Why I write a lesbian blog

how-not-be-a-writer
I will go ahead and make a horrible fool out of myself and write a very serious post. Before I started this blog a year ago, I had toyed with the idea of writing about my daily happenings, but then it hit me that I don’t have a life hence will run out of ideas in under one month max.

Glory to God the highest, his son gave me a sign. In his own commanding voice he asked, how many more endorsements do you need Queer Kenyan Girl? Do you actually need me to drop on earth again (urrgh those fuckers!) and speak to you about how big a lesbian you are? I was thoroughly shaken. You know, this was God’s voice and all. I would want to imagine it was. Or maybe I was just hallucinating. I drink way too much coffee. I mean, what will happen when I ran out of lesbian stories? Because trust me, there are not many left out here. Lesbians practically spend their lives behind their screens, or holding tight tiny notepads writing things that actually make sense.

See, I am my worst critic. No big deal with that actually. Thing is, you will find no prose or thesis of lesbian history here, nor activism, neither journals of how lesbians should take over the whole world. I can tell you dear reader, it’s just pure melancholy and doom. That’s what you signed up for. Please don’t say you were never warned if two years from now you are expecting me to post statistics of lesbian divorce rates in a state in I don’t know what godforsaken country. Say your adieus to all hopes you had in me.

So really, why do I go to all the trouble that is writing?

A reader asked me that, and then another. Before I could get the time to act all grown up, kids in high school started writing to me asking for big sister lesbian advice. Shit just got real. It is like the universe has conspired to finish me.

Is somebody allowed to not have a reason for doing something? For instance an answer; I write because I realized hey, I could do with those amazing typing speeds! God. That’s the day the world will finish me no doubt. You are not living this life if you haven’t memorized all Mother Teresa quotes. It’s sacrilege to even mention such a name here. Oh, be very inspiring and sh!t. You are the adult here! Growing up is seriously underrated. Anyway, this post is all kinds of reflective. I have in fact very little sense of reflection. Feed me with humor and my stomach will sit balmy in the corner of people who don’t take life seriously… (Now I am stalling).

Question: Do I love women? An emphatic and unequivocal, Yes! This reason by itself towers above all the rest. Like-the-class-is-over-you-can-all-go-home-now-yes. Does this motivate me to write? Is it reason enough to cost me endless all-nighters? Do I get inspired by women? Hell-fucking-yeah! Women make me exceedingly happy. Duhh, my law of attraction revolves around them, I just can’t fight it..oh how I could go on..

My posts are written against a background of moaning women.

Forget about finding muse in coffee shops and in the woods. Just download audio of female voices (God bless the interwebs) and you are our next J.K Rowling. I am all types of weird.

I write because I am not a talker. I am so very socially awkward. I could be a hermit but then again I would go quietly mad if I lived in a confined space with no pizza. I make up for my non verbal skills through writing. My mess of letters has made me correspond with women all over. The small joy of a woman telling me they look forward to my posts. Another one saying I write well. I am not tooting my horn, no, on the contrary. Honestly, I said here in a past post that I am not a writer. Just because I can put words together doesn’t make me one. I undermine myself; and yes, it is totally a self-esteem thing because look, five therapists on my phone’s speed dial! I am trying to make a point that it’s the possibility that someone will actually take time to write to me because of a particular post I have done that makes my blogging life orgasmically interesting.

I write because I have met a few wonderful and amazing women in the year or so I have blogged, in real life. I am finicky about people I meet up with. Writing a lesbian blog is like a veritable minefield; you just never know who uses what pseudonym; whether they are an actual human being and if they are, they are not desperados who will decapitate your head and drink your blood. My sexuality is a closely guarded affair and writing is a way of connecting with these women, giving myself to them since I wouldn’t have met them otherwise. They inspire me to keep writing, the proverbial grease in the wheels. They are jaw droppingly incredible and I would sacrifice anything for their friendship is dear to me.

I write because we are not many out here. Lesbians are natural story tellers. The stories that stalk a lesbian’s life are way too many to not be written. I looked around the Kenya lesbian blogosphere and decided to jump into the bandwagon. There gotta be loads of us telling these stories. Write your own story the way you want it we are told. (queer is me). Is that even proper English? That, I will leave to you grammarnazis. Also, blogging in our social scenes is regarded as an activity for people with too much time in their hands, a pure form of madness. It is a measure of showing just how ratchet you can get. Being all bored and ratchet is totally a thing nowadays peoples.

