Love Shack!

“The love shack is a little old place where we can get together…”

Seeing as how I revealed my murky dating past to you last month, I figure why not go the whole hog no?  Today I would like to share with you the basic rules of internet dating, I’m going to tell you what no-one else will.  Why?  Because that’s just the kind and caring person I am.  To paraphrase Kevin Hart of ‘Grown Little Man’ fame, ‘I’m not just here to entertain y’all, I’m here to educate y’all too…’  (Yes, I just quoted a man small enough to drop kick, but he’s a very funny man so normal little man rules don’t apply.)  Not buying this are you?  Ah well...  Just make sure not to look this gift horse in the mouth, is all I’m saying.

Rule no 1
There are no rules.  Really.  Online you can do what you want, say what you want, be who you want.  Hell, you can have a different profile for each of your split personalities, knock yourself out!  Just don’t get so caught up that you forget that none of it is real, you don’t want to be the idiot on a date struggling to convince a (very) sceptical lady how all your 7 cars are in the garage, at the same time.  Just a thought…

Rule no 2
Under no circumstances should you use your real name, ever.  The people on those sites are not normal, and those are the good ones, the bad ones are stark raving mad!  In as much as my mother taught me to be charitable to strangers, this is the one time that rule cannot possibly apply.  There’s also the added fear of google searches (see M.A.D.), or God forbid you apply for a job and your prospective employer upon googling your ass stumbles upon your profile on a dating site for ‘kinky singles looking for threesomes’.  And when you pick a pseudonym, find one that while funny or catchy will not cause you great embarrassment if someone happens to shout it out loud upon meeting you.  For example, it may seem a good idea to call yourself ‘hotkinkybabe’ but when some random stranger spots you across the street and shouts ‘Hey kinky!’ there might be some awkwardness, no? 

Rule no 3
Don’t fake your bio-data.  I’ll say it again, don’t fake your bio-data.  You can lie about everything else, and get away with it if you’re good, but if you’re a 5’1”, 45 year old, 11-fingered, transgender idiot, the truth will probably come out, no?  Unfortunately all these sites will ask you to put in your height, weight, age, etc, details that depending on your issues you may not want to reveal, but better to put that shit out there upfront than sit through 2 hours trying to explain why you don’t look like Halle Berry, which brings me to the next piece of wisdom.

Rule no 4
Don’t put up a picture of Halle Berry.  Much like not using your real name, using your real picture can lead to unwanted attention, but putting up a picture of Ms Berry or Djimon Hounsou isn’t really helping your case either, especially if, and it is very likely, you do not resemble said beauties.  If you have balls, by all means put up your mug shot, they say that profiles with pictures are 9 times more likely to get responses than those that have none, ‘they’ being the owners of said sites, in cahoots with your internet provider trying to get you waste as much bandwidth as possible, but those are my issues…  My advice?  Get creative and find a picture that doesn’t give too much away (no ladies, a picture of your ass doesn’t count), or get a random picture from google, preferably one not of a porn star.  One guy I met had a picture of a very old, very wrinkly mzungu on his profile, very funny.  He unfortunately was not.   

Rule no 5
State exactly what you’re looking for, no lies, no bullshit.  Think of a dating site as a supermarket, the buggers who select you based on your profile are looking for a ‘does what it says on the tin’ scenario.  If you’re looking to settle down and have six babies, say it loud and proud, there might be a man out there thinking that exact same thing, who knows?  If you’re looking to fuck around, say so, save yourself the time and hassle of wading through the masses in search of a like minded freak.  Really.  What’s the worst that can happen, they’ll spam you?

Rule no 6
There‘s a reason I picked ‘Love shack‘ as today's soundtrack, dating is supposed to be fun, no?  Think happy clappy and don’t take it too seriously, it’s just a forum for meeting new people, it’s not a mass marriage ceremony or something such like.  Listen, you wouldn’t go crazy over a guy you met in the lift last week, would you?  Would you?  Then why are you making a fool of yourself over a stranger you’ve only known 3 days?  Just because your profiles match that doesn’t necessarily mean you will, and just because he says he wants a wife that doesn’t mean she’s you.  Be realistic.  And as sane as possible.  Yes, there’s women, and men, on those sites looking for their happily ever afters, but most are just looking to get laid.  Besides, what are you doing looking for a life partner online?  That’s just lazy.  Go to church like the rest of the desperate idiots.  Sorry, I meant to say bar, she says looking away all innocent like…  Moving on swiftly…

Rule no 7
There are certain types you want to avoid at all costs, irrespective of the site you sign up on.  Gents, stay away from any girl/woman/lady with ‘babe’ in her name, those ones are psychos, they will cook your rabbit, and it doesn’t matter how old they are.  And the ones with the very hot profile photos?  Never ever!  They never look that hot in real life, if they did, you’d have fungad them already.  This city is not that big.  Really.  Ladies, stay away from the men with passport photos as their profile pictures, they are not playing with a full deck of cards.  No exceptions.  I know, you’d think a man who has the balls to put himself out there like that must be a pretty decent chap, right?  Wrong!  They’re the ones hiding some truly twisted dark shit.  Trust me, I know.  And stay away from the young ones, they’re only looking for sugar mammas. 

Rule no 8
Last but not least, do not under any circumstances sign up on a site called Nairobi Dating, despite its brilliant tagline (‘dating for serious people’ or something such like) it is a den of perverts.  No really, perverts.  If you do sign up, despite my admonitions, then be very wary of a strange chap who asks you to send him ‘your sexiest pics ever’, that man is in fact a bunch of men getting a couple of cheap laughs at the desperation of others.  I know this because I know the foolish punks behind this not brilliant stunt, and no, they are not friends of mine, they’re simply drunk bastards who don’t have the good sense to just go a strip club.  And stay away from a very young looking alleged 40 year old sexy mama, she claims to be looking for a man who can show her the good time her hubby cant.  She is in fact a he.  You’ve been warned.

So there you have it, 8 rules for internet dating.  Good luck!  Let me know how it goes.  Or not.

PS. It goes without saying that you should take all manner of precautions, blah blah blah…  You’re grown ass idiots, figure it out for yourselves, I’ve already done my one good deed for the day, make that week. 


Kai ni kii brother?

