My breakfast

What a wonderful, uplifting feeling. You get to your office after a good couple days of public holiday realness and the entire expanse of the working realm reeks of boiled eggs. Marvelous. My esteemed colleague is in the process of stuffing six whole boiled eggs in her face. Remnants of broken shells decorate her already terribly untidy desk and she is devouring said unborn with her mouth wide open. Egg debris spews forth as she turns around to bid me a pleasant morning. Oh, darling. You have already ruined any chance of my morning being remotely pleasant. Now, fellow miscreants of society, I am by no means a food snob. I relish the aroma of freshly made food in all its steamy glory. My breakfasts are hardly of the ordinary kind. You might see me slurping a bowl of stew, munching a slice of pizza or even indulging in my mom’s famous chicken curry for breakfast all before 9am.

I long to take a wetwipe from my handbag of tricks and wipe it across her egg splattered face. As she is sharing anecdotes of the long weekend past, bits of yolk land on my freshly ironed skirt and I want to squeeze the life out of her bulging neck with my camphor cream-fresh fingers. Drastic. But I am a firm believer in morning freshness. All day freshness, for that matter. Refer to my previous post Smell the look.

Tragic is the plight of the thwarted woman bound by societal and workplace pleasantries. I could indulge in a full Natural Born Killers moment and exact my violent revenge… How much we take for granted. We all live this life in bounds instilled on us by… By who exactly? Emotions and actions are always to be in check less we experience the full wrath of the law. But let us leave that anarchic, existential debacle for another time. After I have indulged in my morning food offerings. A cheese burger is on today’s menu. I bid a splendid day to all of you gracing my blog with your inquisitive eyes. May the day bring flowery smells and may your hammer be mighty.

ANARCHY IN THE RSA

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My humps

Not all people at work are assholios but it just takes one… One elevator crusader that deems my attire inappropriate for mom-life. Hell, I wasn’t even showing boob. Flowy dress and boots with upside down crosses on them are office-chíc, no? Am sure the crosses were meant to be the right way around but they are from the Town of Chinas after all. LOL. I am… less confrontational than I was before. I am… not the man I used to be. I enjoy using that phrase. I could have ripped her face off with floral slander and sensual sarcasm but instead I just stood there slurping my coffee. She asks ‘Did you hear me?’… I ignore her. Slurp some more. She pokes my bare shoulder with her penis-shaped finger. In a fit of unbridled anger, I threw the remnants of my brown mana potion onto her floral dress and glide out of the elevator which made a perfectly timed stop. I’ve been working really hard on my temperament-fueled actions and this sloth of a woman made me regress. I want to be a calm, rational lady-person in my borg’s life but hot damn the sheep are testy testicles of late. Sigh.

Smell the look

While personal hygiene may seem second nature to most of us, there are many out there who insist on insulting your nostrils with a vulgar display of rotten cabbages. I have heard word through the vines that this “man-scent” is somehow appealing to a woman seeking a mate. Let us phrase it as such for it seems rather animalistic in nature. OMG YOU SMELL LIKE ROT AND NACHOS TAKE ME NOW. Ja, nee. I ventured out on campus today to buy some milk for I just can’t seem to stomach my coffee sans cow-juice. Spare me your judgement. Let us fight the vegan fight on another day. I walked past a beautiful lady-student; immaculate hair and make-up, lovely ensemble of the latest trend fresh off the rails of Foshini or Truworths or where-ever the masses are sourcing their threads from now. I describe her as a welcomed attack on the visual senses but what really caught my fleeting attention is the way she smelled. She smelled of haute couture, manicured nails and… and… RAINBOWS. It all came together wonderfully and for once in quite a few years of avoiding eye contact with anyone, my eyes fixated on her and and I flashed her a gap-toothed smile to banish the high-waisted skinny jeans right on off of her bootay. She returned the gesture and on some remote plane, in a galaxy far away, we were knocking boots and eating flowers. Sigh. I once knew a man who insisted that one has to “Smell the look”. It’s all well and good draping the cadaver in the finest of Gucci but beneath the cloth, the smell of death lurks. A lingering scent leaves a memory far removed from the actual visual onslaught. Moments can be perfectly captured in photos but this time a song manages to do so for me 🙂

 

The Quiet Escape

My morning salutation from him is one of sunshine and rainbows. Good morning, Vanessa! Yellow is his colour of choice. It scratches at my eyeballs forcing its happiness into my Sharingan. I want to shun the cheer and click on that X but I linger. I wait. I think. He asks me what’s on my mind and I feel a wave of irritation scratch through my sentiment. You are not real. You will not reply to my qualms and yet… And yet he asks me these things. He gathers my likes and interests. He persuades my discourse with the promise of popularity and shares. This is he is Facebook.

I often share long-winded prose regarding my experiences and emotions as a status update. I am not shy in my verbosity nor my verbal girth. Girth. HA. Penis word. I like it. We write to vent and to touch a reader with our melancholy and sarcasm. At least that’s why I write… But Facebook, it seems, is no longer a safe place for me to do so.

So! Here I am. Baring my multitudes of dimensional personalities through text, selfies and LOLz. Indulge at your own discretion.