Somebody threatened to rape my friend today. He did it in a private forum, one he thought no-one would ever see; he said it to his boy.

He’s a nice guy – well, everyone thinks he’s a nice guy. And that’s the problem. Because as much as women are in danger from GSU officers and angry thugs and rowdy makangas, we are often in greater danger from the ones we think are safe. Our fathers, or brothers, our neighbours. Our nice guys.

I have a friend. He’s smart and witty and brilliant. He’s talented and inspiring. He’s married with beautiful children. And he likes my chest. We make jokes about it all the time. Even his wife knows he’s a boob man. But he’s my friend, and so he’s safe.

But … what if he’s not? What if his words on my Double Ds are more than harmless jokes? What if when he’s alone with his boys, his jokes evolve into detailed discussions of what he’d like to do to me – whether I want him to or not?


That’s what women are really afraid of. The safe men we love and trust who turn on us. And that’s why the man who threatened my friend is such a scary violation, because he is someone she sees and interacts with every day.

How many men around us are really safe? How many of the men we say ‘good morning’ to are really thinking how they’d like to put us in a dark room and rape us? How can any woman live in a world like that? How can she stay safe and sane?

Statistics often say that 1 in 4 women are raped. That’s terrifying. So terrifying that I never want to be in a room with 4 men. Or even one man. Because, as it turns out, even my father, brother, my husband can be one of those men. Because … if 1 in 4 women have been raped, then 1 in 4 men is a rapist, right? And what are the odds that 1 man is with me in this room right now?

I have been raped. More than once. The first time, I was six or seven years old. It was the neighbourhood bully. He had a dog and everyone was terrified of him. I was too, actually. But I never showed it. I’d stand there and yell back every time he picked on me. Then he’d bring out his dog and I’d run for my life.


When he finally got his hands on me, my friends said I asked for it. I was wearing this frilly girly dress. You know the ones. And I was playing that game where I spin around until I get dizzy and my dress twirls into a pretty umbrella. So he grabbed me, locked me in his room and raped me. And my friends said it was my fault, because when I was playing my little twirly game, I showed my underwear. I was six.

I still hate dresses. 

The times after that it was men I trusted. Men I was in relationships with. Men who did things to my body that I had asked them not to do, and they didn’t stop even when my body froze and I started to cry. How many of the men I interact with every day would like to do the exact same thing?

Many years ago, when I still lived with my abusive-baby-daddy, I interned at a publishing house. The man who supervised my work was sweet, kind, and socially awkward. He was also very big. He trained me, and bought me lunch every day. He gave me tasks to do that kept me in the office late at night. But he was a nice guy. He knew I was ‘married’ and I wasn’t afraid of him.

One day at 8 p.m., he backed me into a corner and kissed me. All I could think was where’s the fucking door? How long has he wanted to do this? If he does more than kiss me, he’s too big for me to fight off. Where’s the fucking door?


When he pulled away, I smiled awkwardly, inched towards the door, reminded him I was married, and prayed he wouldn’t take things any further. He didn’t. He apologised and offered to drop me home. I agreed, because I had no other way to leave the office. But the whole ride to town, I kept my hand on  the unlocked door so I could jump out into traffic if I needed to. Thank God I didn’t.

So … how do I stay sane in a world where the nice guy at the next desk can turn on me at any time? In a world where I leave my beautiful teenage baby in the morning, exposed to a world full of men, and can only pray that she’s safe when I get home?

I focus on the other three.

If 1 in 4 men is a rapist, then 3 in 4 men are not. 3 in 4 men will protect me from the evil of the 4th. 3 in 4 men will make sure my baby gets home safe at night. 3 in 4 men will not share that rapey joke.

Here’s the thing though. That 1 man, that 1 monster that wants to rape me and would do it if he can. He’s loud. Really loud. He likes attention and he likes power. That’s what makes him a rapist. That’s what makes him come after a woman who has the presence to make him feel small simply by being herself. And in a room with 10 men, 2.5 of them are rapists, statistically. Those 2.5 are really, really loud.


Last night, I was working late again. I was alone in the office with 7 male colleagues. Statistically, 2 of those 7 men are rapists. And in a world where rapists destroy a woman’s body, mind, and soul, there’s no way I could have stayed here, alone in an office with 7 men. But I did.