And finally, after I heard the voice I had mentioned earlier, I said unto My Lord, I am not worthy that you should pick me as your servant, but whatever you say I will write.

Authors note: Caffeine side effects: Hearing voices that disguise themselves as God. Google it up.

Moving on

 

I should preface this post with intellectual stuff like I lost my writing mojo, writer’s block yada yada. I am not a writer so I won’t say those things. Also, I am not intellectually inclined. I just like women (Go Fig).

This is what; I have been nursing a heartbreak. I should have put that in Broadway 72 to emphasize my point. See, I say things matter-of-factly and I have never known how to perform histrionics.  Say for instance I found a Bugatti Veyron parked in our compound with my name on it, (which sounds blasphemous to Volkswagen peeps) I will just get in the damn car and drive my troubles away. No stripping naked, taking selfies or twerking on it.

I am sure the upper middle class have a name for this, because it is a disorder. Everything is a fucking disorder.

We have mastered the art of doing everything else apart from dealing with heartbreaks. Everyone has to come up with their own coping mechanism. From comfort foods to memorizing every chapter in the Bible.

Hell; we will even go to church and plant the seed of non rejection, get the anointing oil in a bottle and because we are not well versed with these pulpit theatrics, we will drain the oil down our throats and end up looking like Masonic agents in front of the heaven bound congregation.  Very desperate times.

You can never tell with people. There are those who were created to make every day of your living life miserable. You know what, Just suck it.

I have read so many books in the last two months. It is the perfect distraction, my heart is not a strong a muscle. The fact that I feed it with chocolate and pizza most of the time doesn’t help it. A good book alters my life in a way I cannot explain. I will uproot my life and live inside a character’s head as long as the book last. I will put a face to her name and imagine that she was my girlfriend. Full disclosure: I have weird fetishes.  

Frequent readers of this blog really know how to look out for me. I have mentioned before that I am not a bright person. A certain reader took this to mean that I am totally dumb. So she offered to tutor me during my spare time. I am not sure what she had in mind. I am in a frigging university for god’s sake.  I could be studying typing lessons but at least I made it to the list of university goers. Am I cool, or what? It is never that serious guys.

So to stay with the topic in hand boys and girls, a break up is hardly something I feel the need to shout from the rooftops but just like the highly unstable nature of farts, it will always happen to the unexpected of souls and who else to write it better than yours truly?

Heartbreaks are like homing pigeons. They always return. I have coined this phrase to look clever to the reader mentioned above. Predictably, failing miserably. Maybe I should just let her tutor me.

 

Have a peaceful weekend. With the kind of horror Kenya has experienced for the past one week, calmness is all I can pray for you right now. I love every single one of you. 

Living life on the dark skinned fat lane;

I have decided to boycott some men. Turns out it is true that indeed men are from Mars and women are from Venus. First of all, I have never read that book and I am not intending to. I read its preview and decided that I don’t require all that negative energy in my brain.

I thought we, the women of this world are complicated.

Clearly, I had not met this new breed of blatantly misogynistic men. The ones that come up with thesis after thesis about how the perfect female should look like.

What is even more stupefying about most of them is that they have no girlfriends, they are short, have potbellies the size of five rugby balls, live with their mums, have zero amount in their bank account, and masturbate their tiny willys to the sounds of crickets in their backyard.

So let me take this leap to address the dark skinned women who are labeled as fat and ugly in this deity-heavy men world.

I know that you have read a lot of self-help books about self image but I will write anyway. I am the self proclaimed queen of women issues, remember? But then again, you are better off reading another cliché blog than reading those knock-knock jokes, yes?

I hate reading self help books more than the average human because I know a fast money making scheme when I see one. I mean, all you need to do is coin a very catchy book title like how to make money when while sleeping and voila! You have a raging best-seller under your also very catchy name.

Ever realized how world renowned authors have very divine names? Names that seduce you into swiping your way to brokelane…these peeps add a lot of sexiness to their previous dull and boring names. Like a Robert suddenly transforms himself to Roberta, Mary is now Marilyn. Hell, Imma write a book myself!

The more I visualize myself in a penthouse indulging in sex orgies the more I wonder where I am doing this blog thingie wrong.

