This is stuff from my Tumblr Girl, Unrequited. Feel free to visit it (please)… But I’ll be posting most of my random ramblings from there on this page 🙂
So last year I started at my fist real job. By real job I mean the stuff adults do you know, like 9-5, UIF benefits type deal. I am actually serious. I don’t actually work from 9 o’clock to 5 o’clock though. Ugh.
I’ve realised a few things about working and being an adult. And they’re all hitting me like a sock filled with coins… or one filled with a bar of soap depending on whether you’re in prison or just have a bunch or sadistic older brothers.
Here are the three Bs of work and stuff. (Yeah, I just did that. It’s corny and I love it!)
Bathroom power snoozes happen. Sometimes you stay up all night working or workin’ it and have to be at work in the morning. You find yourself yawning the whole time, neck weak like a newborn baby’s, eyes heavy like a drunk street person. And then you know there’s only one thing to do; go and take a five minute power snooze in the office bathrooms. There’s nothing wrong with that because you emerge feeling a bit more alive. Yes, people will think you were attending to Ant’ Flo or making a devlin but guess who won’t look like the douche that goes out on weekdays and comes to work tired? You!
Brace yourself for the coffee addiction. I drink coffee twice a day now. I feel like coffee is the preppie identical twin of smoking because it feels great, it’s bad for you, it’s bad for your teeth and it makes you look like some sort of hipster. It’s also got a huge super power called giving you energy. If that ain’t love then I don’t know what love is.
Budgeting is a thing. I never used to budget for anything before! I mean, I knew what I wanted to do when money came in and once I got that out of the way, I blew the rest like I was in a Rick Ross music video. I had no concept of the mythical next week and future and all that crap. Planning? Who’s that guy? So, now that I pay my own rent, groceries, all that stuff you need but are never happy to shuck money for, I have to budget and a piece of me dies each time. I NEED TO BUDGET or else I’m screwed. I don’t know which is more traumatic between the two.
There a lot of other screwed up and crazy things about the working world but I’m trying to get my cheesy alliteration on point then I’ll post them. In bullet point format. Or not.
Happy growing up, everybody!
A fair warning: This is not one of my jolliest posts. I really wish it were, because I like to be happy. But now, after recent happenings and stuff, I’m not as fiercely happy as I usually am – I use the term ‘fiercely’ because I’m also quite an angry happy person. Don’t try too hard to understand that – it eludes me too at times. Also, this may be a long, weird personal rant but maybe some may relate.
A few weeks back my mom came to visit for like 2 weeks in June and I spent all my days with her and my cousin, doing PG stuff and chilling at home in my blankies, getting home-cooked meals and generally not acting like a normal 20-something. When she left, I was still a complete homebody – more than usual. I think the scariest part is that I felt completely content with sitting and reading thick books about awesome non-existent people. I didn’t get out or see my friends much and I honestly loved it. But that’s not ok to me, I don’t want to put down a book, raise my head and realise it’s been two weeks since I ate an actual meal at a table, or five days since I spoke to anyone but myself or the characters I read about. I just don’t. And that has been happening. Until a friend of mine from Uni saved me from what was probably going to be the most anti-social slump of my year.
We went for drinks and I saw a bunch of my other uni mates. I cannot tell you how refreshing it is to see old faces and chat about random things with really smart people who get you. That was my rescue. It was like my eyes got opened again and I was a bit pissed at myself for forgetting how to live my life beyond the four walls of my apartment. So I’ve been going out and seeing people and truly enjoying it! On Saturday I went to Fete de la Musique and had the most amazing day. You know how every grey cloud has a silver lining – I’m pretty sure the opposite is more true. Every fluffy puffy summer cloud carries the craziest friggin’ storm.