Over the last couple of weeks several of the gentlemen bloggers on my reading list have taken to defending men, good men, stubborn men, even silly men.  Munene Gangi in his characteristically sober approach bemoans the haunting of today’s man (Enemy of the state).  Cheupe in a suspiciously deep moment bemoans the emasculation of today’s man (Eulogy for the men).  And Flani, special Flani, he doesn’t bemoan, he bestrides the plains, raising the clarion call for chauvinist pigs (Black jack).  Now I don’t know about you, but I like to read men talking about men, it offers a rare peek into the workings of the male (and I use this term most loosely) brain.  That said, you geniuses are not being very helpful.  Gentlemen, while I appreciate your insights, or lack thereof, depending, I think you’re missing the point.  All we really want to know is, where the hell are all the half decent chaps?

I went on a ‘not a date’ date over the weekend, with a man who in theory is everything I’ve been looking for in a man.  He’s a grown man i.e. he’s older than me; without a wife or children i.e. mythical creature akin to a unicorn, unseen in these parts since the turn of the last century; he’s educated i.e. has a real degree not printed on River Road; worldly i.e. has knowledge extending beyond our borders; he even has that ‘salt and pepper’ partly-grey goatee thing that gets me weak at the knees.  What more could a girl ask for? 

And then I met his girlfriend.  Emphasis here on girl.

There are days I wonder why I even bother to leave the house at all…

This is the reality of being a 30 something single woman in this city.  The men your age won’t date you because you’re too old and therefore must have more issues than a straight priest.  The older men are only too happy to date you, as long as you’re willing to be tagged wife number two and accompany him to the farm and such like elder statesman-like activities.  The younger men are also very happy to date you, as long as you are willing to pay for their mani/pedis, buy them drinks at the bar and let them drive your German 4x4 (if you don’t have one then they have no interest in you…).  And I haven’t even mentioned the married types, of all ages, who think you’re the ideal clande, seeing as how you have an abode all of your own, and a job/income, a match made in heaven according to the cheating bastards.  You don’t believe me, ask Ms Spinster, she’ll back me up (Read this, DON'T PICK!, its brilliant!).  All I’m saying is that it’s hard out here…

Now some out here would tell me to just accept the situation as it is and go with the flow.  Date the older dude, they say, if you want to settle down, he’ll give you the kids and the farm in Ol Kalau, and probably a couple of shares in EABL or EA Cables.  On the other hand, date the younger man if you’re looking for fun times out on the town every night, a pretty little thing to carry your dog, someone you can drag to Blankets and Wine in Nanyuki.  Or you could always date the married one, if you’re looking to spend time with a man your age, who feels you when Notorious’ Big Poppa comes on in the club and you’re the only two idiots nodding your heads and sipping on (not) Hennessy like you’re in a Jacuzzi.  Or best of all, date all three, that way you can have your cakes and eat them. 

Or not. 

I choose to reject this flawed advice and instead insist on looking for a single 30 something year old man who feels my vibe.  Which is how I end up watching the man I may one day have a crush on fondling a toddler.  Don’t panic, she wasn’t really a toddler, but she can’t have been more than 24, and in my head that’s a youngling.  Explain this to me, oh lovely gentlemen in your 30’s, what is the attraction?  Aside from the tight young body and naïve little mind…  Ha!  Forget I asked, I get it now.  But surely there has to be more to this story than the way these girls look, and they do look good.  Please tell me there’s more to it.  Tell me that you get a kick out of seeing their innocent smiles and greedy appetites for all that life has to offer, that I can sort of understand, sort of.  Tell me, however, that you enjoy having pointless conversations about Hanna Montana and Justin whatshisface, and I’m struggling.  Tell me that you love the massive ego boost you get confusing girls who were born when you were in your late teens and, so help me, I will slap you.  There has to be a line, there just has to be…

I am tired of dating idiots. 

Just this once I’d love to go out with a grown ass man who likes grown ass women.  That’s it.  I don’t expect you to be as hot as Tyson Beckford, or as smart as my man Goodluck, or as rich as DJ CK (without the polycolor, ideally), I just want a sane man who isn’t interested in chasing children.  Or cheating on his wife.  And is straight.  Is that really too much to ask for?  Stop nodding. 


Ex'cuses, ex'cuses...

‘‘Come on and rock...’’

I have to issue a disclaimer here, I’m friends with all my exes, at least the ones I actually get to call exes (all 4 and a half of them), which automatically excludes all disappearing dudes, ‘ships passing in the night’ incidents and such like rubbish (not that there’s many of those either, I’m not a langa, promise…).  What I am about to say has little to no relation to these lovely gentlemen. 

That was to make sure I don’t get shot in traffic on Langata Road by persons unknown with vested interests.  Moving on… 

I’ve been watching old episodes of ‘How I met your mother’ this past week and one episode has stuck with me; the basic plot is this, Ted becomes convinced that perhaps he may have overlooked a couple of good women in his past, women who need to be revisited, so to speak.  Despite the typically disastrous outcome of that experiment, it got me thinking, what about my own exes, could one of them possibly be the man I keep looking for?  Could it be that one of the men in my past, while wrong for me all those years ago, is Mr Right (now), and this despite, or perhaps even because, we’re still friends?  Now I’ve always assumed that if you’ve been with someone for a while you will inevitably become friends, sometimes you become such good friends that you can’t be lovers any more, no?  Even after you break up, the friendship continues, it may be different but its still there, hell I think it gets better once you get past the romantic crap, at least that’s been my experience with my exes.  Problem is, seeing as how these men are now ensconced in seemingly loving relationships, it would seem that none of them could be the (seemingly impossible to find) Mr Alex, no?  No.  The problem is, people break up don’t they?  We did, stands to reason that perhaps it might happen again. 

And that’s the problem with being friends with your ex, when you break up with your (no longer) current idiot, whose shoulder do you think you’re going to go cry on?  And what exactly do you think is going to happen after that steak has been polished off with a bottle or two of shiraz?  Frankly, that’s probably the one time when the ‘But honey, I slipped!’ excuse can actually be used.  If you have a history, then you know each other’s weaknesses, what buttons to push, the right thing to say, and not say...  Your ex is the Vaseline to the sore burn that's masquerading as your heart, the stinging but soothing Dettol to your grazed knee of emotions.  You can arguably do stupid shit without meaning to, everything is happening on remote control.  It’s like you’re possessed by ghosts of sex past. 

