Rope a Dope

On Monday night I went on strike, protesting harsh working conditions and demanding an increase in compensation.  Truth is, my brain was so sluggish I could barely move the mouse, let alone come up with a coherent thought, and rather than write the night off as wasted, I turned it into a pointless protest, thereby easing my guilty conscience at work still pending.  Its pointless because I am both employer and employee, going on strike involves arguing with myself for a minute, and then losing said argument.  Suffice to say my boss has never given me a pay raise, cold hearted bitch, but that’s a story for another day.  I turned off the laptop, made myself a cup of tea and plonked myself in front of the TV, ready to lose myself in 90 minutes of mindless fluff. 

Now the movie of choice was a suitably fluffy rom-com; those ones where boy meets girl, girl likes boy, boy messes up and loses girl, then realises the mistake he’s made and runs after her with a tearful declaration of undying love, girl kisses boy, and then they walk off into the sunset, aaaawwww…  Just what a jaded soul like mine needed on a Monday evening after a shitty day at work, and it was a good plan, until I looked inside the DVD case and found the wrong movie, not the fluffy nonsense I was hoping for, but a movie cum documentary.  About boxing.  Cue disappointment.  Problem is, it had taken me about five minutes to decide on this one (wrong) movie, I wasn’t about to waste another five looking for another one, the quest for fluff was promptly abandoned.  With a reluctant shrug I stuck in the movie and sat back, ready to doze off in under half an hour.  I have never been so wrong… 

Before we go any further, I must warn you that this one is for the hustlers amongst us, and its mostly about one fight, a real fight.  If you're hoping for my usual man, or lack thereof, drama, come back Sunday.  You’ve been warned. 

The movie is ‘When We Were Kings’, the documentary about the legendary ‘Rumble in the Jungle’, the heavyweight fight between George Foreman, then champion, and Mohammed Ali, at the time reportedly on the brink of retirement.  The film follows the fighters and their trainers, promoter Don King, assorted musicians, journalists and dubious characters, in the weeks leading up to the fight, chronicling the time in then Zaire, now DRC.  Ignoring the moral questions raised in the mind of any self respecting African, especially when watching footage of Mobutu, the documentary is a fascinating glimpse into a slice of history whose significance may have perhaps been overshadowed by the glamour of heavyweight boxing.  I’ll spare you the synopsis, guessing that some of you older types have watched it, and those that haven’t deliberately chose not to, back in the day (like I did), and thus couldn’t care less.  It’s more than a decade old and if anything I say is considered a spoiler, then…tough!  That’s my unapologetic disclaimer, by the way. 

Watching this film, the first thing that struck me was how different both Foreman and Ali looked back in their prime.  The thing about boxers, especially as they get older, is that their faces don’t age too well, their eyes in particular are inevitably sleepy looking, the result, I assume, of taking too many blows to the head, making them look, well, a bit slow.  Because of the publicity surrounding Ali throughout his career, most of us have seen images of him in his youth, and heard him speak, albeit in snippets (‘float like a butterfly, sting like a bee…’), and we’ve also seen him as he is now, his motor functions reduced by Parkinson’s; but watching him in this film is an eye opener.  Yes, he was a brash black man, ‘in need of a good whooping’ (his words), but he was also surprisingly articulate, and intelligent.  And here’s the kicker, from what little you see, so was Foreman.  The happy, always clowning around middle-aged man we saw in the 90’s, making a comeback, in crap sitcoms and selling kitchen equipment, is nothing like the young man you see in this film, that bugger was serious, and deep, and a little scary.   