I saw the boy who had enchanted me throughout my varsity years. This boy may or may not know of my existence, but throughout the boyfriends and the potentials, he was always the boy I wished would look at me and wonder, and feel like he needs to know – like a weird knight in shining armour. But we call that a crush, although I feel it’s more complex than that. Anyhow, I saw him and he looked happy and healthy and extremely unsingle. You know the gong in the Hunger Games when a tribute dies? That went off in my ears and my mind and body whirled with bad emotions. I was not fine from that moment onwards. Now it’s not said boy that set these feelings off, it’s what the whole thing represents to me and it’s because it had just hit me there and then, that I had been avoiding everything that was making me feel bad. Not a great solution.
Why do people make it seem like crushes are these cute things that make you blush and do adorkable shit and one day muse over lovingly with the guy you finally end up with? They’re not. They’re brutal. I have had two big crushes in my life, long, cold absolutely unrequited crushes, do you know what that did to me? Nothing good, sir. Fantasising about being with someone for that long, and having them not even know you breathe is shattering. It is unhealthy and might scar you emotionally for as long as you live. Crushes suck.
Also, loneliness is the worst. Because when you’re not lonely, you don’t get time to contemplate the brutality of crushes or hate couples passing by or consider agreeing to a date with that boy you find mildly revolting. Loneliness is demoralising. Seeing the boy I crushed on forever with his partner didn’t hurt me because I was seeing the boy I’d crushed on forever with his partner. It hurt me because I wanted someone of my own – whom I’d thought was him for a while. It reminded me of the dark pits at which my loneliness dwelt and that they had no end. It made me think of the crippling state of my singleness. And that was a very uncool feeling.
Now I’m still feeling slimy, especially after watching The Perks of being a Wallflower and balling my friggin eyes out – but at least I know, there is a problem and I need to find a way to make the situation better. At some point I won’t be lonely and these things won’t matter…
Until then… queue Christina Perri
Meeting boys happens a lot, it seems if one was a serial dater they would most definitely have a field day in the area I did my tertiary. It’s such an unbelievably reliable opposite sex spot that I still go there every now and then. I see people younger than me, people my age and people who were out by the time I got in. It’s a melting pot of post-adolescent boys and girls looking for a good time, long and short term. Thing is, I go there for entertainment, it’s kind of stupid to look for a potential anything in a place like that.
Some time ago, I met a boy. And he was tall and extremely handsome… or maybe he was extremely tall and handsome, I can’t be too sure. I was blinded by the dim lit space and the flickering lights and him, and I was smiling the whole time. You know those really suggestive, flirtatious, leading and sensual conversations wannabe hook ups have in clubs? Yeah, that wasn’t one of those. It was random and pointless and fun. At the beginning of the conversation he had joked about how short I am and by the end of the conversation he’d invited me to a braai. This was weird. I’m used to ‘Where do you live?’, ‘Where are you guys going after here?’, ‘Let’s go hang at mine’. This guy wanted to see me in the daylight… What?
I couldn’t make it to his braai because of two reasons 1) Splitting headaches and paralysis the next morning and 2) I live in another city and I had to head home. Odds, huh? Irritating little buggers. So I texted and apologised, rain cheque vibes and all. Because I text, because I’m civilised. But I didn’t expect a response because come on, boys from that cess pool don’t respond, let alone text girls they meet when out. I. Don’t. Know. Why! He texted back though. Biggest shocker. And we started texting from then on. Not bbm-ing or facebook chatting or twitter dm-ing – old fashioned sms-ing (Yes, the text messaging process is pretty much old fashioned now.). Texting and joking and it was completely awesome.
I know I can be a bit crazy with these things as a terminal singleton, so I asked my friend, who is a serial dater, to be my spirit guide through this awkward thing I was experiencing with this very nice boy. Fast forward to what was to be our second meeting, two weeks after the first. You know that feeling you get when you’re going on a road trip to a familiar place but you know different experiences and adventures lie ahead. Yes, this was that feeling. You know that feeling you had on the Eve of your Matric Dance? Yeah, I don’t know how that feels, my MD was a bust but I saw how the other girls were so it must be a really great feeling. Anyhow, I was so busy being normal and girly and full of unfounded excitement that I forgot my pessimistic mantra of waiting for the other shoe to drop. And boy did it drop. It’s funny. I find things like that funny.
