Posted on by crystal · 13 Comments

The truth rarely sets you free

 

Lucid self expression is a gift. It lets you know exactly how you feel, and shows it to others too. But the thing with expression is that it’s still subjective. When thoughts are in your head, they mean what you want them to mean. Once they’re out in the open, people interpret them how they want, and like Darius says, sometimes a person’s opinion of you is their biased reaction, not fact. Of course, bias can be positive or negative, and is flavoured by their life experiences, morals, mental processes … and that morning’s traffic.

I did a stupid thing yesterday. I feel alseep to fantasies of my Ex. So naturally, he filled up all my dreams, breaking me over and over again. I need Actifed. I finally woke up, exhausted, but I can still hear his voice in my head. It makes random expressions I adore, and sometimes it comes with his face and his smile.  Sigh.

I don’t have that many exes, so I don’t have much to compare to, but it seems like this hurts more than others. I suppose it’s because the others had warning. There were signs and symptoms, so I had time to mentally prepare myself for the bombshell. But this time it was sudden. It’s like walking into work expecting a promotion and getting fired instead. No other break-up drove me to drink, though ovulation/PMS sometimes does. I thought I had purged it with puke, but apparently, this ish doesn’t work like that. It bites.

Of course I know it’s all my fault for dwelling on him, and that it’s dumb to show weakness. I’m supposed to act all strong and tough – pretend I feel nothing. But I’m not very good at hiding my feelings. That’s part of the whole problem – I wear my heart on my sleeve, and sometimes, people don’t like what they see on that sleeve. Oh well.

I had one Ex tell me he isn’t built for relationships, because he always seems to hurt people. He’d decided to go eunuch. I took it as a sign that I’d put him off women. But I kind of feel like that now, like I’m not built for this love thing. Strange for a heart so full of love.

Did I even love him? I wasn’t with him long enough to love him, but I must have if it hurts this much a whole week later. I usually get over guys way faster than that. But that’s probably because all the other times, it was me that walked away. The one other time I got dumped, I had two weeks of silent treatment to get paranoid, cry like a dog, and prepare for the worst. So when he finally said, ‘let’s just be friends,’ I said, ‘Ok,’ and got a new date in three days. I actually still count him as a friend, and that’s saying a lot, because all my other exes range from blank indifference to regular sessions of imagicution.

Sad thing is … if any of them changed their minds and took me back, I’d just say no. I think I’m better on my own. And this time round, I’m learning to lie, so when I next get asked out, I’m claiming I’m a married lesbian. Some men love a challenge, and lying  beats drawing this kind of reaction.

Via nopantschallenge.blogspot.com

I was watching Ally McBeal yesterday, the episode where she gets her theme song and has a kick-box-cat-fight with Georgia. I used to think I was a lot like Ally, searching for my perpetual love, knowing The One was with somebody else, having a sickeningly healthy friendship with his current while secretly wanting to smack her backwards. Yesterday, I felt sad making those comparisons, because I don’t believe in her anymore. And if she doesn’t really exist, then maybe I don’t exist either. I suppose that’s what started this whole thing. Or maybe it’s PMS.

Or maybe I just need a new theme song. Trouble is … all the music in my head is loud, angry, angstious, and filled with guitars. Now there’s an idea…

♫ Gone forever ♫ Three Days Grace ♫

Posted on by crystal · 29 Comments

Mr Blue and Ms Pink

I don’t like to spend a lot on phones, mostly because I’m so good at not having them. If it’s not stolen, mugged, or borrowed, it’s falling in water or somehow getting donated. My system is to buy a low-cost phone, then I don’t feel the pinch when it goes missing. The priciest phone I ever bought was a 1680, and I gave up on it when the internet wouldn’t work. I suspect it’s Chinese, because the Nokia Handshake breaks in half.

A few weeks ago, my 1203 fell into water. Well actually, what happened is I put it in a juala with a borrowed plastic dish. I had just washed it [the dish, not the phone] and was taking it back to its owner. The water somehow got into the phone and the screen went blank. I dismantled it and dried out the parts. It seemed fine, but it kept dying half way through my phone calls and refusing to accept security codes.

A few days later, Princess was using it as a torch when it fell into some water in the bathroom. I’m not too sure which water exactly, because the lights were out, but I took it as a sign for a new handset. I settled for a Nokla 2700. There’s an authentic looking NOKIA on the faceplate, and the only way I know he’s not true Nokia is the box he came in *pointing up there*. Also, the writing on his back says ‘flashlight’, while Nokias … don’t. The plastic casing is different too.