How? I focused on the other 5. I told myself, over and over and over again, that even though 2 of these men might want to ambush me and break my spirit, the other 5 want to keep me safe and get me home to my baby. That’s how I live. That’s how I get out of bed every morning, leave my house and go to work. That’s how I let my baby exist in a world where I can’t always protect her. That’s how I stay sane.

Rape is a powerful weapon, and the fear of rape is stronger still. There’s a reason rape is used unnecessarily in war, in relationships, even in fiction. Because the fear of it keeps women in line. If you can’t make her wear what you want, work where you want, marry who you want, or shut up when you want, then you can make her so fucking scared that she will do what she’s told.

Womans place

You can make her so terrified (of being raped) that she will stay inside with the doors locked, which exactly where you want her to be. That’s why women who are vocal in the public sphere get so many rape threats. Whether it’s in gamergate or at the office or in traffic or on twitter, the world wants to make us so scared that we lock ourselves inside our homes and shut up. And even there, we’re not always safe.

Well guess what. I’m bigger than my house. I want to be out in the world, and I want my daughter to be out in the world. I want to do the things I want and live the life I believe. And the only way I can do that is to believe that #NotAllMen.

So to the 3 guys out of 4 that are NOT rapists, put your hand up and say ‘I’m right here.’ Not in words, because women don’t believe those anymore. Say it with your actions. Call out your boy. Tell him rape jokes are not funny, because rape is not a joke. Tell him witty remarks about kupeana bakora to a hot female GSU officer are not a pithy phrase. Make the women feel safe, not by shouting #NotAllMen but by showing #NotAllMen.


And to the girls. There are good guys out there. We can’t always spot them. We can’t always recognise them. But we have to believe they’re there. It’s the only way to keep us from locking ourselves at home and keeping our mouths shut.

Women should never be raped. Men should never rape women. It’s not ever going to be okay that even 1 woman is raped. 1 in 4 is not okay. But if we’re going to stay sane and dare to live in this world, we need to help that one survivor, punish that one rapist, and remember the other 3.

So, girls, be vigilant, be safe, protect yourself in any way you can. Teach the men not to rape, and the women to look out for each other, and for themselves. And stay sane. Remember the other three. And remember that sometimes, Twitter is that serious.

♫Why don’t you and I ♫ Santana ft Alex Band ♫

This is how it works

I don’t get friendship, so I try not to make friends. It’s a tricky thing, because when I do find someone that I like, I don’t know what to do with them.

At some point in primary school, I decided people sucked. It was around the fifth time I got dumped by a pal. I’d get people talking to me when they wanted study tips or hotdogs for break. But since I wasn’t that athletic, I never felt at peace with popular kids. It didn’t help that I was a teacher’s pet. It was never about sucking up. It was more about coming top in class and being allergic to lying. It made me an inadvertent tattle-tale. Le ouch! So when my my fifth best friend dumped me for one of the popular kids, I decided it just wasn’t worth it and ended up being a loner.

When I first went to high school, I was quiet and sullen. It’s not really my nature, but I was sort of disoriented. Here I was, the loudest girl in primary school, surrounded by 300 girls that felt the same way. Most people tried to outshine each other. I preferred to sit and watch. I mean, it’s hard to out-alpha-female over 300 alpha females.

I eventually made friends with a girl that bullied me. I found her forward and annoying, but she she kept talking to me while I tried to ignore her, and eventually, we became friends. By second term, I felt that I was getting too close. It happened during music fests.

We were performing an event that she wasn’t singing in, so she had to stay in school for the day. I suddenly realized I felt lost without her and had no one to talk to. It was unwise to have so much dependence on one person, so we ishana-d friends. I didn’t tell her that directly – I just started finding excuses not to hang with her. She was still my best friend, and we even became desk mates in 3rd Form, but I just never quite let her in after that lonely day at Saints.

In campus, I had room mates that were really very girly. I don’t get along well with girls, so I changed rooms a lot. I did finally find a crowd I got along with, but I left school soon after. I still talk to some of my pals from campus, but since I’m not that girly, we don’t have much in common.

One of my exes found it strange that all my friends are family. Either that or people from school and work. He felt I should go out and make more friends, but I didn’t really know how, and a large part of me didn’t want to. It’s strange to say I don’t know how to make friends, because I can be pretty outgoing. Most people describe me as warm and friendly, because I’m immediate. When I meet selected strangers, I treat them like I’ve known them all my life. I like people who respond in kind.