And Foreman was also, apparently, a very good boxer.  Ali was, by all accounts, expected to lose that fight, and if it wasn’t for his unorthodox strategy he would have.  What he did, and you have to forgive me for any inaccuracies because I’m not much of a fight fan, was let a bigger, stronger fighter hit him until he couldn’t hit any more.  It sounds simple enough in theory, except for the hitting continuously bit.  Ali was fast on his feet and liked to dance around, making him hard to hit, but Foreman knew this and knew to ‘cut off the ring’, basically keeping Ali confined.  Ali couldn’t knock Foreman out; he tried in the first round and only succeeded in pissing the man off.  The solution?  He took to the ropes.  Now this is one thing I initially couldn’t understand about boxing, I figure when a man is against the ropes he’ll probably get beaten half to hell, thus if I was a boxer, I’d stay well away from the ropes.  After watching a couple of fights, I then realised that said man against the ropes wasn’t there by choice, clearly.  So you can understand my confusion watching Ali pushed to the ropes and seemingly unconcerned.  Kumbe the bugger had a plan.  In the eighth round, with Foreman exhausted from the exertion of seemingly endless heavy punches, Ali throws a couple of quick counter punches and the next thing I know Foreman is down.  I had to watch it a couple of times to understand what happened, but there it was in glorious Technicolor, Foreman was down for the count.  Like I said, confused.  

The technique is called rope-a-dope, allegedly coined by Ali after this fight. Some analysts credit him with developing this style himself, but as is likely with all things innovation, he probably perfected someone else’s idea, and that’s just fine, anyone with the balls to pull this stunt deserves all the accolades he gets, no?  See the thing is, standing there taking body shots is not an easy thing (I assume, it’s not like I’m a boxer), especially from a strong bugger with heavy punches.  You’ve read the stories of boxers pissing blood after fights because of repeated blows to the kidneys, I’m guessing said repeated blows can be quite painful, no?  The assumption is that when against the ropes, you hold your hands up to protect your head, avoiding the knockout blow, but exposing your flanks, but if you take enough hits on the same spot, instinctively you will drop your guard to protect yourself, or simply in exhaustion, and that’s when you get socked in the head.  Usually when a fighter retreats to the ropes, it’s a defensive manoeuvre of last resort and the knockout punch isn’t far behind.  People watching the fight assumed the same of Ali, but they were forgetting that Ali always trained to take sustained blows, toughening his core.   What he lacked in technique, being a bit of a rough diamond, he made up for in endurance.  His plan was to outlast a stronger fighter, one he couldn’t outrun, and outlast he did.  

Now while most accounts of the Ali/Foreman fight concentrate on his rope-a-dope, not too many talk about the one other advantage Ali had, the ring itself.  If you’ve watched the fight, you saw that when he was leaning back on the ropes, he was leaning quite far back, further than you typically see.  Turns out the ropes in that particular ring were looser than normal, allowing him to pivot further away from Foreman, letting the ropes taking some of the impact, and making it harder for Foreman to hit him with the force he was feared for.  Whether the ropes were part of a plan, or if Ali made a situation work to his favour, we’ll probably never know.  Personally, I highly doubt that Ali sat back and worked out the seemingly intricate physics of this plan beforehand, my guess is that he was working on instinct, that innate understanding which allowed him to figure out the intricacies without actually having to study them.  What I do know is, when faced with a stronger opponent, possibly the better fighter at the time, rather than fight with his fists, Ali fought with his head. 

Which brings me to the (random?) point of this strange tale, although I’m not sure how many of you made it this far (10 points and a gold star if you did, and thank you for indulging me).  I’m learning to rely less on brute force and more on intellect, more so in business where every relationship with a client is disturbingly similar to 15 rounds in the ring with a huge bugger like Foreman.  The reason Ali’s rope-a-dope style struck a chord?  Its simple, the idea of winning a fight by letting a stronger idiot hit me until he can’t hit any more, and then knocking him on his ass with minimal effort, is rather appealing. 

My problem with business is that everyone is always looking out for themselves, and by association always looking to get one over on me.  Often times I’ll walk into a contract negotiation with nothing but my Type A obsession with perfection and a random price tag for my (allegedly) very valuable services in my head, thinking my knowledge and experience count for more, at the table, than my lack of a BMW in the parking lot.  The prospective client, on the other hand, has a vague idea of what he expects from me and, unfortunately, a misguided notion that it won’t cost him much to get it, because I don’t have the BMW in the parking lot.  The ensuing negotiation is nothing more than a sparring session, with the big bad client looking to pummel me into monetary submission.  Now while brute force and arrogance could possibly get me the deal I want, it rarely, if ever, works out that way.  What actually happens is I dance around, ducking heavy blows, landing one or two light ones of my own, until finally, frustrated with trying to pin me down, the client finally gives up and either knocks me out cold with a ‘take it or leave it’ offer (never good), or calls off the fight completely (even worse). 

