Masturbation is a touchy subject

Gonna make you like the way they lie
Better than the truth
They'll tell you everthing
You wanted someone else to say
They're gonna break your heart, yeah
From what I've seen You're just one more hand me down
Hand me down - Matchbox20

*

Cazz: Have you seen that picture on the wall? The one with the guy covered in a wet sheet? I always that it was his HAND.

Music Aficionado: Oh you mean the picture of the guy and his "mighty sword".

Cazz: I wouldn't call it his mighty sword. More like a jousting stick.

Me: Oh you mean because he can ram you hard with that?

Juan giggles.

Me: Oh ... Did you hear that?

Juan nods.

*

So it turns out I'm more quotable than Barney Stinson. Head on over to Juan's blog where he talks about the FEMALE mid-life crisis and uses some of my quotes to support his argument.

*

And lastly a quote from The Simpsons that for some reason or other I find FRIGGING hilarious.

Billy Corgan: "Billy Corgan, 'Smashing Pumpkins'."

Homer Simpson: "Homer Simpson, smiling politely."

Future Harper Lee in the making?

Everything that you do is so amazing

I can't believe what your body

Makes me wanna do

I'm having visions of me all over you

Falling for you - Tamia

My 500th post came and went without much funfair. I know you were expecting a procession with cymbals, trumpets and fire-dancers to commemorate this auspicious event. No such luck my popsicles. It’s not that I’d dismissed the event with a flick of a wrist. Trust me that I was all too acutely aware of the numbers ticking by. In fact if I were to be honest, I would admit that I was very idea of turning 500 had more me on edge than my upcoming birthday.

And as the numbers drew closer, I found that I was asking myself the requisite questions; the questions that every TRUE blogger SHOULD ask of themselves. Why do I blog? Do I do it in the hopes that one day I too will be able to convince thousands of Americans to boycott beef and that some quack like Dr Phil is the next big thing? Or I write simply to while away the hours at job I’m not entirely devoted to? Do a blog because I don’t have someone special to dole out fanciful phrases that were created solely for him? Would I give it up the minute Mr.-I-savour-every-word-of-your-tales-of-dipshittery, enters my life or would I continue to share it with all of YOU? Ultimately the question is, “Do I write because I enjoy writing?”

And the answer to that is a simple, “Yes”.

I’ve thought of stopping. I’ve thought of it often especially in the last few months. Somewhere, somehow I’ve lost my confidence; my stride; my swagger. I woke up one morning and suddenly I could no longer gauge my “talent”. I simply didn’t know if what I’d scribbled down was any good.

I just don’t know became a mantra, something I found myself howling out in the middle of the night - no reply ever forthcoming. I thought of various strategies to up my game. Maybe what I needed was new adventure overseas, maybe I needed a grand love affair or maybe I should consider becoming a drug mule - all this in an effort to feel alive ONCE again.

And even though stumbled and struggled to find my footing, I couldn’t give it up. Writing has transformed into an addiction. I write because I have a thousand thoughts crowding my head, each of them clamouring to be heard, to be let loose. To ignore their shouts of freedom would be a crime worth persecuting. (Oh God I’m sooooo pretentious).

And even though I might one day find someone who relishes my witticism and my body, chances are good that I won’t quit the blog. Because let’s face it, what I really want is some guy who says, “Yo, my dirty little monkey, what’s wrong? You haven’t entertained the masses in ages.”

* Other questions asked over the period were: Has my writing evolved? Have I gotten any better at it? Will I ever reach that point where I’m capable of writing a book that rivals that of Harper Lee’s?

Question: Why do you blog? What's your inspiration for blogging? And if you don't blog, what are you passionate about?

Human Trafficking

If you think you fit the bill, you should totally apply

I wrote this a while ago, when I was way too busy with my studies to socialise.

This blows! How am I supposed to meet Mr. I’m-incredibly-perfect-for-Sid if I spend most of my time with my nose in my books? I mean it’s not like they’re lining up outside my door, CV in hand, applying for the position of future soul mate.

CV of Sid’s Future Soulmate

Name: This is irrelevant since I’m likely to repeat it to myself over and over again until I’ve convinced myself of its beauty.

Sex: MALE! This is one aspect that I’m not going to compromise on.

Date of birth: As long as he's legal I’m good. They say that you always remember the date of your soul mate. But what if you are one of those people who are simply terrific at remembering people’s birthdays. Does this mean that you may have more than one soul mate? Do you have a different soul mate for various phases of your lives? Or are you just a little schizophrenic and require a soul mate for the various facets of your personality?

Education: He must be able to spell the word ‘womb’. He must also be able to differentiate between the words ‘there’ and ‘their’.

Status: STD free and single (or at least he should be willing to dump his girlfriend for me).