The meeting didn’t happen. Phones weren’t answered. Texts weren’t returned. And the usual array of questions came flooding in, ‘Did I text too much?’ ‘Does he think I’m crazy?’, etc. But this time I didn’t text too much and I seriously wasn’t acting crazy. I know this. And although I spent my Sunday facebook stalking him, trying not to fantasise about the day that could have been while trying to scrape my self-esteem from off the floor, with a swollen upper lip and a completely itchy body from my allergy to my buddy’s blanky, I blamed no-one. And I saw an interesting tweet that made me feel better
“Hard to remember that the world doesn’t revolve around you, and that not hearing from someone does not mean they no longer like you.” – @EthanCrankeArt
He could be in hospital. Facebook could be down. He could strictly want to be friends and be giving breathing space to lower the expectations and opposite sex tension. He could be over it. I don’t know, he’ll tell me if and when he decides to text. There’s no reason to beat myself up about nothing and be upset at some oke for nothing. I’m drinking wine.
On the Friend Zone
a metaphorical place that two people are in when there is no possibility of romance between them.
Nah, there’s no chance. We’re in the friend zone.
verb – transitive
to inform or show another person that they’re such a good friend that there is no possibility of romance.
She friend zoned me.
1. The beginning. Welcome to the friend zone.
Tells you everything, including stories about other people of your sex. Gives you bear hugs ONLY.Goes on and on about how you’re the nicest person in the world and sometimes maybe throws in, just to torture you, that you’d be perfect for a certain friend. Calls you over when in need of a helping hand or a shoulder to cry on, then sends you on your way afterwards because alone time is needed to just sit and think, but thanks for being such a great person. Guess what? Yes, you guessed it. Welcome to the friend zone.
2. It’s a cold dark room. Brace yourself.
Yep. It’s like limbo and you aren’t even dead – although it’s arguable in this situation that you are a poor lost soul. Everything becomes related to it, it’s all you think about. It finds you at the movies, in class, while you’re listening to music… “Next up, we give you Michael Jackson in his suave hit, You rock my friend zone”. That bad.
3. Keep telling yourself its better than nothing.
You have options. There are always options. You could choose to stay in the friend zone, wait it out or concede defeat. Eek. You could tell yourself that having her as a friend is better than nothing. But be warned, the friend zone is not for the faint hearted. In two words, pain and awkwardness. You’re bound to slip up. You’ll be fooled into answering when she says something stupid like “Oh, I wish there were more nice guys like you…” with a “But, I’m a nice guy like me…”. AWKWARD. Does the friend zone have any perks? Yeah sure, absolutely. If you have no intention of indulging in sexual intercourse with that person. Ever. What do you think this is? You know each other too well now, genius. Weaknesses, sensitivities, seen each other at your worst. There’s no way you can date now, buddy. That’s not how those heartbreakingly heart-warming things we call relationships start. That is how they end.
4. Girls get friend zoned too
It happens a lot actually. Women have BEEN in the friend zone. It’s more indirect for us, more of a late reaction. We get into the friend zone and realise two years down the line that, ‘Wait I don’t belong here!’. And then we’re doomed because we’re strong enough to carry the burden of friend to lover. Especially given the fact that we can’t explicitly express our eagerness to leave the zone. We’re stuck with coy hints like, “Oh wow, that was nice. We should have dinner out more. Maybe just the two of us next time.” Instead of bold statements like, “Oh wow, this was cool. The two of us should have dinner out more. Or in, it doesn’t matter. Then proceed to make babies, minus the actual babies,” while using your sexy power stare. This is because we know that with the latter you might end up in the pain and awkwardness zone. The former is as forward as it is safe to go.