Today’s musical number is the appropriately titled ‘Rock me’, a song I first heard and memorised back in Standard Six, complete with the signature ‘saaay-ke’ in the chorus (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, wooiiiii... I don’t know what to say to you, just leave before I track you down and beat your ignorant behind!).  It wasn’t until about 15 years later that I finally understood what Mr Jackson was talking about, and now these days when I sing (screech?) along, it’s like I’m bloody testifying!  I feel this song, kwa roho yangu, is all I’m saying...  This here is the dirty little secret of friendships between exes.  Lust.  We all walk around saying we’re ‘just friends’, but all of us have had a ‘blurring of the line’ moment, or three.  The degree of line-crossing may differ, but it’s been done, don’t even try to deny it.  If you haven’t had said moment, then either your ex is now batting for the other side, or you are my friend.  But that’s a discussion for another day, let’s get back to the ex files.

So your ex has just broken up with his woman, the one you (not so) secretly thought was a bit of a stupid cow, and he’s come to your house in search of a hot meal, a cold beer and possibly a warm body.  And you, being the supportive good woman you are, feed him and water him, hug him tight to your bosom, same bosom conveniently swathed in that red lace bra you save for special nights (complete with matching thong), the one he loves to see you in, and get you out of, the same one you just happened to slip on when he called to say he’s coming over.  As he pours out his sorrows you gently rub his back, then his neck, then his face, and then before you know it he’s rubbing you.  The following morning you wake up and gasp ‘what have we done?’  Next thing you know you’ve been shagging like rabbits for 2 weeks straight and you’re thinking that this is your happily ever after.  Then the following day he calls you, all happy and excited, says he’s getting back together with Ms Stupid Cow, says she’s forgiven him for whatever transgressions he’d committed, oh happy day!  Ouch!  Alternatively, the man may choose not to inform you of said reconciliation, and 10 months later you see a picture of Cow on facebook announcing the recent arrival of their(?) first child, little Jimmy.  Funny, he looks a lot like your own James Junior, doesn’t he? 

Sounds depressing no?  Don’t worry, it seldom works out that badly, I only put that in as a cautionary tale for those amongst us who may be thinking along such lines.  Most times, after a couple of days of getting reacquainted, you start to remember the reasons you broke up, she has a filthy temper, he’s a mean bastard, such like details that as friends you can tolerate, but as lovers, not so much.  With any luck, it slowly fizzles out by itself and life goes back to normal.  Worst case scenario, you break up again, only this time there’s less drama involved. 

That’s the thing about post break-up hook-ups with exes, the reason they seem so appealing is because of the familiar, but the reason they never turn into something more is because of the familiar, you know each other too well.  This is probably why we keep revisiting the ex, over and over and over…  For as long as you’re both consenting adults and there are no other parties involved, there’s no harm done right?  Unless you’re still holding on to some unrequited love bullshit, it’s unlikely that you’re going to be hoping for some happily ever ending are you? 

Ah, but that’s the problem, you are, aren’t you?  You still think that perhaps if you give it one more try it could work out?

Let’s be honest, break ups are rarely (if ever) balanced affairs, usually one half is left holding onto more than the other, right?  Now if this (no longer) happy couple insists on being friends post separation, one’s thinking ‘he’s my friend’ and the other’s thinking ‘what does she see in that new idiot?’ and this can’t, and won’t, change until the other finds someone else too, and even then…not so much.  Now I don’t know if men do this hanging-around-waiting nonsense, the men I know only hang around an ex if they’re hoping for and/or receiving a loose shag every so often, but said men are not the sharpest tools in the shed so perhaps theirs is not an example to be heeded.  Us women, on the other hand, we’re foolish, we will hang around a guy waiting for him to ‘realise that I’m the one he’s looking for’, or muttering ‘he’ll come back to me when he sees how bad it is out there’.  We actually believe that shit!  We think that if we wait long enough, Mr Man will one day come through for us, and come back.  Ladies, the rom-com movies and the paperback fluff with half-dressed hunks on their covers lied to us.  Its not going to happen.  Never.  No really, never!   

Folks, if you’re hanging around your ex hoping for some great reconciliation, don’t.  Take it from someone with deep seated separation issues and baggage from here to TZ, it never ends well.  What you need to do is simply stay away from each other for a while, months, maybe even years if the split was that acrimonious.  You have to avoid them at least long enough for you to be able to look at them and not feel the need to kiss them, or slap them.  Simply put, as long as you are still getting hysterical over someone’s ass, then you have unfinished business, no exceptions, so stay the fuck away until you calm down and start thinking clearly.  Any sex had before you do will simply exacerbate matters further.  It’s like picking at the scab on a wound, the more you pick, the slower it heals, and the worse the scar.

On the up side though, once you get through that dark and irritating phase of healing, then you can shag the ex all you want, secure in the knowledge that no matter how good they are in bed, you have no intention of making the same mistake again.  Yes, I said good in bed, assuming you didn’t break up because the sex was crap, odds are you consider your ex a good lover, one you wouldn’t mind revisiting once in a while.  I call it comfort sex, you know, like comfort food, only less fattening.  You don’t have to go through the whole breaking-in process, teaching an idiot how to shag you properly, with an ex the manual has already been written, all you have to do is hit the refresh button and you’re off.  It’s predictable, and uncomplicated, and satisfying.  It’s like your mother’s chapos, they may not be the best you’ve ever had, but they’re the one thing that will always hit the spot, no matter what.  Hence, comfort sex.  Brilliant, no?

I started off by saying that I’m still friends with all my exes, but I didn’t explain how.  We’ve managed to remain friends despite the odd nasty break up and what not, only because I learnt the trick, I learnt it the hard way, but I learnt.  I’m friends with these men now, but in a couple of instances I wasn’t, for a long while.  These days, we’ll have a coffee and catch up, they’ll tell me about their jobs and women and I’ll tell them about my part time job looking for a sane man.  They tell me I’ll find someone special and I tell them to bite me.  It’s lovely.  

So have we ever had ‘for old times sake’ situations?  In a couple of instances, yes, it’s inevitable isn’t it?  To the best of my knowledge, it’s never been a clande type scenario for either party, and if that’s not the case then I don’t want to hear it, ignorance, my friends, is bliss.  Plus, that’s how you get shot in this city, surely by now you know that I’m a believer in discretion being the better part of valour and such like alleged wisdom.  Instead it’s more a ‘things are thick bana, si you hook me up?’ set up.  Stop laughing, sometimes life gets tough and you have to tap your reserves, so to speak.  And has it ever spiralled out of control into a Mexican soap?  No, not since the hard lessons were learnt many, many years ago.  Back then, I was hoping things with the man in question would work out, the random shag was my way of biding my time while he got his shit together.  ‘No sense throwing the baby out with the bathwater’ I thought.  That is, until he had a baby with another woman.  That’s when it finally sank in that it was well and truly over.  Oddly enough, since then we’ve become disturbingly good friends, just friends, really. 

