know I'm back on the rack. Whore a little.
What the hell is up with Fergie aka The Black-Eyed Pee?? (Cycling-shorts-era news indeed, but I haven't been paying much attention to groundbreaking news coverage for a while.) And the crimes against mammaries (borrowed term) at last week's Golden Globes? From Drew to Emma, no boob was left unturned. I'm spooked. Excuse me while I go find my B-cups to go to sleep in.
OK, so I'm a mother and I can't exactly whore. Besides, I need to resolve current cash flow hiccup. (Need to cut nails cos they're once again getting in way of effective typing.) And I need to figure out what to do with life after recent career snafu. And by snafu, I mean state of mind-boggling boredom. Considering anything where I'm in total control. Hmm. Doesn't exactly throw open the floodgates of opportunity, so I'll settle for something design-related for now. Started drawing again and it's sooo therapeutic..whenever I can break away from TNT's and SciFi's compelling programming...at least, it was therapeutic until THA KID decided that my it-took-four-hours-to-produce-till-my-eyes-glazed-over sketch of him required lip and nose accentuation by an art restorer with milk teeth. Well, serves me right; I made him show it to every relative/visitor/maintenance man who ventured over the threshold. (I admit it: I can, when duty calls, be an exhibitionist.)
Anyhoo, 2006 will be a great year. I'm sure as hell gonna make damn sure of it. Off to a rocky start, but there were 13 months in a year last I checked. Once I wash my hair, I'll be set!