And that’s where rope-a-dope comes in.  By employing this strategy, said big bad client gets the satisfaction of pounding at me, in his mind with excellent results, he must be wearing me down with his powerful body hits, but at the end of the day, having successfully avoided the fatal blows, in part by using the ring to my advantage, I get what I really want, the knockout punch.  Simply put, he gets to make what he considers the best deal possible, after seemingly serious negotiation, and I get my price, my real price, not the higher one he thought we were fighting over.  The moral of the story?  Just because I look like the lesser fighter in the ring, that doesn’t mean I’m going to lose, I’ll probably get my ass kicked, but I won’t lose.  All I need is a good plan, a clear head, patience and one good right hook.  If I could learn to talk shit like Ali, well, that would be a bonus.

Do you believe the hype?

I know, the post is late, and in two parts, but its only because I got up at 10:00 am and I have a bit of a hangi, both courtesy of the fellas, they took me out for a night on the town, literally on the town.  I haven’t had a decent pub crawl in the CBD in donkey years, and they decided to remedy this situation, in part motivated by the fact Ben, the barman, kicked us out of his bar at midnight.  Actually, Ben kicked them out at 10:00 pm, but they’re stubborn idiots so rather than leave they called me, at 11:00 pm, to go join them, figuring my appearance would prompt Ben to serve them a couple more beers.  It didn’t, hence the amateur pub crawl, amateur because we hit two bars and gave up in frustration, ending up at Kwa-Joyce an hour later.  Don’t fret, this is not another tale of bars and what not, that’s not the point to today’s tale.  Today’s tale is about a man who doesn’t believe the hype.

Now you’ve met these two fellas before, they’re the geniuses who felt compelled to educate me on the wifey/lay priniciple. Last night was all about one fella looking for an easy lay, all the while moaning that he’s a nice guy, he respects women, and that sex is not just sex.  Confused?  I was.  The man is sitting there bitching about how he has no number on his phone that he can call for a random shag, he calls it ‘dial a pussy’ (I know its crude, but you have to admit its a bit funny, no?), and then he proceeds to give us his theory on how men who sleep with random women are simply using them, and damaging them.  Then he gave us the story of a girl in his office that’s very hot, but has always had bile for him.  Always, that is, until a weekend a couple of weeks ago, when she all but funga’d herself for him, allegedly because she was high.  The genius, he who claims to want an easy lay, ran away.  And now he is trying to figure out if she likes him, and what if anything he should do about it.  Because he respects women.  And he’s a nice guy.  And by the way, he’s halfway married, he’s in the process of sending cows to her father’s homestead.  Yes, the man has a woman in his house, a woman he insists he would never cheat on, willingly.  Eh?  At one point in this conversation, I slapped myself with my wallet, in frustration.  And then I told him that he was going to be the star of today’s tale, because such foolishness must be shared. 

Folks, I may not be the most sage of all women, but there are three things I know to be true about men.

1. There is no such thing as a nice guy.  There are good men, but there are no nice guys. 

Hang on, don’t get your panties in a bunch just yet, let me explain.  See, the guys who call themselves nice guys are inevitably the allegedly shy (but in reality undercover) types who take 6 months to approach a woman, and then when they do they fumble so badly it takes another 6 months to undo the damage.  Because they’re not running around funga-ing every skirt in sight using all manner of lies and alibis, they get it into their heads that they must be that ‘nice guy’ everyone keeps talking about.  At least that’s what they want us to believe, but the truth is, this inept idiot just hasn’t figured out his play yet.  Once he finally strikes gold, whether through a fatter wallet, or a bigger car, or a fancy job title, or a previously hidden talent for salsa dancing (it happens...), the man will be transformed from the meek guy always propping up the counter, to the hound proudly sniffing up as many skirts as possible.  These ‘nice guys’ aren’t harmless because they want to be, it’s because they just haven’t figured out how to be the bad boys they really are.  It’s all a matter of time, once he finally flicks the switch in his head and starts to believe his own hype, then my friend you best look out.  This lovely fella of mine, while proclaiming his unwavering commitment to his woman in one breath, will spend an hour discussing his grand plans to have a clande in the not too distant future, once his plans for career advancement come to fruition.  But hey, he’s a nice guy, right?   