The key thing about all these relationships with the exes is this, we actually like each other, despite the foolish shit we’ve said and done to each other in the past.  It helps that the mutual respect tends to keep things in perspective, despite the random shag.  You know, it’s just occurred to me that if this wisdom had been present when we were going out, life would have been a lot easier.  Scratch that, if we had been wiser, we’d never had lasted long enough to become exes.  

Turns out the idea of comfort sex is not that unique after all.  Go figure.  Comfort Sex; Is it that bad?  Also worth a read, The beginner's guide to exes


Single? Single malt...

Yesterday morning I woke up at 10.30 am, sweating and anxious, there was something I’d forgotten to do, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember what it was.  My heart was pounding, there was a light film of sweat on my brow and my mind was racing. 

‘Have I missed a meeting?’ was the first thing that came to mind, ‘Not again,’ I groaned, struggling to focus as I reached across to look at my phone.  ‘Aaaahhhh… its Sunday,’ I sighed with relief, sinking back onto my pillow, ‘but what then?’  

I slowly started doing a recap of the night before, struggling to remember what got me to this dark place filled with pain.  I remember a big glass of little wine, it was good wine, and there were several glasses.  I see flashes of conversation, rugby, log tables, a bulldog, a ginger Scot....  Hang on, a Scot?  Hmmm…  ‘Surely not?’  Quick glance across my bed, but there was no one there, the sheets were as smooth as ever, nary a crease in sight.  ‘Figures!’ I snort, ‘I never get lucky on Saturday night.  I've always wanted to be a redhead...’  Back to the night before, trying to piece together events as they unfolded.  There was someone from Barcelona, or was that on TV?  No, there was a Barcelona man, and elections, and a single malt.  ‘Aha!  It was the single malt.  Bastard!’ I winced as I attempted to get up, my head was throbbing like a disco in Madagascar, tiny little things jumping up and down in my head…

Fast forward a couple of hours and a greasy fry-up later and I’m still anxious.  Something’s wrong.  I struggle to get up and start to wander around my (and I use this term loosely) house, hoping that the walk will help clear my head and jog my still hazy memory.  No dishes in the sink, no laundry to be done, the floor looks a bit dusty but that can wait.  Then I glance at my desk and it finally hits me, I haven’t posted anything today.  Shit!  I sit down in front of the laptop, but I don’t switch it on.  It occurs to me that I have nothing to say.  No, that’s not true, I have loads to say, I just don’t have the strength to hold my arms elevated long enough to do so, I’m even struggling to hit the power button.  ‘But you have to post,’ responsible Alex wails, ‘you promised!’  ‘Promised who?  Or is it whom?  See, I cant even figure out my grammar,’ still slightly drunk Alex whined, holding her aching head in her hands, ‘it’s not like anyone will notice anyway, they’re all busy getting on with their exciting lives no?  Let’s go back to bed…’  This discussion raged for all of one minute, then I had to go get more water for my oral re-hydration.  All thoughts of posting were promptly dismissed.

Good morning folks, it’s a new week and happy clappy Alex is back.  Life gets clearer through the bottom of a whiskey glass. 

Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce the ever loquacious Cheupe, coiner of random words like dirteous, asseous and escapadenia.  God help us all...



“I tried too hard and she tore my feelings like I had none, and ripped them away…”

Contrary to the title, this has nothing to do with getting yourself off.  Sorry folks, but even I don’t have the balls to touch that one.  Yet.  Next month probably.  No, this is about a certain idiot, part three. 

So I had my woosaaa moment last month, said goodbye to disappearing dude with dignity and grace and all that nonsense and I felt much better.  Problem is, now I’m pissed.  I’m talking physical violence pissed!  I have a good mind to track his punk ass down and beat the shit out of him!  Pissed!  Now I’m guessing by now you’ve realised that I’m not perfect, not by a long shot.  I have a notoriously short fuse, I swear like a sailor, I have not too many morals left in my cynical being, and I occasionally don’t oil my legs, just because.  I’m flawed, and slightly very fucked up, so I try to fix what I can and what I can’t I try to make my peace with.  That said, I do not deserve to be treated like crap.  And that fucker treated me like CRAP!  And I’m finally pissed off.  Today I plan on tearing him, and all other like minded individuals, a new one.  Fond farewell my ass…

Aaaaahhhh............  That felt good.   

I’ve been seething for the last four months now, something had to give.  Apologies for the coarse language, sometimes you have to get the bile out otherwise it starts to eat at you, continuously twisting your insides until you’re scared to breathe, just in case the wrong thing gets out.  Only, the longer you try to hold it in the worse it gets.  It’s time to let it out.  Remember how I said that there was a little anger, just a little?  Turns out I may have been off the mark a wee bit.  Don’t worry, I’m alone today (my friend John is off visiting), it won’t degenerate into name calling and such like drama.  Or not, who knows?  Today’s soundtrack is the always uplifting Puddle of Mudd, theme song to anyone who’s ever been fucked over.  Slight detour, if reggae is my happy music, then rock is my angry music, consider yourself warned.  Let’s proceed…

I don’t get it.  Why do men find it so hard to say no?  Why a man would rather treat a woman like shit, be mean and rude, just generally obnoxious, when it would actually be easier to tell her to bugger off?  You don’t have to tell her that you think that she smells funny and you really can’t stand the thought of shagging her ever again, blunt honesty like that often does more harm than good, unfortunately.  Just give her the tried and tested ‘you deserve better’ line and send her packing.  Although, given women’s propensity for drama, you might be better off telling her you’ve met someone else, shitty yes, but more effective at keeping her away.