Address: Hopefully his address and mine will eventually be the same but for now I’ll settle for the same city. Some people believe that love means continual yearning and not the sharing of household chores. I’ve heard that the only reason Meryl Streep didn’t run away with Clint Eastwood in the Bridges of Madison County is that she knew that 15 years from now she would find him just as mundane as her husband. What do I think? I think I’ve done enough yearning for someone, who was just never going to be mine.

Criminal record: Ideally his slate will be clean but I’m willing to overlook some shoplifting he might have done in his younger days. I’m also willing to look past drug experimentation as long as it’s not a R4000 hobby that he needs to partake in every four hours.

Physical appearance: Cute. Let’s face reality here. I’m superficial.

Interests: Me, me, me and me! He must also enjoy watching cinema nouveau movies, reading, hiking and traveling. Oh and did I mention that he should be interested in me?

Purple streaked rain clouds and edible panties

The following piece isn't funny. In fact I'm not even sure if it's a good piece of writing. It's just something that I needed to write.

*

Yesterday I scanned the horizon, not for signs of rain, no. It was pretty obvious that rain could be expected - again. No, I was searching the clouds for shades of purple. I had once heard a blogger describe rain clouds as purple streaked. The term … well, it perturbed me. I’ve spent too much time selecting the correct shade of purple (heliotrope, lilac or amethyst) to create THE PERFECT MAP that I intuitively know that rain clouds; MY rain clouds would never contain a flicker of purple. No, the rain clouds in my world were tumultuous, angry and ultimately GREY. They carried the wrath of Grecian Gods, who drenched the earth.

Purple … purple is a term I reserve for ethereal sunsets that usher in nights of fantasy, where celestial bodies blink and whisper. Purple is a colour reserved for decadently exquisite cocktail dresses. Purple is reserved flowers and butterflies that loudly proclaim the arrival of summer. Rain clouds, the ones in my world, are not purple streaked. They are tumultuous, angry and grey but never purple.

And as I stood there scanning the skyline, I was surprised to find that the words of other bloggers were imprinted on my memory. I, the person who is incapable of remembering the names and faces of people I went to school to for 5 years, can accurately and without difficulty recall words hastily scribbled down by strangers.

*

And something to make you smile ...

So I just Googled the phrase "edible panties" to see if my blog would be listed under the top 3 recommended sites and was rewarded with this

Crazy/Beautiful

Saturday night we hung out at Zula (194 Long Street), which is one of my favourite "clubs" in Cape Town.
Remember that time I had a huge crush on a guy but he couldn't date me because he was in a relationship with Jesus? No? Yeah well Barry (not featured in the above picture) does.
Barry: Har har har Sid. You were cock-blocked by Jesus.

I was also fortunate enough to watch a group of white girls attempt to dance. Now I know for a fact that not all white girls are cursed with the inability to feel the beat. Some of you guys can seriously break it down. For those of you who are completely tone deaf, dancing requires more than just enthusiasm. In fact I would really appreciately it if you toned down the enthusiasm. There is no need to be swinging your arms around like that. Seriously, you're going to put an eye out with your elbow.

*

Sunday night we hang out at Oblivion where we drove the waitress mad AND played 30 seconds. The game got pretty heated and at one point I shouted out to one of the opposing team members to, "Go fuck yourself!". I'm nothing if not a classy broad.

Juan & Dizzy*.

Dizzy*: The capital of England?

Juan: London.

Dizzy*: No. Britain.

Dizzy*'s sister: He wrote Tom Sawyer.

Dizzy*: Charles Dickens.

Dizzy*'s sister: Correct.

Me: Bullshit!!! He wrote "A tale of two cities" and "A Christmas carol". Not Tom Sawyer.

Dizzy*: Did he write Moby Dick?

Me: Erm, I don't know ...

Dizzy*'s sister: Yeah well it doesn't matter how we got the answer as long as we got the right answer.

Hey Fatty, Spandex is NOT your friend

I’ve spent enough time on this planet to know that one-size fits all clothes do NOT in fact fit all. After several frustrating trials and tribulations in dressing rooms, fighting to get a top over my lactose infused orbs, I have come to the grand conclusion that one-size clothing was an ideology dreamt up by Chairman Moa and his sycophants. This brilliant torture ensures that ALL chubby women immediately fall into a deep pit of despair, ultimately vowing never to support that greedy capitalist organisation that we so fondly refer to McDs.

Of course not all shop assistants have been kind enough to give me the opportunity for self loathing. Some are under the delusion that it is their duty to waylay you the minute you step over the store threshold, guaranteeing that your grubby paws NEVER touch the fabric of their dainty little costumes.

“This is a one-size fits all clothing store.” he said, arms firmly crossed over his chest.

Right … Soooo. What size will fit me?

Something with elastic.

And with that I exited the store, head bowed in shame.