Googling Nokia 2700 will also show you that in the original, the label goes above the screen, not below it. There’s no mention of FM on the faceplate, and the original Nokia camera is 2.0 MP, while mine claims a whopping 5.0. Also, Nokia doesn’t generally do twin sims. I don’t really mind, because he has all needed features: radio, internet, recording, and even memory slots.

The trouble started when I looked into the packaging. It uses a Nokia battery, but not a Nokia charger. The charger itself is shifty and you have to tweak it to make it work. The box had no instructions, and a few of the phone’s features don’t work. For example, the phone wouldn’t vibrate, and it had no status reports. There’s a setting in ‘Common’ where reports could be enabled, but for some reason, they didn’t work. Plus, the sound was too low.

Luckily, I bought it at my local M-pesa, so I could swiftly take it back. At first, they tried restoring factory settings and when that didn’t work, they replaced it for me. The new handset was fully functional, except for a few minor glitches. The sound on the radio can’t be adjusted, and it’s pretty low. You can’t use the internet because it has settings but no cache or inbuilt browser. There are four recording devices, but you can’t use them without a card for memory. Also, still no status reports.

I should explain beef with my status reports. See, I’m a known control freak, and I get really mad when people don’t reply my texts. In my circle, nobody replies texts. It just not done! So at least I can take comfort knowing the message has succeeded in reaching the person. Without status reports, I can’t even do that! The horror! Still, the phone’s vibrator works, and it really is gorgeous. I went to ask them to replace my charger, and to see if they could fix the status reports. The guy twiddled the phone and announced that it was working.

Here’s what happened. When you go into ‘Common’ there’s a box that says ‘Delivery reports’ and at the bottom of the box, it says ‘on’. When you click on the box, a red dot appears, and the bottom it says ‘off’. So, of course, I never bothered to click on the box. After all, it was already on, right?

So how did the man fix the status reports? Well, he clicked on the box. Apparently, when your phone is blue, a red dot is a good thing. Groan. [Yes, I know it would be easier with twitpiks, but I can’t figure how to put off the flash on the camera, so every time I try, all I get is this.]

So now I have my pretty phone with dual sim and status reports and an annoyingly soft X-Fm, but I’m happy. There’s just one problem. We whined so much about Safaricom that everyone went and bought themselves a Yu line. Zain got clientelle too, after their rates went down. So now suddenly, Yu is all congested and Safaricom rings like a bell. Friends have tried to reach me on all lines and only get through on M-pesa.

Yes, it’s a bank, not a phoneline. It lives in a zombie on the windowsill formerly known as Nokia 1203. Last week, I tried caling Kisumu on all my lines, and only got through via Saf. The only thing that hurts is my pride. Also, clarity aside Safaricom and Zain are only reachable on my windowsill, so once again, my house now has no network. *russumfussumfreeadvertising*

In other news, meet Pinkytoes. I’ve been hustling for new headphones for a while now, and finally got some spare change. I was given a 300 bob pair as a gift [hurray for little brothers!] but they died soon after, despite being gorgeous. So I decided to spend a bit more. Hopefully something pricey would last a bit longer.

I walked into Best Sell on Kimathi Street but they had headphones ranging from 850/= to 1950/=, and the 850/= one was just one. As in one earpiece. Yeah.

I wen into Ebrahims and they had some for 550/=, 650/= … and 2500/=. Naturally, I focussed on 550/=. Only problem is … they were pink. Really pink. And I am not a girl that does really pink. I own one pink sweatshirt, and that’s because it had a v-neck and cost 50 bob. So pink is clearly a problem…

I settled for old Pinkytoes because her muffs were soft fabric. The 650/= pair was black leather, and that causes sweat after a while. It’s not cool since I have them on like 12 hours a day. Also, Black Leather Dude had a hanging appendage, whily Pinkytoes microphone was inbuilt. Sweet!

I decided to forgive her for skin tone and focus on price and convenience. Besides, they’re headphones. I don’t have to look at them. I tested Pinkytoes out once I got home, and thank God she has some kick-ass bass. I just hope she works for skype calls and lasts longer than six months.

Posted on by crystal · 16 Comments

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.