Hey tits owners 😀
The hiatus is over. I missed you guys and I missed this three months blog baby of mine. Sorry for replying your many emails this late (all fifty of them). Three actually, sigh.
Where I was you ask? Well, I would have loved to say I went to Siberia and discovered salt mining is the ultimate hobby to richness or I was tanning my thighs in a beach somewhere in Jamaica, sipping cold margaritas, poking my kindle and sending nudes on my Samsung Galaxy 4.
Thing is, I don’t own a kindle or the aforementioned phone. And my thighs are black as coal, au naturel. But I really fantasize about the said gadgets and I keep wondering which person in the family pedigree wronged the sweet Messiah so much because money and I have never seen eye to eye. Not because we hate each other but because I have never known where to get it. You will notice that I have used the word because in this paragraph over four times, the idea is to piss off the grammarnazis, I have one hundred problems and writing proper English is not one of them.
Back to my sabbatical. Apart from my imaginary holiday, I was meditating. Yeah, I can totally walk on water now.
I am at a point in life where I feel I need a turning point. Like the Otonglo kid, my hand yearns for the President’s handshake. I am bored to death by everything in my life. People get stuck and bored sometimes in their life, they keep it to themselves and I bitch about it.
Maybe I should sell my ovaries, or start selling drugs, or make my womb useful and try surrogacy, or sleep with my boss, or buy a gun and start killing every moving object standing in my way to richness. Which of these sounds less criminal?
I think selling my ovaries is the best choice considering the punishment of painful periods and the one hundred pimples I get on my face during this cycle, one for every Maumau warrior who died fighting for Kenya independence. There is a direct link between my menstrual cycle and the grave. They are the worst four days of my life. Imagine having to visit the Niagara falls every four days of the month in your life. I am sure the real Niagara falls are beautiful, but I am not so much an outdoor person so no I hate the frequent visits. The cramps make me cry and gnash my teeth in agony and they are the only days in my life I keep wishing I was a man. How sad.
Being a man that is.
I would never want to be a man in my life even if the human race depended on it, never.
Does that make me a sexist? Or what is the word? I can’t remember but I am sure the people who work under the men empowerment department can always leave a comment and educate me, and call me names while at it.
Some people will call this depression with a capital D and they will say I have a mental illness and I am a total nutter. They will suggest that people better avoid me and talk to me slowly because anytime I might start throwing flying objects at them. But as I have said earlier, everyone get depression sometimes in their life, it is part of being alive.
People get depressed about not having enough money and that is what I am depressed about. Top-of-the-range, no-expense-spared depression. I might come out as very entertaining talking about it but my life right now seems like the big party where my ass was not invited.
A whole depression package of a life with no menu or map.
Money is not everything or so I hear. Whisper that to me again when I am sipping Chardonnay inside a chocolate bath tub and then maybe we can have that conversation.
Relax people, I will snap out of it. Especially if all of you happen to give me your ATM cards, accompanied by their passwords of course.
What was the topic of this post again? Stares into space….
That reminds me that I owe you guys a post about lesbian sex, patience is a virtue.