Now I know a little something about break ups, I’ve had a couple in the past, ranging from the ‘I’ve met someone’ speech (note, he didn’t say someone ELSE, yaani I was just a random chickie not his mama, and this was after 2 years with the man…) to the ‘the feelings are gone’ shrug, but the worst break up has to be the ‘fade to black’.  You know when a guy just slowly vanishes from your life over the course of weeks, months even, that’s the ‘fade to black’, a.k.a. the slow fade, a.k.a. the peter out.  That saga pisses me off to no end.  How spineless do you have to be to not have the balls to come up with a half decent lie?  Good god man!  Listen, I treated you well, yes?  I respected you, gave you your space when you needed it, shagged you when you wanted, I probably even made you chicken soup in my foolishness.  Even with my (infrequent) CSW behaviour and what not, I am, by all accounts, a good woman, good company and shit.  And perhaps mildy delusional, but that’s beside the point.  Surely, surely I say unto you, surely I deserve better than…  Nothing?  Really?  Not even an ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ (lying) speech?  What is this world coming to?!

See, the worst part of the fade is that you, the fade-ee, don’t see it at first, or you see it but you refuse to accept it.  You’re too busy being the loving, supportive idiot who ‘understands’, you rationalise malicious behaviour, you make excuses for stupidity, you overcompensate for shortcomings that are not your own.  At the end of the day, it doesn’t make one iota of a difference, your ass is still being dumped, or dumped on.  The fade-er generally doesn’t give two shits about your pathetic ass!  Lakini, the way I’m bitching you’d think I’ve never done it myself, but I have.  Actually my technique isn’t so much a ‘fade to black’, it’s more ‘Kenya Power (no longer lighting) blackout’, no warning, seemingly no good reason, just a quick poof! and I’m off like a rocket.  Is that worse than the fade?  Surely not.  It’s better to vanish at once than to ride off into the sunset on a geriatric horse.  I say, better short and sweet rather than long and drawn out, no?  No?  Oops.  I guess I might be needing to send an apology or two when I'm done here. 

Ah hell…

I’m being harsh on the idiot, on all you idiots out there.  Truth is, I get the fade.  I know what it’s like when you really don’t want to have the conversation with someone and you’ll do anything to avoid it, up to and including faking a permanent move to another continent, but some conversations just need to be had, don’t they?  Sometimes you have to man up and take responsibility for your actions, or inaction, and yes, ladies this applies to us too.  Breaking up with someone is unpleasant, it’s awkward and uncomfortable, just plain not nice.  But if you ever felt so much as an ounce of genuine affection for them then you owe them the courtesy, and the kindness, of an ending, a real ending, good or bad.  Grow a pair and do the right thing.  It may be unpleasant for you, but that’s someone else’s life you’re fucking with, if you do nothing else you must do this one thing right.  If you don’t, then you’re just another spineless little shit, and do we really need more of those?  Stop nodding. 

While we’re busy getting wrapped up in our guilty feelings, regrets and/or disgust, moaning about how hard it is to break up with someone, and then dithering for ages hoping they’ll get the hint and move on, while all this is going on, we forget that it’s this shitty ending that the other person will remember, forever.  To this day, when I think of my ill-fated relationship with Mr 'the feelings are gone', I remember his fade, the (not so mild) cruelty with which he treated me has made it such that even now, many years later, I’m still guarded around him, when the cut is that deep you never truly heal, and this is a man who is one of my closest friends to date.  He knows how I feel about it, I know he doesn’t like it, but he has the good sense not to question it, or try to change it, it’s just the way things worked out, life’s a bitch and what not. 

Why am I sitting here ranting about break-ups?  It’s simple, I have no intention of carrying shit around any more, it’s a new year and all that claptrap, so this story with disappearing dude dies here, now.  Again.  He’s been on my mind for the last couple of days, the questionnaire got me thinking about the last men I dated, or tried to.  Now in as much as the questionnaire was just a bit of a laugh, to a certain extent that’s a typical example of my thought process when I’m vetting a man, I’ll look at the different sides to the man, analyse and shit, try and weed out the crazies, unsuccessfully if recent disasters are anything to go by, and Mr D I analysed at length, partly because I was ambivalent at the beginning.  Would you believe he talked me round?  Maybe that’s why I acted like such an idiot, she said optimistically, trying to salvage what little is left of her tattered reputation.  No joy?  Ah well…  Looking back, months later, I’m wondering why I didn’t just listen to my instincts like I usually do, or try to.  If I had, I would have never gotten involved with the man.  No, that’s not right, I’d never have gotten (not quite) romantically involved with him, I’d have left it at ‘just friends’.  Unfortunately, being friends with the man is not an option right now, his shitty behaviour pretty much made sure of that.  Pity, he really was one of the smartest men I have ever met.  Who’d have thought he’d turn out to be such a silly wanker, no?

I wrote this on Sunday and I’m guessing it goes without saying that I was not my normal happy clappy self (am I ever?).  However, having had a couple of days to calm down, I’m proud to report that I no longer feel the need to slap someone.  I considered not putting this up, seeing as how it shows a slightly uglier side to me, slightly, and of course there’s the (not) very remote chance that it will come back to bite me on the ass, she said oblivious to the axe hanging precariously over her head.  Thing is, I think this discussion needs to be had.  I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that perhaps I’m not the only one who’s felt hard done by in the past.  Perhaps. 

So this is what I propose, instead of the usual comments on how tragically comic my life is, how about you tell me your stories?  Vent, spit, rage, curse, ruminate, whatever rocks your boat, you can even post anonymously if you’re shy, no worries.  Woiyee please?  I don’t want to be the only one in here all exposed and shit...


There are days...

… the newspapers, and the characters that populate their pages, test me, to my limits.  I know I’ve asked this before, but really, tell me, are these buggers on crack? 

First up, one Kilonzo, not the minister, the other one, the groupie.  This genius tables a report allegedly from the British government, but he doesn’t bother to verify it.  I assume he didn’t bother to verify it because if he had, he would’ve noted the many silly mistakes contained therein.  Here’s a hint sir, if you get an important document with the word important misspelled, its probably not that important.  Just a thought…  Thanks to him, we were collectively subjected to a lesson in English by the English, thereby proving that we actually no speaka de English, collectively.  Thanks chief.

Next up on today’s shit list is the author of a brilliant article in the Standard headlined ‘Experts warn economy cannot sustain pay hikes’.  The experts in question were in fact just one dude, a Mr Ogwen, ‘a leading commentator on economic issues’.  No wait, there’s another one quoted in the second last paragraph, a Mr Matanga from Masinde Muliro University, concurring with Ogwen.   Now I’ve never been to journalism school so perhaps I just don’t know these things, but from what little methodology I learnt doing my undergrad thesis, when you quote an ‘expert’ you need to state the qualifications that make said genius an expert, otherwise he’s just another bugger with an opinion, no?  This is the equivalent of someone saying ‘Experts declare Kai nikii? the best blog ever’, and then going ahead to quote a Mr Alex, leading commenter on Kenyan blogs.  What the…  Moving on swiftly. 