5. And the sad part. You can’t just snap your fingers and be rid of the friend zone.
Buckle up. You might be stuck here for a while. Or be the clever jackal and remove yourself from the situation. People that friend zone other people are serial sadists, users and have too many friggin options, and having a person at their beck and call just feeds their god complex. You can’t drive an hour to go take someone ice-cream, come on. You’ve already been compromised, soldier. Abort. Leave. It maybe just work in your favour. Or not. You might just lose someone that might have really been an awesome friend for years to come to the greed of your carnal cravings. See? You’re stuck.
6. Or you probably put yourself there so, only you can take you out.
I have one thing to say about this… You know the friend zone exists. You know what gets you in there. If you know what’s good for you, keep your distance.
That said, the friend zone can never be defeated. It was there before you were born, it will be there long after you’re dead so happy friend zoning boys and girls.
On weight and food…
A friend of mine tweeted something very peculiar and out of the blue the other day. Well, I’m sure it was not out of the blue for her but for me – with all the strange things that trend on my timeline from sons of Doc Shebeleza to rugby and football updates to nudity to Pottermore – addressing, albeit slightly brutally, the issue of weight was pretty out of the blue. Now I love this girl, my friend who tweeted the over-eating thing, so much that I could see her so vividly in my mind’s eye saying these words…
“Don’t come near me complaining about how big you are. Lay off the f*cking McDonalds.” – My friend, Teesh
How could I picture her saying that? Specifically that? One day Teesh and I went out with our other, equally controversial, friends for dinner and some drinks. And no she didn’t judge us at the table (not, really) but at some point when I’m guessing we had one three many, she proclaimed randomly (and quite loudly)…
“Why are these people here? Is that woman eating a full pizza?! Why are they eating so much? You are pigs! All of you! Pigs!”- My friend, Teesh
I will not say whether or not we got kicked out that day. But imagine my shock and consequently my amusement. It came much later but it was shock eventually, forget that in the beginning it was possibly marred and numbed and over-powered by laughter – jubilant laughter and amusement.
Maybe we need people to shamelessly call out food offenders out there. I was at church the other day. The church thing is not voluntary, now that I’m adding to SA’s unemployment rate by being an educated bum, I’ve been slumming it at my cousin’s house so her rules apply. It’s a drag, but someone has to do it. So the other day at church during announcements, they mention aerobics are to resume from this week, on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Saturday. Seriously? I die. There is so much wrong with that statement. Firstly, this is announced by the Pastor’s wife who, unlike in most fantasy worlds and like in most real-life situations, is not the leanest woman in the congregation. Secondly, aerobics? Thirdly, she announces this to other women who are mostly like her, mothers who work all day every day, take care of kids every day. I figure they rarely eat breakfast, eat food from from the canteen/cafeteria and regularly eat take-away or starchy home-made meals. Now you want to go give these beautiful whale-ish beings an excuse to eat even more? Most women work on the food reward system; payday, month-end, birthday, late second uncle’s birthday, any excuse to eat. After that whole useless aerobics shindig, words like, “Ooh, I worked up a sweat” followed by a ‘healthy’ snack binge or “I’ll burn it off during aerobics” which is a misconceived notion, will be flying around. They will burn nothing. Aerobics will make you fat.
She jogs though, my healthy friend Teesh, so she can say pretty much anything about those of us who sit on our asses and expect Steers to invent a fat suctioning tonic to go with those Whoohaa meals. Whoohaa! I should start jogging. The whole thing is very inspiring when you see how ridiculously hot a person becomes when they put in the hours. So inspiring. Until you spot the Kernel’s head grinning and glistening in lights in the still of the night, reassuring you that the grass is indeed greener on the other side. Greener and tastier and can be super-sized. I can’t go to the gym. That place is not for the unhealthy.
