Live in the moment, enjoy it!

This post is intended to make you hate me. I place your declaration of love very high on the list of things I don’t need to know on this Friday morning. I’ve reached a level of vanity where I feel like if I were more flexible, I’d blow myself. So make sure to hate me when you hit the bottom. Er, the button – when you hit the share button at the bottom.

Don’t let my pissed-offedness offend y’all. Now, let’s break open this condom, shall we?

I do not have a mirror in my room. Not because I can’t afford one but the thought just never crosses my mind. How do I know if I’m looking good or not? I don’t. Well, some mornings, curiosity gets the best of me and I take a pic. So, it is like 3a.m. on a Tuesday night and I’m in the men’s room at Casablanca. Through my drunken eyes I look at the mirror and the guy looking back literally scares the creeps out of me.

I have like two new lines in my brow that no one told me about. Ketchup is white in comparison with the latest color of my eyes. I am getting skinnier by the minute. Probably because nowadays I prefer to buy cigarettes in packs and those dreadful little motherfuckers are like blood sucking vampires.

Basically, I look like I’ve aged 3 years in 3 months.

And yet I just won’t quit.

I do not want to quit – I stopped fighting it a long time ago.

I stopped letting myself feel guilty because the sound of beer bottles clinking excites me the same way sleigh bells excite kids on Christmas Eve.

I stopped regretting each morning I woke up with no money at all. I bite my tongue each time I am about to say “holy crap” when I wake up on a strange bathroom floor.

I stopped calling people every time I woke up feeling suicidal and full of self-loathing. It used to take longer for the tightness in my chest to subside but I’ve condemned the grieving process to even more sousing.  

I turned it all off.

For the first time in a long time, I feel very good about myself.

Life is too dreadfully short to listen to the opinion of every dimwit who can string together a sentence. I was sipping Vodka at 2p.m. on a week day in some kinky, dangerous, dangerous place where morals and dignity are washed out as soon as you step in. One of my buddies said something that made me order another round.

He said, “Why would you let yourself lose sleep over people you met barely a year ago? They don’t have a right to have a say in anything that concerns you. They are not supposed to matter. They don’t even have a right to ask you how the fuck your morning is.”

We were picking on the unfortunate fella who committed suicide at Mary Stuart last semester. He did not kill himself over a girl but we dictated that he did. He killed himself over what? Books? Money? We didn’t give a flying fuck; it was at Mary Stuart – the biggest girls’ hall in the biggest University in the country.

Most of my friends, including the above mentioned guy (no, not the suicide guy, the other one), are people I met less than a year ago. The friends I have this year are not the very ones I had last year and probably won’t be in my inner circle next year. Because I get bored easily and I always say or do some inappropriate mind numbing doodle that leaves them no choice but to let go. Do you know what that means? It means one thing;

I don’t give a shit.

Living life on the edge gives me an incredible adrenaline rush. I know I am on a crash course but hey, the good die young. Last weekend, I was with the most awesome person on earth. With this babe, I’ll never run out of stuff to write. We got to the bar. There was an old bloke sipping beer solo at a darker end of the bar. My friend thought it necessary to pick on him. 

As in, how the hell can you be in a bar and not have a lighter at your age?

The guy’s face darkened. The poor sod was offended and he was out for blood. I gave up shooting pool with a girl whose T-Shirt said “Drink ‘till She’s Hot” and spent the next hour trying to keep my friend out, and this nigger in. Now, I’m just over a meter tall so some of you must be thinking, ‘No freakin way!’

I got this stunt from Kevin Hart. In case there’s an impending fight, I’ll try to convince you that fighting me is a very, very bad idea. I made it clear that if he touched my friend again, I will, “FUCK YOU UP REAL BAD DAWG!”

I was treading terra incognita so when he started shoving me around, I aborted the mission. I touched the tip of my imaginary cowboy hat in farewell and said, “I’ll be anywhere else moffos.”

  

Later in the night, we went to a club in Munyonyo. I’ve forgotten the name of the place. I always forget the names. Most times I hit a random club and I’m like, “Wait, I’ve actually been here before! I bet you a tenner the toilets are that side.”

She said, “I have enough money for transport or booze, but not both. Do you want a beer?”

Why, yes, I thought you’d never ask!

It was nice not to be certain of the future. Not to care about outcomes. We watched girls whore around. They were to trying to make it seem like it is at least a little bit difficult for guys to hook up with them. After that we flagged down a random ride and it dropped us somewhere I don’t even know. Then we got a boda-b to go to her place.

Somewhere along the way, we started arguing. It had something to do with me over tapping her breasts. I was offended and told her she’s such a fuckin bitch. She told the boda-b guy to drop me because I was such a fuckin asshole.

4a.m, alone, broke, cold and in the middle of nowhere.

Welcome to my world.

Leonard Cohen once said that there’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in. So if you still love me, I’m glad to know that I rate above a cabbage on the friendship scale.

Happy Women’s Day everyone! I’m heading over to Writing Our World to cook for my lady writer friends. This is going to be no menopause festival so you’re all welcome!