The whores are back in the news, and this time they’re speaking for themselves.  They took to the streets, decked out in red no less, to protest harassment by kanjo askaris and demanding the right to pay taxes.  No really, they want to pay taxes.  Say it with me…Eh?  What for?  Security?  Better healthcare?  Human rights?  Ptuh!  (That’s me spitting to the side by the way…)  Listen all you lovely prostitutes, the rest of us pay taxes and we’re not much better off than you lot, hell, we can’t even afford swanky red outfits.  By all means, get legal if you want to, but be careful what you wish for my dears, KRA will fuck you (over), and then they’ll charge your ass for the privilege.  Hang on, in this case that might qualify as karma no?

In other news, Kenyan religious leaders have now acknowledged that their approach to AIDS has ‘contributed to stigma, shame, silence, denial, discrimination, inaction, and mis-action(?) that continue to undermine the national HIV prevention, treatment and care efforts’.  And it only took two decades.  Ptuh!  (This time I’m spitting on them, bloody idiots!)  On a brighter note though, one Pastor Bulimo of the Friends Church, when asked if his church would be promoting condom use, is quoted as saying, “If Jesus was here today and saw the youth burning with desire and unable to abstain, would he not give them options?”  I couldn’t make this shit up if you paid me.

And last and definitely least, Mtukufu Rais has informed us that we shall head to the polls next year.  One more year of crappy politics and idiot politicians?  That’s just brilliant!

This Sunday, I’m listening to Eric ‘he that has owned my heart since Beats of the Season 95’ Wainaina, I suggest you do the same.

“Shetani akamwuliza Mtakatifu Petero, ni kulala mnalala au vipi…”


Research, my friends, it's all about research...

Many weeks ago, I asked for my John Wayne, and I’m proud to report that I found him.  A lovely man who likes to talk, and cook, and drink cheap booze, and watch naija movies at 11 pm…  It’s just lovely.  What?  You’re bothered by the line about naija movies?  Come on now, we all watch those movies, how else is Citizen TV the number one station, salons aren’t open at night are they?  But I digress.  I found my John Wayne, but, unfortunately, he’s more like Jane Wayne.  You know your life is approaching surreal levels when you find yourself slightly tipsy on a Saturday evening, giving a man pointers on how to tell if a man likes him.  No, it’s not a typo, I was counselling a man on how to get a man, and yes, the irony was not lost on me. 

If you’re done laughing at me, can I proceed?

With recent cowboy search failure in mind, I think it’s time to get a bit scientific in my search.  I’ve created… wait for it… a cowboy questionnaire.  Good plan, no?  No?  Screw you, you probably already have your own cowboy, you selfish cow!  Now the idea of a form came to me courtesy of two blogs (of course), the first a deviant allegedly conducting research into body image and such like nonsense, and the second belonging to a creative young man who decided to simplify his dating life (application to be Adam's girlfriend).  I read, laughed and moved on, but it got me thinking, wouldn’t life be much easier if you could conduct interviews for significant others, beneficial friends, potential John Wayne’s?  No seriously, you simply put up an ad listing all your requirements and stating that only successful applicants shall be contacted (that’s so rude, no?) and then sit back and wait.  No more wasting time in bars and churches, risking life and limb in an attempt to get laid, or married, those days are over!

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Kai Nikii? Cowboy Questionnaire.  Pens at the ready, let’s proceed…


Do you own a book, excluding the bible, or a diary?
a. yes
b. no
If you answered b, thank you for your time, your presence will no longer be required.

Was the last book you read a:
a. crime thriller
b. romance
c. biography
d. self help guide
e. school textbook
f. Bill Bryson
If you answered b or d, please leave.  If you answered e, please indicate your parent’s phone number on the top left corner of the page, and then leave.  If you answered f, go straight to section D.

Do you own a CD, compact disc not condom?
a. yes
b. no
If you answered b, you have no idea what’s going on here, please make your way to the exit.

Do you own a Bob Marley or Lucky Dube CD?
a. yes
b. no
If you answered b, you have no soul.  Thank you for your interest, maybe next time.


When changing a light bulb, do you:
a. simply reach up and unscrew it
b. use a step ladder to reach it
c. call the caretaker
d. call your wife/mother
If you answered affirmative to anything but a, you’re either a midget or a lazy bastard, or you’re already living with a woman.  Go away.

Do you own:
a. safari boots
b. Italian loafers
c. pointy toed patent leather shoes
d. comfortable shoes
If you answered affirmative to any but d, you’re either a Peugeot-owning 60 year old, a metrosexual or you’re gay.  You can leave now.


Do you have a source of income?
a. yes
b. no
If you answered b, please leave, but before you do, tell me, who bought you that CD?  If they're male, please ask them to apply for the position.

Is this source of income:
a. legal
b. not entirely legal, but doesn’t involve murder
c. illegal, but doesn’t involve murder
d. any other
If you answered b, you’re either a lawyer or banker, I have no time for your kind, make your way to the exit, try not to charge anyone in the process.  If you answered d, please don’t kill me, I promise not to reveal your identity.

Do you own any livestock or pets?
a. yes
b. no
If you answered b, what’s wrong with you man?  Bugger off!  Any self-respecting man must own at least an animal or two, even if its only by proxy.  And small dogs don’t count.

Are your livestock:
a. cows
b. chicken
c. pigs
d. any other
If you answered anything but a, get out.  The only animals I wish to have in my life are creatures you can milk and I can eat as steak.  Hence, COWboy.  


Do you watch:
a. football
b. rugby/basketball
c. news
d. the wedding show
e. porn
f. Family TV
g. Olympic gymnastics
h. Oprah
i. wrestling
If you answered b, you must have been a player (they’re the only people who understand those games) in which case you’re an attention-seeking man-whore, leave now.  If you answered d, g or h, you must be gay, or at the very least bisexual, either way, you have an identity crisis so leave now as well, unless you answered i also, in which case we’ll see.  If you answered f, you need Jesus, not me. 


Do you own a CD, condom not compact disc?
a. yes
b. no
If you answered b, really?  How did your idiot ass get this far?  Get out you foolish man, I don’t care how much wrestling you watch!