Back to today’s topic; we all have moments when we feel stressed out, bouts of depression hits us in places we never thought existed in our bodies before but as women, we know our body flaws and we flaunt them like obsessed bitches, we know the inaccuracy of every weighing scale in the face of this earth.

We know when we have gained superfluous Kilograms but we don’t care, we know high heels will maim our backs before we are forty but so what? We don’t give a rat’s ass either.

What I find intriguing is that there is a group of whole grown ass men who misuse their employer’s internet the whole day yapping about their ideal kind of woman and discussing about how ugly our female genitalia is. There is no other word for it except stupid.

If I want a body like beyonce’s, I will work out a treadmill like a demented creature, but not because of some poll conducted by idle men. Preserve the minerals in your brain and write a book about women instead since you seem to know so much about us, and while at it success and luck in reaching page number 3.

These men will floor us by reminding us how in our twenties, Julie Gichuru looks younger than us yet she has gazillion babies. We really love her, but that’s just about it.

Our body fat cells multiply just by smelling fries a Kilometre away.

Our bodies are different as heaven and hell and we accepted this long since we hit puberty. Your constant reminder just serves to show that you have stuff to sort out in your esteem issues department because while you bitch about it, we are having lunch dates at Pizza inn with our girlfriends.

Another amusing group is the women who worship these men like they are some kind of genius. They will aaw and oohh to anything they say.

A dude will say something like, ‘I am eating an apple’ and the chics will say something like ‘aaaawww you are so clever you eat apples!! Marry me!’ No wonder marriage therapists are extremely rich.

I dont have an English word to describe these ones.

And now dear brothers, look at the pictures below,

Do you look anything close to that?
Well, go hang then.

This is for the lesbians above thirty| a guide.

And it is a difficult post to write because I am not thirty and age is not a topic women do during their pep talks. Lesbians talk about weight loss, calories, nips and tucks, padded bras, sports bras, money, sex, (particularly in that order).

I was having a chat with a lesbian woman above thirty. I won’t disclose her exact age for fear of eerm, I am looking for a very big word…yes that word. You know the one that gets you jailed for five years? Yes that one.
I am always talking about going to prison, in and outside this blog life. I googled this one and found out that there is no official registered fear of going to jail. Really? There seems to be all kinds of phobias and this one was made just for me urgh. There is actually one called vagina dentata; an abnormal fear literally of female genitalia and the vulva.

I don’t know what you live for if you don’t eat pussy.

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Back to the topic in hand, ladies ladies; by this age you have sampled all the lesbians, you compliment strangers on their looks, you have a dozen strapless sun dresses, you have discovered the secret to longevity, you are all outdoorsy and confident, you are deep in your career or whatever you have going on, No?
What I am trying to say is, you have seen it all. You are mature and you don’t give a fuck about who cares or who doesn’t.

HOWEVER, there is the little question of marriage. Okay BIG question of marriage.

When you wear your little strapless sun dresses, I bet many of those times are to attend to your cousins or friends weddings right? And in those weddings there are other married cousins, right? The said cousins have mothers and those mothers are your aunts, and we know they all have a Master’s Degree in biological clock studies, yes?

Now, let me give you some lessons on surviving Aunt’s (let’s call her aunt Beth) blabbermouth. Also, I regret and deeply repent my sins of using the name Beth to all my dear readers who goes by the same name. (There is no single Beth I know, and I trust me I know a lot of women).

Like a skipping CD she gives you a painful headache. She pushes all your mental buttons day after day. She tests your patience, and patience is something we, the lesbian folks weren’t given in abundance. We want to get a quick lay the first time we are in a confined space with our crush, touch and go generation redefined.

You see, Aunt Beth identify herself as ‘motherly’. She tells you all the things your mother won’t tell you. My said friend above told me her aunt even told her how many times a husband expects sex in a day. She also went ahead and told her how to space it out. She had clearly underestimated the motherly power of her aunt. Severely.
They say the first step to helping yourself is admitting you have a problem, but what if your problem is with your Aunt Beth?

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You are a regular woman doing okay in life, you set your goals and fulfill them, you make new year resolutions and stick to them, you drink eight glasses of water a day, you make to do lists and abide by them, you don’t have mismatched socks, no road rage and drunk dialing your first girlfriend who is now married with five kids…you have it all together.