Anyway, after I had my baby, I stayed home for a while as I looked for a job. Most of my neighbours were housewives, and I’ve never fussed much about my appearance. Plus my little girl and I have polar complexions even though we have fairly similar features, so many neighbours thought I was the mboch. When I finally joined the workforce, I didn’t get much into the social scene, so nobody knew about my background or my home life. I almost always ducked office functions.

In many ways, I found my salvation online. The Internet let me mix with people while still keeping a safe distance. It started with blogs, but I wasn’t keen on blog-ups. I eventually met one blogging friend after sharing daily emails for a year. I met two other bloggers on the same day, mostly because they were pals and ended up at the same club. I hate clubs.

After that, I joined Twitter and started making friends, if you can call them that. Apparently, I was very vocal on Twitter, and people assumed I was a socialite, even though I’m really not. In a spate of insanity, I decided to meet a bunch of tweeple, one at a time. I don’t do well with crowds. For two weeks at a stretch, I had 15 tea dates with all kinds of people. It was fun, different, and interesting … but it’s not something I’d do again.

At that point, I got stuck. I’d met all these people, done all these blind dates, but … now what? Would I hang out with them routinely? Would we become a clique? Would we go back to just online? I had no clue how these things worked.

Most people meet tweeters in monthly groups or events, so it follows that the gang will reunite once a month. Twitter cliques meet often at Chess Sunday, Poetry night, Blankets & Wine, Karaoke etc. Some even become buddies and meet up every Friday or whatever. Tweet-ups are easy because there’s lots of people, so the focus isn’t on you. You’re bound to find at least one person that you know or get along with, and there’s far less pressure to be fun or entertaining. That’s hard for me because I don’t do crowds and I can’t multitask. It’s easier to just sit with one person and converse, but not everyone agrees.

Anyway, after my large spate of one-on-one dates, I decided I’d wait and see who followed up. After all, I had no idea if I’d made a good impression. Some of my blind dates were fun and I wanted to hang out again. Some people were disappointing. They’re nothing like their online personas. Luckily, I didn’t meet anyone creepy or serial-killer-esque.

I was only home for two weeks – I lived and worked in Tanzania at the time. Out of the 15 people I met, only one asked for a ‘second date’ during that period. We hung out three more times before I left, and kept in touch once I was back in TZ. It got to a point where we were talking every day and hanging out once a week, and I considered him one of my best friends. Then we had a big fight – my fault entirely – and I pulled away, just like I always do. Sigh. Hopefully, we’ll get back to that closeness someday.

After I got back to TZ, some of my other new friends kept in touch, and we’d hang out once in a while when I was home. We still do. Some of those guys are now good friends of mine, and we sometimes talk, both online and off. Out of 15 new acquaintances, I talk to three routinely.

One of the guys fell out of touch for almost two years, but we finally met up some weeks ago at iHub, and it was like no time had passed at all. That was pretty cool. The others just sort of lost contact I guess, though we still see each other online. I suppose in a way it’s kind of sad, but I’m the type that has few friends, not many random hangout-pals, so I guess that’s okay.

Last year, I noticed that I’m an initiator. I decided to experiment and not call friends or family for a while. I sent a message saying I was free in August. I was on a break, and Princess was on a trip. I knew I was really quite flexible, and hoped to catch up with all my working pals now that I had no curfew. I decided I wouldn’t follow up on the announcement. I’d wait and see who followed through.

I didn’t see a single person for six months. And when I swallowed my pride and made those calls, I ended up meeting everyone in a week. Interesting.

With some of the people that went quiet, it wasn’t a big deal. I assume they’re like that and it’s a personality thing. With others, I felt hurt and neglected, and I’m not sure why. Feminine whims I suppose. It’s hard for me being un-gendered. I mean, I’m not enough of a female to do Gossip Girl and spas, but I’m not enough of a guy to do beer, ciggies, and sports bars. I feel weird hanging out at the salon, or meeting chick pals ‘just to chat’. But I also get emotional with my male friends when they don’t return calls. It’s maddeningly confusing.

Anyway, I’m at a point where I’m seeking out people online … again … and I’m not sure why. I guess it’s some kind of cycle. I don’t know how I decide who to meet. I’ll usually do blog comments or Twitter for months, then decide they look like fun to meet. It doesn’t always go according to plan. Some people are deliberately different online. And after that first tea, I’m never really sure what comes next.