When was the last time you had sex?
a. today morning
b. today afternoon
c. within the last month
d. within the last six months
e. within the last year
f. over a year ago
If you answered a or c, you’re either living with your girlfriend or married, and I have no interest in being your clande, so walk on by.  If you answered b, you were with your clande, you nasty man, bugger off.  If you answered f, you're either reformed or deformed, either way you scare me, please leave. 

Did you have said sex with another person?
a. yes
b. no
If you answered a, you've either been dipping into the ex cookie jar, in which case past relationship details must be provided before you may progress, or you are a serial funga-rer, in which case you're a bit of a whore and are therefore deemed unsuitable. 

Last, but not least, was said other person of the same sex?
a. yes
b. yes, and no
c. no
If you answered a, how did you get this far?  You must be a Bryson fan.  Sorry dear, you don’t get a rose, but we should definitely do coffee and become BFF’s. 
If you answered b, you’re a freaky bastard aren’t you?  Perhaps we can work something out, forward relevant details immediately. 
And as for the one remaining candidate who answered c, congratulations, you are my John Wayne.  Step right this way... 

Hang on, is that you Priscilla?  How did you get past security?  Dammit!  Now I have to start all over again...


English is a foreign language...

This Thursday, our minister of (mis)education claimed that the declining performance of English is because of the proliferation of sheng.  Prof says, “Adulteration of Kiswahili and English, where even senior members of the society, including top politicians, talk sheng to endear themselves to the youth, has affected performance in the two subjects.  Eh?  But aren’t the Kiswahili scores getting better?  This makes no sense, no?  Not being one to dismiss a politician offhand, I sought to investigate further, this I did by reading the following day’s paper. 

Apparently, the geniuses at Elimu House, or wherever they come up with their cockamamie schemes, decided to merge English grammar and literature, and now the ‘experts’ blame this, as well as ‘the lack of a reading culture, the language used in social media and incompetent teachers…’ for the decline.  One (assumed to be not incompetent) teacher complained that ‘the testing of technical aspects such as phonetics at form four level had complicated the subject.’  Another (also assumed to be not incompetent) teacher is quoted as saying, “There is a huge disparity between what is taught in class and what is tested in exams.”  Eh?  On the up side though, the paper did state that ‘teachers agreed that use of sheng did not have any significant impact on the English examination scores’, although the writer didn’t clarify if said teachers were competent, so we can’t really be sure about this. 

Now ordinarily I don’t give a rat’s ass about KCSE results, I have no babies and until some bastard forcefully impregnates me, I get to live in blissful ignorance.  That said, the mean score for English this year was 36.42, down from 38.90 last year.  36.42?  Say it with me…Eh?  This means that majority of these children no speaka de english! 

I had to take a minute to weep in frustration…

Now this knowledge, while causing me great concern, is also a source of great relief to be honest.  See, for a long time I’ve been trying to figure out why the media sounds illiterate and now I finally get it, it’s because they probably are.  Case in point, the genius who wrote this magnificent headline: ‘Rookie farmers whose ventures have gone bust’.  Brilliant spelling, zero understanding, the article was about ‘youth’ making millions from agriculture.  Clearly a mean student…

And on an unrelated but happier note, I now have a crush on Goodluck Jonathan.  A president with a brain, one that he uses, and uses well?  And he took a pay cut?  I just died and went to heaven(ish)!  Read this interview, Jonathan Power interviews Goodluck Jonathan (as seen in Tuesday’s Nation), tell me if you don’t agree.  Shaka has been bumped off temporarily, my man Goodluck is now at the top of the list of men I plan to one day kidnap and hold hostage in my basement so we can have beautiful conversation for ever and ever.  For crying out loud the man wears a homburg dammit, a homburg!


Viva la Revolución! Or not.

So this funga business?  It’s here to stay, isn’t it?  What I thought was a passing fad, like bendover and awful mohawks, is now an institution, complete with rules and everything.  Ladies and gentlemen, the sexual revolution is here!  Or is it?  Does the fact that we can now go out and get laid any day of the week mean we’re more sexually liberated than our parents, or does it just mean that we have more time, and resources, to engage in foolishness?  Is chips funga our brave new day?

As promised, today we’re headed into the sewer.  You know the drill, fragile people exit stage left, the rest of you remove all valuables and such like.  Incidentally, the last time we were rolling around in the muck, things went south, santorum south, so this disclaimer shall from now henceforth cover the comments as well, just to be on the safe side.  Have you braced yourselves?  Good.  Let’s get on with it shall we? 

When I first started dating, way waaay back when, not only was sex not on the menu, it was still roaming free out in the badlands waiting to be hunted down, it was a very remote possibility is all I'm saying.  Keep in mind that I’m talking from a ‘good little girl’s’ perspective, sheltered childhood and such like (but clearly that was many years ago, no?).  The routine those days was simple, meet a nice boy, start dating, allegedly fall madly in love, eventually make love (read shag) with your (then) soul mate, eventually break up with the (no longer) soul mate, then do it all over again, and then again…  In theory that’s how it’s supposed to go right?  Problem is, as I got older, and less sheltered, it became a case of dating the men for the sex, not the other way around as would be assumed.  No great harm done I suppose, but perhaps my life would have been easier if I hadn’t dated said men, seeing as how they were almost always idiots.  If nothing else, I wouldn’t have wasted precious time, time I will never get back I might add.  These days, older and wiser, or simply jaded, I think dating and sex are best separated for the purposes of clarity, the combination of hormones (mine) and stupidity (theirs) often makes for (not so) minor disaster (see archive).  In theory, this would mean that la revolucion and I are well suited for each other, no?  No.  Unfortunately, my desire to separate the two does not equate to random sex.  Damn it!

Now some will take that to mean I’m saying don’t screw the person you’re dating, those would be the believers amongst us, whatever rocks your boat folks, I’m not here to sway you from your path.  The deviants on the other hand see this as a justification for funga type nonsense and that too is fine, just stay away from me with your foolishness, we’re not on the same level.  Thing is, this is not an either or situation, I think sometimes you can have the cake, and eat it.  As scary as it is, I’ve come to appreciate sex for what it is and not what it ‘should’ or ‘could’ be, thankfully I no longer have the voices of various idiots in my head, giving me the ‘making love is a special bond between two partners’ crap or ‘if you’re not getting fucked on the regular there’s something wrong with you’ nonsense.  I’ve been around the block a couple of times so I have a rough idea what’s going on, I know…wait for it…the lay of the land.  That was quite witty, no?  No?  Moving swiftly along. 