Except the existential crisis that is Aunt Beth. This is the only bugging issue you can’t fix? Is it?
Here is the thing; it is not. Aunt Beth is obsessed over you; Heaven forbid maybe she is a closet lesbian even. Study Aunt Beth carefully; does she spend her days yapping about her husband, his wayward libido and drunken ways? Does she complain about her kids and what a waste they are? Does she seem depressed about anything and everything in her family?

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You are the perfect child she never had. She is just a jealous bitch.

Now, use her family against her. No parent wants to hear about her reckless child from another person.
Don’t be afraid about observing respect and existence of superpowers that can strike you dead the minute you stand her off. I mean, children have been disrespectful to their aunts since 1700BC, Come on!

Tell her that you are okay with yourself and what a true blessing it is. In fact, take this opportunity and come out to her. Tell her you dived into the lesbian world in your formative years and nothing, not even the holy communion wafers can change that. Tell her there is nothing she can change about you and you can only get better and better at loving women.

The fact that she disrespects you to keep reminding you what a disgrace you are because you are husbandless is reason enough to make you say to her categorically and equivocally that you know her whole marriage is a scam and a sham. It is like those newspaper lifestyle features you read and know for sure they can’t be real. The journalist is just interviewing her friends and passing it off as a trend. You won’t and can’t get into the marriage thingie with a hubby to please anyone.

You see where I am getting with this? Great! Now start practising it in front of your TV.

Come back and tell me how it goes when the face off happens. You can’t plagiarize my work like that and refuse to give me credit for it 😀

Ever been in a police cell?

I bet you haven’t. You are a law-abiding citizen, yes?
So was I, until I wasn’t. That was last Sunday morning.

Life can be depressing. More so when I get a call in the frigging hour of 6.00am on a Sunday morning the only day I get to sleep like a normal human being. The call goes something like; come to the office now!! Run or hire a jet (with my two shillings salary) but be here ASAP!

Some citizens decided to help themselves with some money in the office, yours truly and the entire crew of other aspiring pensioners in the workplace had officially signed their ticket to doing woodwork and carpentry in prison. We were all fucking suspects!

Seriously, do people still break into an office and steal money in 2013?
Like hell they do. Especially the dumb ones.

I dragged my sleepy ass to the office, mumbling incoherent things to myself because I was either half awake or oh yes I remembered, I went partying last night and now it would take me a whole year to recover..
I got to the boardroom and found like three dozen employees already gathered, a dead calm space, all eyes cast on the ground. I thought to myself, it’s a Sunday, they must be memorizing their chapters and verses from whatever religious book they have gathering dust under their cabinets, then three policemen walk in, and I knew the shit just got serious.

Here is the thing, if you work in a place where money change hand and the money in question disappears mysteriously, you can go to prison, if you have ever come into contact with the office safe, you can go to prison, if you have ever come to as near as to looking at the said safe, you law-abiding citizen can say goodbye to your porn collection. You don’t have those? Okay, me neither.

You will start praying but before you remember where we start the Lord’s Prayer, the said three policemen will have whisked your ass in their van, all sirens blazing.
And so it happened that we had to record police statements and go through gazillion hours of interrogation, ten hours to be precise. While this was happening, we were locked in a police cell, waiting in turns for our questioning.
Some fellow employees were not amused at all; they wear these imported designer clothes and walk around with grand air of importance.

Now, I don’t suppose you are the President’s daughter, so just save your breath and sit your ass with the rest of the commoners. Else, you will receive the beating of your lifetime from the said three policemen, as soon as words like I know my rights and Kenya is a diplomatic country are out of your mouth, a whole parade of officers will have put you in your right place, which could be anything from smashing your balls or biting off your nipples.
You-just-got-served

What I am trying to get at is, you are better off keeping your mouth shut because the more you try to prove your level of high education, the more you are intimidating the men in blue and naturally, I believe you like your balls and nipples. So keep taking notes.

Inside the police cell, you will find other Kenyans who being a weekend are mostly the call girls and your usual drunk and disorderly Raias. One look at you and they will know that you are not one of them. They have a street code or something.