It helps when a person seeks me out before I do. Some of my online meetings started with a DM and a phone number. Then it’s easy since they made the first move. It takes the pressure off a little, and friendships like that seem to flourish. It makes me think I should just stick with those and let people find me instead. But sometimes, you just want to meet someone. You just want to see what they’re like.

There are some people that I wanted to meet, but I was unsure. They seem so beautiful and deep that I’m afraid that I’ll look five years old in contrast. But my new friend taught me an important lesson. Depth is human too, and profound people are perfectly capable of everyday conversation, so yay!

I’ve been lucky. Most of my online meet ups have been positive. There were few awkward pauses and no gawky side eyes. Sure, there were some embarrassing moments, like being stood up at the last minute or having a person ignore texts and phone calls. Those ones were ouch. But I suppose it happens to the best of us, and I’ve done some avoiding as well.

Sometimes I wonder about dating. I’ve never really dated as such – or if I did – I wasn’t aware I was doing it. I guess it’s just like my friend thing. I guess sometimes you go out with someone once or twice then decide you don’t want them at all, so you stop taking calls and etcetera, or if you’re nicer, you say it won’t work out. And maybe sometimes you meet someone, you follow up, it’s mutual, and you end up together ever after. Ideally, in a dating scenario, the follow up comes from the guy, because if it comes from the girl and he says no, well, that’s a bit of an ouch. I suppose guys can feel just as rejected, but maybe they’re used to it because it happens more often. Or maybe they just hide their feelings better.

I admit I’m afraid of the dating game. I’ve accepted it’s a man’s world, and that things go much smoother when they’re left in charge. But I’m scared about following rules. I mean, assuming I can hide my feelings long enough for him to ask me out, I have to sit still and wait for him to follow up, which could take up to six months. And all the while, I have squash any urges to call him or text him or smother him, but I have to admit that I’m interested subtly. It’s all very complicated, and sounds really exhausting. Plus, after one date [or six months] he could always decide it’s a nay. It’s so much easier to decide that I’m simply not dating.

So as I start meeting new people that are platonic, I feel a bit uncertain about ‘what next’ and I want to run away just like I always do. After all, I can’t wonder what next if I don’t try at all, right? When I do meet people from online, I lately stick with married guys. It makes it a lot less likely that I’ll catch feelings and act on them. Defense mechanism. It makes sure my friendships don’t turn into dates.

In other news, I was Googling an image for yesterday’s post and ended up chilling with Sunako Nakahara. She’s a girl who confessed her love to a boy that responded by calling her ugly. She was so traumatized that she got into horrors and adopted creepy dolls. She sometimes has sex dreams about Freddie Krueger and Jason the 13th, and she has totally no clue of how hot she is. In typical Manga fashion, her aunt recruits four super hot boys to turn her into a lady. If they succeed, they get to live rent free for three years. Please note that these kids are all 15 years old.

When I first found Sunako on wiki, she seemed really interesting. I could draw a lot of parallels, so I immediately went to tazmo and started downloading. But on reading, I find that she isn’t quite me. For one thing, I got over my horror phase at 12, and two decades later, I still punch like a girl. Also, Sunako rocks at housework and is a brilliant cook, while I occasionally make stuff that’s palatable. Today was a meat day, and I’ve done mince, liver, and quarter. The results aren’t too bad, but maybe that’s because I was on hormones and passive aggressive.

Still, I have chapters to go through and more creepy fight scenes, so maybe I’ll find my salvation when she does. Besides, wielding a Samurai sword sure beats being Aoi Sakuraba. Her spirit is beauty, and she’s a lot like me, but she’s way too girly. I wonder if that means I’ve changed. Hm.

Soobax K’Naan

Exposé on the Internet


Us Kenyans on Twitter are a scary bunch. Long before the Trey Songz and Actual Expert sagas, there was some uproar on Twitter because @shikolaptop twitpicced @kaytrixx payslip. As a result, Kenyans on Twitter ganged up and turned #Shikolaptop into a trending topic. The wording was anything but friendly.

Because I use Twitter Web rather than applications, it took a while to figure out what was going on. Apparently, Kaytrixx was changing employers, and it was rumoured that the reason was money. Shikolaptop decided to post the payslip to refute the rumours. It seems she’s some kind of accountant. The rest is dirty laundry.