I’ll say it again, there are no nice guys.  There are good men, men who know their right from wrong (theirs not yours, don’t get it twisted), men who know their worth and can see that of their woman, perhaps all their women if they are so inclined.  These days when a man tells me he’s a nice guy, my eyes snap open, suspicious, and my legs instinctively close. 

2. A man who tells you he respects women, is a man who will screw you (over) the first chance he gets. 

This has to be the most abused line in the history of lines.  Ati you respect what?  Have you noticed that the guy who unleashes this line almost always tends to be a bit of a misogynist?  On the one hand, this is the man who is charming and kind and all those fluffy things a woman likes, but at the same time this man thinks the woman is less than, a plaything to be used and abused at will.  The way I see it, respecting women, or men, isn’t something that needs to be proclaimed, it just is.  If you’re a half decent human being, you probably know to treat everyone with respect, no?  So when a man goes out of his way to make that (ludicrous) claim, this as he stares down my shirt or up my skirt, I get the urge to slap someone, possibly him.  These idiots think that hollow platitudes and feel-good rubbish stolen from an NGO handbook will get a woman to drop her pants that much faster, and it works on some of the young girls out there, unfortunately, so they keep repeating that same tired line, over and over.  You respect women?  How about maybe treating them like they have half a brain and coming up with a slightly smarter come-on, preferably one that isn’t trying to tug on their (or your?) low self esteem? 

Slight detour, I have to clarify that I used the term misogynist in the loosest sense, as in a man who has some resentment towards women.  If you take the time to go though the links in the research section, you’ll find that this is a rather simple approach, perhaps even flawed, but it’s Sunday and I’m having a single malt kinda day thus far, so feel free to correct me as you see fit.   

3. A man is often his own worst enemy.

So this fella of mine is convinced he has no money and therefore cannot get laid, to which I responded, you don’t need to have money to get laid in this town, all you need is the illusion of money, this assuming you’re chasing the random girls who are easily swayed by shiny trinkets, airtime and four kingfishers.  He remains unconvinced and is currently planning to upgrade his Toyota, this in an attempt to woo a sweet young thing, obviously ignoring the inherent complications of his current situation with his almost wife (we’ll deal with the cheating saga another day, that saga deserves its own page, no?). 

Now while there are some men who need to resort to material enhancement tactics to get laid, this man is not one of them.  Folks, this guy is about 5’11”, dark flawless skin, body built for sin with an ass so lovely you want to look at it all day every day, brilliant mind (when not on beer, or starved for sex), hell, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s my exes BFF, and a bit fucked up, I’d have jumped him years ago, probably with disastrous consequences so perhaps its good I didn’t.  Thing is, when he looks in the mirror he doesn’t see what I see, he describes himself as below average, in all respects.  Tell me, how do you help an idiot like him?  I’ve tried everything over the years; I tried praise and flattery, didn’t work; I tried insults and mockery, reverse psychology, didn’t work; I may have even slapped him, no joy.  Last night I was in the club with two men, none mine, both attracting their fair share of stares, but while fella number one was happy to soak in the random attention, including a loose free drink or two, every so often, fella number two was sitting there soaking in the beers, moaning about how he cant get laid, this while a couple of women were ogling his lovely ass.  What to do?  He is his own worst enemy.   