Being regulars, they know the nitty gritties of how the police force works. They will want to know what brought you here and give you advice more than your lawyer could and they will predict a verdict right there.
Some will shout their indignation, roaring in arguments which will resound in the corridors. This might irritate the police officer on duty who might come inside the cell to show you who is the boss. The said call girls will get into heated argument with the police officer saying they are Mother Earth themselves and they have every intention of outliving every court in this godforsaken country and being the wise one, he will haul insults at them and walk away.

There was this girl of about twenty-one lying semi consciously on the floor; once she woke up, she stood suddenly to reach for her pockets; checking whether her tools of trade were still intact. There is this powder they use to drag their customers; I don’t know what it’s called. She had three packets of those. Being the curious one, I asked her to show me how it looked like which she did and then hid them inside her panties. She had also smuggled a phone inside the cell, which she used to call someone, yowling erratically at them to come and bail her out.
Meanwhile, the rest of my colleagues were discussing in hush tones what could have transpired, others were crying their hearts out praying to the Lord of Daniel.

Our relatives came in turns to check on us, bringing tea and cake with them. They were devoured by our fellow cell mates because we were too shocked to eat anything. Besides, we were taught to wash our hands before we eat and no water was in sight, such was the air of importance we carried around with us..

Ten long hours later, we walked to our freedom.

A traumatic experience for me indeed. So traumatic that I’ve been getting the shakes on an off for a whole week. But I will survive.

As of the theft, it was an ‘organized’ plan between one employee and a hired gang. The case is still in court but by the look of things, the buffoon will be spending a several years prison.

And such are the days of our lives.

Snapbacks and tattoos……and lesbians

Hey tits owners 😀

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Isn’t it?

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This is not a real post

Hey byotches 😀

I hate doing exams. Reading for exams. Exam rooms. Basically I hate school.

In my defense, I was never a bright kid. Not that I am bright now. I am scarred for life. It takes me a whole hour to cram one page of accounting school work. I can’t balance a simple balance sheet to save my ass.

In simple words, I am depressed. You guise, my world is crumbling.

I promised myself that I will be updating this blog at least once per week because I hate reading blogs that gets updated after like four months. What happened to you blog owner? Did the Christmas turkey swallow you or why is your last update in December?   

I have exams coming and I am freaking out because I haven’t completed a school project that I was to hand over like a month ago. The books have been fucking me in all the wrong places. Sad. My sex life is non-existent.

People get depressed because their cars are dirty or their iPhone got stolen, big stuff. You see, I live in Africa and here, we don’t care about cars and iPhones. We worry about other problems. Like exams, Malaria and tsetse flies, see? Mammoth stuff.

In retrospect, there is this guy, a white guy I once knew, who told me that he thought Africans live on human flesh and we are always in permanent war zones or something like that.  Dude, your camel toe is showing. I mean, shut up for fucks sake! I have nothing against white people but there are some ignorant motherfuckers who need to step out of their bathrooms.

I cannot make up for better shit to talk about so let me talk about the white ignorant folks. Emphasis is on ignorant, lest word press peeps shut down my lame blog.

M-kay.

You live in a first world country. Superpower, aid, sanctions et al are some of the favorite words in your dictionary. I get it. And it’s cool because I live in a third world country and I love the clothes you shove in your dustbin because my ass loves them.

That should make you happy because I will save the animal skins and export them to you so you can make designer leather shoes.  

Wait, how did I get to know all this stuff about you? Because my black brain actually grasped something in ‘em high school history classes. So maybe you aren’t that bright after all. As in, companies like Google and Yahoo have offices in your hoods and you can’t understand that first of all, Africa is not a country. It is a freaking continent.

Bites cactus.

Yeah. We eat that too.

What kind of an ass clown think that all we do is multiply and die. You invented the English language. Namaste. But I have a thing called culture and I have other gazillion languages to learn so I don’t care much about the queen’s language. The little I’ve got is enough for me to ace my job interviews.

Our slave trade heroes did not die for that crap. Wait, you even colonized our asses. How bad can this BS go?

I am not blowing this out of proportion. And in case I am, you can always download that hit the road Jack song. Put it on replay while at it.

Bottom line. In fact, there is none.

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I have more worrying problems.

Like wondering why this certain guy is sending me his dick pictures on whatsapp. Is it like a growing trend or I am I the only one who think that dicks images are naturally unsettling?

I am just a lesbian. My bad.

Happy weekend y’all.