The offending twitpic was eventually taken down, so I have no clue of the figures involved. It seems people were mad at Shiko for exposing dude’s earnings – that’s quite a guarded secret in Kenya. Personally, I’ll issue bank statements to anyone who asks – as long as we’re not related – so I don’t see what the big deal is. Still, it made me wonder about internet privacy.

Usually, when I’m doing a blog post, I use Google to find images. I’ve never given much thought to copyright and things like that. I know that my blog isn’t commercial. I use it to display my skills and wares, and that indirectly brings me business. But I don’t get paid for the blog itself. Based on that reasoning, I assume that no one will sue me for using their photos.

I know some may argue with that reasoning, but I function on the same principle. I don’t mind people using my work, as long as they:

(a) don’t plagiarize

(b) don’t get paid for it

I put it up for free, so no one else should earn money from it.

I suppose it’s a little harder for pictures, because they don’t always come with bylines. You can’t always tell where it came from and who took it, especially if you got it off Google.

When I first wrote this post two months ago, I wanted a picture on KCPE. I got this image of a pretty girl named Sharon Wanjiru, and there were full credits to the photographer, James Njuguna. I wanted to use the picture, but I was uneasy – it seemed too close to home. How sure am I that the girl’s parents won’t read the post and try to sue me, or that James won’t claim non-existent royalties?

I thought about the other pictures I use. They’re usually random shots of strange kids in cute poses. I assume that they’re models, and that they wouldn’t mind the exposure, but who’s to say their parents don’t see shots on blogs and look for lawyers? Where’s the line?

[It’s like the argument I use to torrent movies, books, and rock, yet I’d never pirate local films or music. Weird.]

Another assumption is if it’s on the internet, it’s free to use. After all, if you didn’t want it used, it wouldn’t be online, right?

Well, here’s the thing. My … relatives … have a talent for stealing pictures. I don’t know how we do it [or why] but if you enter any of our houses, you’ll find baby photos people shouldn’t have. I personally have infant pictures of my grandparents, and they given weren’t willingly. Hence, our albums are padlocked with combination lockers – just in case the ‘models’ try to take their photos back.

In the digital age, it’s even easier. I’ve made an album of my nieces and nephews [I have like 50 of them] simply by raiding my relatives’ Facebook pages. Granted the pictures are under tight security, and not just anyone can view them, but if I could access the shots so easily, anyone can.

I took up the task for family reasons, but I could do it with rivals, bosses, or even exes. Combine that with some soap opera tactics and a lot of damage could be done. Before you know it, interesting pictures from your boyfriend’s profile could end up in a national daily … or a stranger’s blog. *shudder*

Where’s the line? When is it okay to download, save, copy, and paste … and when is it not? What does this mean for photographer’s livelihoods or babies’ birthday parties?

I suppose the logical thing to do is not to post any pictures online. I’m consoled that my Facebook shots are private, but they can still be accessed by a friend of a friend of a friend, and of course once the pictures are tagged, all bets are off, yes?

Plus … what happens when you’re unfriended and the pictures are still on their hard drive? How do I know that my personal pictures aren’t showing up Google images under ‘free for all’?

I think I’ll be more careful about finding out where pictures are from and attributing them, even if it’s only with a url caption. It could save some baby’s privacy, and it’s way cheaper than getting a lawyer.

PS: Please don’t hotlink. Decent attribution is one thing, but stealing bandwidth is just not cool.

The science of getting drunk

I’ve always hated alcohol. Or rather, I’ve always hated the idea of alcohol. I grew up watching sensible people get daft with some booze in their system. I’m haunted by the image of two adults in a car arguing over the car keys. We’d left a party late at night, and both of them were drunk. One was driving on the curb, and the other was trying to snatch the keys. It was the middle of the night, and we were on some back road in Eastleigh. I was 9 years old.

I also remember a relative staggering into my room while I studied. I was listening to music and pretending not to see him, but I wondered what would happen if I screamed, and whether anyone would hear me, since we were completely alone in the house.

Growing up, the adults had a policy about booze. They figured if you drank enough as a kid, you’d be sober as an adult. We had family at AFCO, so the house was better stocked than any bar. The theory worked pretty well, because both my brothers are in their 20s, and they’re strictly tea and Red Bull. Me, on the other hand, I had … issues. See, on the surface, I was haunted by drunken adult arguments. But a few levels down, I liked the taste of some of those spirity-looking things. I know I don’t like the taste of beer, but some of those random dark liquids were hot liquid sugar. But since I was too busy sneering when I was cajoled into sipping, I couldn’t turn around and say,

‘Ooooh that one was really good? What’s it called?’