And thus we get to the point to all this nonsense.  I realise we all have our insecurities, we’re all struggling with one demon or another most days.  For some of us, we don’t think we are good enough, or at least not yet, that we don’t deserve that good man/woman/job/life we crave.  For others, it’s simply a case of not wanting to be disappointed, again, so we prefer to sit on the sidelines, never trying, because if you don’t play the game, then you can’t lose, or win.  Question is, how long are you willing to let your demons hold you back?  I’m always talking about embracing your flaws, and those of others, but I’m starting to think I left out something important.  Perhaps, what we need to do is start by embracing our beauty, see the good, and then see the bad.  Perhaps, its time to start believing the hype, our own hype. 

I’ll tell you what I told my friend last night, for as long as you don’t buy the shit you’re selling, no-one else will.

Dear Phillip,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. 

I was recently dismayed to hear of the misfortunes befalling your former place of employ.  It must pain you to no end to hear that the award you so proudly displayed to us is in fact nothing but a hoax.  You must be horrified to learn that the company you paid millions of shillings in consultancy fees is nothing but a sham, denied by its alleged parent company.  You must be depressed that after so many hours spent struggling to meet the lofty criteria demanded, you were duped. 

But do not lose hope, my dear Phillip, the race has only just begun.  Yes, your reputation is now in tatters, but that should not be a cause for concern, the office you seek is one of great prestige, one where scandals such as this one often have no bearing.  Do not worry about the people of this great city, they are unlikely to be swayed by these shenanigans, no doubt the work of your enemies.  Come March 2013, they will queue en masse and select you to be their governor, because that’s just the kind of idiots they are. 

Phillip, be strong and keep the faith.  We are together.

Yours,

(not) Alex

PS.  What brand of crack, kind sir, are you currently smoking?  It seems a particularly fine vintage, I should like to try some myself.

Death of a local.

Last Thursday night I bounced down to the local to catch the Germany v Italy match, excited because the (rarely) lovely Italians were exhibiting a touch more talent than they did at the last World Cup (useless bastards), and the Germans were allegedly the team to beat.  Well, that didn’t exactly work out as planned, did it?  The (alleged) German machine was less than impressive, making for a somewhat disappointing match.  ‘Ah well…’ I shrugged, ‘there’s always the final to look forward to.’  You would think at my age I’d know better than to support Italians in a final, no?  I have half a mind to write a harsh letter to UEFA asking for my money back, that which I invested in booze and assorted accompaniments including, but not limited to, a couple of sausages, only to watch one team not show up to play.  Kind sirs, if the match is less than expected, then you must pay my ass for the inconvenience/torture of watching it.  Nkt!  Monsieur Platini, I love you dearly, but that final of yours was as exciting as watching paint dry, on a rainy day.   

So how are all you doing today?  You good?  Everything okay?  All is right in your world?  Good to hear. 

I’m going to continue ranting about the local now.

So my local underwent refurbishment at the end of last year and as a result has started attracting the yuppie crowd, they who allegedly spend more money than us broke ass regulars.  Now the proprietor extraordinaire, Mkubwa, is a good friend of mine and I’m only too happy to celebrate his successful revival, seeing as the aforementioned broke asses were all of five geniuses with a penchant for not paying their bills on time, if ever.  Problem is, yuppies in the bar often cause complications, no?  See the thing is, I like a quiet bar, I figure if I’m meeting someone for a drink, then we’re looking to engage in conversation, conversation in part enhanced by the lack of ear splitting music.  Alternatively, if I’m in the bar all alone, then odds are I’m feeling a bit reflective, and my reflections are often aided, I’ve found, by soothing mellow tunes in the background. 

But these 20-something yuppies?  They don’t get it.  They are yet to make the vital distinction between going out for a drink and going out to party.  These buggers are always out to have a good time, burning cash on cheap beer and tequilas, dancing maniacally to anything with a beat, shouting themselves hoarse over the excruciatingly loud and shitty music, the kind of music you hear in bars popular with barely legal types who got their ID’s only a few months ago.  You know the music I mean, right?  Rihanna, sijui Avril, then LMfuckingwhatever… noise, sometimes catchy noise, but noise all the same.  That is what my local has descended to on the weekend, and that’s fine because I don’t go to the bar on the weekend, I figure life is too short for that nonsense.  But when I wander into the bar on a loose weekday, dressed in my kafulana to boot, only to find the bar full, and very loud, and not playing my old school jams, and I can’t get a seat at the counter…  Eh?