Yes, that is undoubtedly ironic but it is true. I’m telling you. I’ve never been in the inside of a gym. I’ve been at the entrance and peeked inside when my friends used t go back in uni, but that was it. I’ve been given pamphlets, I’ve never actually wanted to take them but I’m sure the world is aware how persistent those Virgin Active people are. I find them quite offensive actually. Essentially, I have a reason for not joining a gym, other than being broke. My priorities are thwarted, I ask that I not be judged for putting necessities like flea markets and binge drinking before my health. The gym is not fatty friendly. This is a very strong assumption but hear my argument. Have you seen the kind of people that got to the gym? It’s like they did P90X for six months then decided to join just to maintain their amazing bodies. People at the gym aren’t chubby (Unless the gym is Curvy, in which case I say fight on comrades of the flesh). Let the Debonairs loving plebeian go there on a regular day and watch the reality of health and fitness hit them slowly as they witness the speeds of treadmills and weights being lifted and watch the inner obese child slowly die inside. I swear, observe the the nervous podgy faces at the gym and tell me I’m lying.
I chuckle at the face of health and wave a large box of loaded cheese fries in its face. And diet coke.
On leaving school…
The chaffing stops this month ladies and gentlemen. You are probably wondering what chaffing I am referring to. I’m not chaffing, I haven’t been wearing denim bum pants all that much now that I’m out of school. I’m more of a track pants and slacks kinda girl these days. Painfully unattractive. Do not imagine it. I graduated a month ago. Brava! It was a special right of passage I didn’t expect to ever go through. You see, I have terminal loser syndrome, I am terribly terrified of succeeding in anything. It is a very serious ailment that had me excruciatingly nervous the whole week leading up to the day. Glad I didn’t miss it though. I am not going to say I cried during the singing of the National Anthem or Gaudeamus Igitur. I will not say I didn’t either. Alas! I’ve graduated from a lot of things this year, some of which I gladly leave behind in Hatfield.
When I was still in university, I used to be very exciting (maybe too exciting), I used to have a pretty eventful life. Every weekend had a story and the stories one would hear from me back then went like…
“The weekend was so sick, bru. We went to a [insert Rock band name] gig and it was awesome! A fight broke out between a group of fanatic brawlers and some dude offered us crack cocaine. Saw my ex-boyfriend, drunk out of his mind, making out with a less than attractive female. It was awesome!”
Now life changes drastically when you live at home. When the most exciting part of your day is when you log onto the internet and get on Pottermore or Google pictures of male models. And reality strikes when you have to get on Jobmail or Careerjet and look for work. You’re not as ignorant of reality as you were in your young student days and in your student world. Honestly, this kind of reality makes you very angry, but funny angry, like an old red-eared British man who owns a pub. The stories you would hear from me now, go like…
“Well, my cousin has this habit of nudging me in the rib whenever I yawn or cough while we’re in the kitchen, cooking. But today I was pissed off, and it became personal. She nudged me so hard I choked on my own saliva, so I slammed a heavy non-stick pan across her face and had myself a muffin after that. The muffin really helped calm me down.”
Yes. That’s the kind of thing a functioning hobo does. Have I become hostile or violent? No. I have always been those things when the situation calls for it. I think what is going on here is what pseudo intellectuals would term a classic case of disillusionment. That’s a story for another day. But let me say, boy do I miss being naive. On the other hand my maturity has helped with some issues of the past. If I have to mention one thing, from the top of my head, that has been a benefit of a being s rookie grown-up, it’s that I am starting to say no to uncomfortable clothing for the sake of looking like a baby spice-girl prostitute. The low-rise jeans that attract unnecessary attention at local minibus taxi ranks. The mini skirt you have to pull down from time to time if you aren’t to keen on showing some LBC (Lower Butt Cleavage). The tight muffin-top revealing tank tops. The denim bum shorts that expose you to possible inner thigh chaffing if you aren’t model thin. The chaffing stops. Everything stops. There is a God.
This little advantage of maturity gives me joy. So much joy that I’ve stopped having daydreams of myself kicking scrawny toddlers in church. Instead, I am so happy I could French kiss a leper. In a quarantine oxygen suit.