The problem was compounded when I discovered altar wine. I made a plan to hide inside a closet as an adult, and sip on endless wine-rum-whisky-gold-drinks till I could find the one that was so good. The closest I’ve gotten to that elusive taste is Cognac, Baileys, and Chamdor Mango Chilled. I did have this dry white wine at a party once, and it was really good. But I stopped on the third glass because although I didn’t feel drunk, my voice got way too loud, and the in-laws were giving me awkward looks.

On the surface, I still abhor alcohol, so my friends constantly accuse of kuwapima akili. They feel that when they’re high and I’m sober, then I’m feeling superior. There have been several attempts to spike my Malta and bully me into booze. So far, they’ve been unsuccessful.

Nicotine is pretty much the same thing. I don’t know how it happened, because I grew up around smokers, and nobody ever told me it was bad. I remember being threatened with a spanking because I’d voiced a thought to flash some cigars down the toilet. The point was to prevent lung cancer. I also remember the look of shock on one adult’s face when a toddler tried to light up first an OB, then a rolled up cardboard box. He was spanked within a inch of his … well … it was a pretty nasty lashing.

Still, I’ve never wanted a cigarette. It just never interested me. I did light up once, at age 22. It was mostly to impress my date – and I did – I didn’t cough. I remember feeling really relaxed while I had it in my hand, wondering why I’d never smoked before, and thanking God I’d never picked up the habit. I could see how the euphoria got addictive.

Back to today, or rather, last year. I got home after a stint abroad [read Tanzania] with ideas of trying Baileys. My pals had always told me that I’d like it, since it tastes like chocolate. So when my baby was away, during a really bad bout of PMS, I bought a bottle and nursed it.

It wasn’t what I expected. The first sip was heaven, pure liquid chocolate. The second sip felt like needles on my tongue. I wasn’t impressed. I went online checking for cocktails and drinking tips. They said, ‘Put it in coffee,’ but I don’t really do coffee. It turns me into a squirrel on crack. The next choice was drinking chocolate, but that didn’t work either. Then it said, ‘Try it neat on ice.’ As Lasanda would say, ‘And it’s a Bingo!’ Since then, I’ve had several sessions of Irish Cream on the rocks. Pure heaven. Of course, it’s dairy based, so I have painful cramps for days afterwards … milk allergies. Also, gas.

And just so you know, Weetabix + Baileys = Bad idea.

A few days ago, irreconcilable differences left me in the friend zone. I figured the best way to get over it was to get drunk and pass out. This had never happened before, even though I go through a bottle of Baileys at a time. I always wonder what I’m like when I’m drunk. As far as I know, I talk a lot and get giggly, but there’s no significant difference in behaviour. Still, I’ve been told I’m cute when I’m drunk. *shrug*

I decided to try Malibu, since, you know, that other stuff gives me bad cramps and gas. The first sip was heaven. It went straight to my head and I had to hold the chair to keep from falling over.  I felt instantly drunk and shot off a few drunk messages that I shouldn’t have. One got me yelled at, one got me laughed at, one solicited an offer of free alcohol.

I remember thinking Malibu  had a vague, sweet taste, but that’s probably something I got off Wikipedia. It didn’t have the oomph that Baileys had, but then again, it wouldn’t bug my allergies, and everybody loves coconut. It’s not something I’d buy again though. It may have made me drunk faster, but it had no character.

After a while, it settled in my system, especially when I added pineapple juice and coke. Together. [Pinacolada doesn’t work too well when you use Malibu and Picana. The coke was to hide the nasty, annoying taste. It was nothing like cocopine.]

I didn’t feel better after one glass, though my vision was blurry, and I did shoot off a few more unwise emails. In my defense, they all seemed like good ideas at the time, and I said on Twitter, I’ll never judge a drunk dialler again.

I figured I should finish off the bottle, since it’s a bad idea to have booze in the house. Nothing good can come from it. I drank the the third glass at a gulp so I could finish faster, but during my last glass of mostly neat Malibu with a teaspoonful of coke and 29 ice cubes, I felt positively sick. I couldn’t see straight, the ground seemed really close, and the food in my tummy was dancing around. I figured I’d pour what was left in my glass and switch to Eno. That was one expensive piece of drainage just then.