And if that’s not bad enough, the yuppies with their fondness for the good life have in turn attracted the next tier of degenerate revellers, the barely legal students, the ones spending daddy’s hard earned cash.  Now these children are a whole other animal.  Let me describe the scene for you.  I’m sitting at a table next to the counter, because the yuppies have taken what used to be my seat at the very same counter, so I can watch the game on the TV behind the counter, the game the yuppies are clearly not watching, despite their prime vantage points.  I’m alone, with the bouncer occasionally coming to stand next to me to watch as well, and I’m minding my own business, silently praying that Mario takes his shirt off again (hubba hubba…), when this bunch of drunken toddlers wanders in.  One of the guys in the bunch stops right in front of me to stare at the TV, blocking my view.  The bouncer asks him to move and he does, apologising with a smile and a nod.  ‘Young man has manners,’ I’m thinking, ‘pity about the dodgy clothing choices though, those skinny jeans do nothing for his ass’.  His gang, however, was not nearly as courteous.  They gathered around MY table, the girls screaming as they did a couple of shots and then dancing around MY table, generally being a nuisance.  One of the other boys in the group, a slightly huge bastard with the regulation earring in one ear and sagging pants around his knees, was squealing with the girls, this as he indiscriminately pawed them (he appeared to be very inebriated, and horny).  That is just the kind of behaviour I love to watch when I’m in the local, trying to have a quiet drink and watching some slightly dodgy football.  Or not.  Eventually they got their own table and buggered off, but not before making me seriously reconsider my choice of drinking den. 

Folks, there is a lot of shit I will put up with in my quest to have a drink, but LMwhateverthefucktheyarecalled and squealing toddlers in sandaks is where I draw my line, even a langa like me has some principles dammit!  I am composing my letter of protest, which I shall then hand deliver to Mkubwa, which he shall then tear up into little pieces, little pieces that I shall then use as a coaster for the drink we will have shortly thereafter.  After that drink, I’m leaving and I’m not going back till the buzz dies down and the yuppies and children have packed up their shiny suits, plastic shoes and skinny jeans, and moved on.   

Now can anyone recommend a nice clean local with good quiet music?  And just so you know, I don’t do country music, I’m not that old.  Yet.

I don't like how he treats me...

That is the epiphany I had this week.  I know, doesn’t sound like the most amazing realisation, does it?  Most epiphanies don’t, unfortunately, at least not mine, but life is funny like that, usually the simplest idea is the one that’s hardest to understand. 

Today’s soundtrack is by the always brilliant Anthony Hamilton, a man who, if his bio is to be believed, has tasted both success and hardship in equal measure.  The song is taken from ‘Southern Comfort’, an album that is surprisingly not highly rated, surprising because he sings the hell out of damn near every track, and then some.  Consisting of earlier works, music he did before he found fame, back when he was a struggling artist with nothing to his name but a brilliant voice and very well written music, he only released this album after he finally got his big break, the second after a similar offering a couple of years earlier.  The ‘Comfort’ album is hands down my favourite of all his albums, although given my fondness for peculiar things that statement may not be the ringing endorsement it is intended to be.  This one track in particular, ‘Why’, was love at first listen, the melody got into my head and has refused to leave, and this is three years later.  Thing is, I’d never actually listen too closely to the lyrics, apart from singing along to the chorus the rest was ‘ta dadadada tadada da’, complete with random hip swaying, that is until this week.  I was listening to it one evening, after a spectacularly draining day, and I was in utter shock, and feeling kind of foolish.  Kumbe this man has been singing the bloody soundtrack to my life and I’ve been humming through it, oblivious.  What I need you to do this Sunday morning is listen to the track and then ask yourself, why?     

Day to day the roles we play, walking round with frowns on our face,

When we wanna be happy,

Never being true to self, once you’re gone there’s nothing left

But a breeze, wanting to be free...

