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.

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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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