The Eno didn’t help, and I rushed to the toilet and threw up so violently that I felt instantly sober. Jeez! I remembered some advice I was given and followed up with a litre of water. [Well, 750ml. Three glasses was all I could manage.] Then I had to clean the sink and scrub the toilet. Also, I roughly brushed my teeth, because they felt gross!

I kept chanting never again, never again, never again – that and cursing a lot, now that I could see straight and stand without swaying. But I was smiling on the inside, because I know everyone says that while they’re throwing up. I crawled into bed and blacked out, and I didn’t once turn until morning, which is really strange for me.

The next day, I woke up with no hangover, [thank God] feeling surprisingly calm. I shot off sensible [if somewhat apologetic] emails and even got a little work done. I walked to the shop and smiled at happy couples, which was strange for me. I decided I’d keep of guys for a while, because scrubbing puke-filled toilets is no fun, and also, being friend-zoned twice in two months is a sign that something needs to be fixed, quickly.

I don’t know what it was that made me feel so easy. I don’t want to believe the simple cure of heartache is being drunk and puking our guts out. Also, Malibu is really expensive! But for some reason, I feel a lot better now, and 2011 looks better than it did on the 1st.

I just hope nobody messes this by asking me out *furrowed brow*

Of course, the moral question I took from all this is … how will I teach Princess that drinking is bad? Do I even need to? After all, she had an alcoholic father, so she sneers at any sign of drunks. Also, nobody told me cigarettes [and drugs] were bad. I learnt the lessons all by myself with no help from bad experience or scary posters. Maybe my baby will imbibe her lesson the same way. A mum can dream, can’t she?

Still, just to be safe, we’ve already had the ‘keep-your-legs-shut-drugs-are-bad-cigarettes-make-your-breath-smell’ talk. Sadly, she’s curious about cigarettes and she has no concept of lung cancer. At least her grandad doesn’t smoke a pipe anymore. I’ll start with the Hail Marys now.


Revisiting Inception and random twitter rants

I spent the day on back-to-school errands. My baby wouldn’t come with me [she prefers to sit home watching cartoons and stuff], so I rushed to town armed with colour preferences and her shoe size. Several hours later, I had sore arms, mad feet, and girly purple sundresses.

Don’t ask.

I needed to unwind, so after losing the battle craving for cold milk, I decided to re-watch Inception. I watched it a while back and didn’t think that much of it, but I figured a clearer copy would help. It didn’t.

I did watch the first 15 minutes – the ones that were missing from my CAM copy. Turns out it was closer to 5, so I hadn’t really missed much. I had a clearer understanding of the mad maths, I maintain that the Indian dude is hot, and the gravity fight scenes were still awesome. I liked the warm, fuzzy portions at the end – they made me smile. And I love the music score. Other than that, I’m indifferent to the movie. It didn’t mess with my mind or make me question reality. To me, the whole thing was just plain silly.

I noticed one thing that I missed the first time. I noticed that the top keeps spinning in the end. I know that’s supposed to boggle my mind and make me wonder if he was really dreaming. It’s supposed to give credence to the thread on the DR post.

But I just found it annoying. I mean, the top was clearly wobbling, and if the cameraman hadn’t cut the shot and gone off to get coffee, it would have tipped over. So it didn’t make me ask if it was all a dream. Instead, it made me think of those annoying horror films where the last scene always leaves you humming ‘dun dun dun duuuuuuuun’ *dramatic cut scene and convenient excuse for a sequel*

You know, like when the hero is kissing the lady he just rescued, and in the background, a zombie hand shoots out of the grave … just before the credits roll? Like that.

Moving on.

I like to link tweets to blogs. It’s fun. It leaves a paper trail of sorts, like a cyber jigsaw, and I like jigsaws. So when New Twitter started hiding time stamps, I got a little annoyed.

Actually, I got a lot annoyed.

I always liked New Twitter. It has some really awesome features, and it’s pretty too. I hate that it doesn’t show where you’re tweeting from. Web vs Gravity is a sneaky way of finding out where somebody is sitting. But the feature that says *3 minutes ago* or *1 hour ago* is what helps you pin down a tweet. You click on that section and the individual tweet fills the screen. That way, you can link to it specifically, rather than zoning an entire timeline.

Meh. Sometimes I wonder if I make sense to anyone but me. Or maybe I just need milk.