My birthday is coming up this month, and because of my impending middle-aged status (I’m about to start checking a different box) I’ve been a bit reflective this week.  Well, more than usual.  Now seeing as how I’m so not religious, the only days of the year I pause to reflect are New Years Day, my birthday and Jamhuri Day, all the other holidays are simply excuses for me to have a bit of a lie in, this after consuming more alcohol than is normally acceptable the night before.  In keeping with this (possibly flawed) theme, at the beginning of the year I reflected on past relationships and how my baggage kept shaping my future, arguing (eloquently I thought, but I’m biased, clearly) that constantly repeating past mistakes was the key to learning from them.  Well, it’s taken me 6 months, but I think I’ve finally figured this shit out, courtesy, in part, of strange conversations with a couple of friends and strangers, and one particularly unhinged young man. 

How many days have I told myself get up again,

And go on with the struggle,

Trying to be someone else, why should I pretend

That I like the mood I’m in?

A man who had been written off reappears, reformed and now a more serious man.  For all of two weeks.  Then he reverted to type and disappeared, again.  He doesn’t want to see you… a faint whisper in the back of my mind, as I realise I haven’t spoken to him in two weeks, and he’s on leave.

A silly boy tried to hit on me, talking about how he needs to pleasure someone, wanting to know if I’d ever been fisted (what the hell?) and such like filthy details, and then stalking my ass when I refused to shag him, finally resorting to amateur blackmail, talking about how I’m his soul mate.  He’s trying to manipulate you… another whisper, as I ignored his third call of the evening.

A man I like, a friend, was picking my brain, in the process forcing me to answer some hard questions about my life and what it is I’m looking for, forcing me to look at my relationship with him and see it for what it really is, forcing me to decide.  But he can be a bit mean sometimes… the voice in my head getting louder, pushing through my confusion, as he’s snapping at me for asking questions, questions not unlike those he’d been asking me himself only a few hours earlier.

Another man I like, but who I considered off limits because he’s with someone else and I have no interest in trespassing, he crossed a line that I thought was not going to be crossed, a line I thought could not be crossed, a line that should not have been crossed.  He’s treating you like a whore… the voice getting angry, frustrated.

A man I’ve only just met, a man I’m considering possibly dating, possibly, but he doesn’t let me talk, always interrupting, talking over me, brushing off my opinions as the mutterings of a fool, mocking me, patronising me.  He’s treating you like an idiot… the voice finally becoming a scream.

How many ways have I tried to be like someone else,

But couldn’t fit the profile,

Dancing a dance, knowing that I’m off beat all the while

But I didn’t believe…

For the longest time I’ve been that irritating chick who’s always analysing her relationship, nitpicking constantly, convinced that something somewhere always need fixing.  What am I doing right, or wrong?  What can I do better?  What should I be doing now?  On and on and on…  Its only now, many years after my last serious relationship that I’m finally at the place where I can sit back and say, with some conviction, that I need to trust myself a bit more, and cut myself some slack dammit.  I’ve learnt the lesson, finally, and it only took four and a half years.  Just so you know, for someone as fucked up as I am, that has to be a new record.  And now, instead of wasting time worrying about my kadha issues, I’m going to be asking myself, what is he bringing to the table?  These days when I meet a man, I’m no longer trying to figure out what I’ll do for him, I want to know what he’ll do for me.  What is this bugger going to add to my life?  Is he going to make me happy?  Is he even going to make me tea?  How do I feel when I’m with him?  Do I like who I am when I’m with him?

Why, why can’t they just let me be?

And why, why can’t I just be free?

Without them telling me where to go, what to say, who to see

And why, why can’t I just be free?

Folks, it would appear that I am back to good, finally.  It seems that in the process of hanging up my fixing boots, I also hung up my baggage.

POSTSCRIPT

Before you start getting all sentimental on my ass, know that the self-pitying, pathetic, woe-is-me cow has being slain and will be roasted over an open flame later this afternoon, so dont bother me with condolences and such like woiyee bullshit.  If you really want to help, buy a drink, or some charcoal for my fire, or a bloody potato peeler…