Most of us tend to look at sex in one of two ways, either as some mystical act of true love that must only be shared with that ‘special someone’ or as a basic human function akin to taking a piss, and while I understand both perspectives, I don’t agree with either.  I’m a subscriber to a more hedonist school of thought.  I think sex is about pleasure, and a true hedonist knows to treat pleasure with the respect it deserves, especially because it is increasingly hard to find in these days of instant, and unsatisfying, gratification.  Yes, I realise looking at sex as a pleasure would support the gorging approach we see around us, but that’s why I said ‘true hedonist’.  Cruising around the city on a Friday night, you can’t help but see what the blind pursuit of pleasure has led us to, but that’s not the complete story is it?  Just because some idiots choose to go out and drink themselves silly every weekend, that doesn’t mean that those of us fond of the (not so) occasional tipple are all useless drunks.  Similarly, the horny bastards running around shagging each other senseless have no bearing on the rest of us who like to get freaky every once in a while.  The difference lies in how we do it, and why.  My theory?  Pleasure is not just in the consumption, it’s in the pursuit as well.  Put differently, it’s about being a discerning customer, quality not quantity.  See, the thing these idiots are missing out on is the value of the hunt, they’ve forgotten, or simply don’t know, that good stuff never comes easy.   

Truth is, sex is not hard to come by, especially these days when a hook up is thrown at you as casually as a handshake.  Good sex, on the other hand, is not that easy to find, but it’s doable, all it requires is a little more vetting of suitable candidates.  Great sex is a whole other ball game, that requires determination and focus.  ‘What’s the difference between them?’ you ask.  ‘Step into my dungeon innocent one, let me show you,’ she says, devious gleam in her eye.  The way I see it, sex is simply about getting yourself off, it’s wanking with audience participation.  Good sex is about getting each other off, it’s more interactive, there’s give and take, I do you then you do me and then we do...us.  Great sex, however, is about pleasure, not just getting off, the act is as important as the end result.  You don’t agree, do you?  Think back to the most wondrous lay you ever had.  What image just came to mind?  Is it the loud orgasm you had after 30 minutes of (not so) furious action?  Or is it the way she moaned when you thrust a little deeper?  Thought so. 

Giving pleasure is deliberate, isn’t it?  To give pleasure, and to receive it, you have to work a bit harder, do your homework, past experience notwithstanding.  You have to take time to learn how to be a great lover, study your subject, do research, write a thesis, even sit an odd exam once in a while.  It’s part direct instruction, ‘I like it when you touch me here…’; it’s part trial and error, ‘What happens when I pinch this like that?  Oooohhh…’; hell, it’s part dumb luck, ‘Did I spill some soup on you?  Let me lick it off…’.  They don’t call it sex education for nothing people.  Listen, you wouldn’t try to cook a 5-course meal without taking basic cooking lessons, would you?  Then why on earth would you think that shagging someone, without getting to know a few relevant details about them first, could possibly get you an earth shattering ka-pow?  The only way that happens is if the stranger in question is a professional, in which case you have nothing to do with it so stop bragging. 

My problem with the one night stand is just that, the one night.  What are the odds that on night number one (and only) a complete stranger will rock my world?  How would he even know where to begin?  My concern here is not so much that I don’t know the man, nor he I, I’m concerned that the sex will be crap, because I don’t know the man, nor he I.  Quality is key folks, key.  So how does one discern quality, before the act?  Well you have to sit down and have the talk.  What talk?  You know the flirty, and somewhat filthy, conversation where you (selectively) share your histories, tendencies, fantasies, such like nonsense?  That’s the talk.  That conversation will tell me everything I need to know about a man’s sexual personality, if he’s a nice guy with suitably freaky tendencies, or if he’s pretending to be a freaky guy but in reality he just wants to cuddle.  The catch is this, to have this conversation you have to get to know someone a little better first, lest you get slapped for asking a stranger, ‘So, do you like to suck toes or are you a finger man?’  Certain questions require a level of intimacy that cannot be achieved over one drink, is all I’m saying.  The only times I neglected to have that conversation was when I fungad.   

FYI, technically speaking, women over 30 cannot be fungwad, what with our various issues, chip(s) on shoulders and such like.  Then again, I was barely 30 when it happened, so perhaps I was, in fact, the fungee, who knows?  I digress. 

Yes, I fungad.  A whopping two number men!  Wow!  Don’t get scared, I didn’t do both at the same time, there’s no way my OCD ass could possibly be that efficient at chipo-ing.  Or that lucky, BOGOF deals never apply to men, unfortunately, shame man.  And how did I funga?  With the (lack of) focus and determination that you can only get from idiot friends including, but not limited to, my friend John, although it's more likely it his cheaper cousin JJ.  Why did I funga?  Foolishness.  I was out there trying to experience the widely touted freedom, brave new day and what not.  Well, that and I was randy as hell, thanks to man drama and hanging around Paco (sexy bastard!).  And how was it?  Uneventful.  Not particularly satisfying would be more accurate, by my own definition it was just sex.  In retrospect, I think I would have been better off staying home alone with the lovely Priscilla.  I know, I know, it’s sad, and pathetic, but it’s true.  I blame myself though, I didn’t do my homework, if I had taken the time to talk to those men, I would never have shagged them, seeing as how it turned out they didn’t speak my language too well, at all actually.  Since then I haven’t even tried to funga, and I don’t plan to either, life is too short to waste chasing what I consider crap sex.  That said, given my recent (mis)adventures, I will probably be chasing great sex the rest of my life, with that in mind perhaps I should never say never, no?  No.

That’s my beef with chips funga, it’s not so much the randomness, although that holds little to no appeal, it’s that it reduces sex to a cheap transaction of quick pursuit and mindless release.  The obsession with quantity, rather than quality, offends every fibre in my hedonist being.  It’s the equivalent of a teenager guzzling a bottle of single malt older than they are, in an attempt to get high as fast as possible, bila savouring the (alleged) woody notes et al.  It’s just wrong, treating something so valuable, so well crafted, with ignorance and disrespect... so wrong!  

As much as I love the freedom of being able to seek pleasure any time I want, courtesy of the revolution, I know better than to assume that it will be easy.  Nor should it be.  Nothing worth having ever is.  Some things have to be earned my friend, it’s better that way.