For Valentine’s Day, I Quit Tinder. 

I’m alone in the adult world for the first time and that feeling of camaraderie- constant cheering and support from a large group of girlfriends has slowly tapered to “are you alive?” texts in between coffee runs and pap smears.

The first and and last time I had a Valentine was in my last year of high school. And thank God for that. I say thanks because at my high school, up until the 4th form (grade 11 for you muggles), Valentine’s gifts were delivered to your homebase classroom by your class prefect during the second last period of the day. (These details are fuzzy but stick with me).

So, the bell would ring and overexcited young girls who had worked themselves up to hyperventilation all day, would scamper past their lockers, playing Oracle about who would get what from whom. (Or, who would get nothing from nobody.) What this meant was that if you were like me and weren’t popular with the boys (read not popular in general), the absence of flowers, oversized stuffed creatures and other love themed paraphernalia from your desktop was only witnessed by approximately 27 other females. (Yes, I’m an elite all girls school survivor).

This worked really well for me because I always got that one face- saving gift. From my young brother at an all boys high school at which he was much like I was, fighting for his life. In exchange for his familial duty, I would do the same. He was a dork, I was a nerd, it worked well. Of course everyone knew where the roses would come from because we would inspect each other’s takings once the handing out ceremony was done. I made it through this custom unscathed for 4 years straight. Then final year happened.

The difference with 6th form (the final two years of high school, again, for the muggles)  is that all the sixth formers were required to congregate in the school hall and travel from the seats on the floor, to the stage, in front of each other, to fetch whatever presents the vermin had deemed we were worthy of receiving. This was fine if you were in Lower 6. You were new to the senior game. Your importance was viewed the way one considers a wet piece of leftover bread-with just enough disdain to imply that whilst you are an eyesore, you aren’t enough of one to be paid much attention.

In Lower 6, you’d assemble with your crew, sit at the back and hope the final years wouldn’t notice you almost crawl to the stage to get your measly parcel. And they wouldn’t because they’d be concentrating on one of two things. The first was each other-she who received the largest/loudest/most of anything, ruled. Forever. The second was to make sure that said ruler was  not a Lower 6th former. (read wet piece of bread.) If that ever happened, ESPECIALLY if the gifts came from someone whose affection had been mentioned in the same line with the word “dibs” by a final year, then screwdom. (use your imagination here).

Right. In my final year, I began a fated dalliance with an attractive, popular young man who happened to attend the same school my brother did. When I say I was a nerd, I mean it-glasses and all. But I was a clever, smart mouthed, sporty, funny nerd. And one of my best friends was the most beautiful and popular people in our stream. So I wasn’t a complete social pariah – I just missed the cool factor. So when I look back,  I know 17 year old me could not believe that this popular individual picked me. I digress.

So when V-day (vomits in mouth) rolled around, panic levels were at Defcon One. “What if he’s just a fuck boy?”  (we didn’t have that term back then but the species was strong), “what if he sends nothing and my crew is embarrassed because I got only the customary present?”I was a wreck.

I need to emphasise that at this point, I’d come into my own pretty nicely. I was a school prefect, well liked and respected by my peers and staff and showing some promise in the boob department. Boys still however, baffled me.

Final period rolled around, we congregated in the hall and all eyes were on us. And guess what? My name was called TWICE that year. I went out with a bang. I had a boy friend (kind of, I think)  and clearly the boobs were working.

Fast forward 9 years. I’ve been in relationships and situationships but never have I ever had a Valentine -not  since that February afternoon. The first two years I looked back with sad fondness at my high school triumph and wondered if I was to die a bitter spinster (melodramatic phase). The last 6 years have been a breeze. I’d book myself a movie and kill myself with red wine (my favourite anything) and live. Because Valentine’s Day is a scam. I’ve been quite happy.

But this year, in the build-up to today, I’ve experienced  a sense of aloneness. Not loneliness. Just being alone and mildly concerned. And when I consider the sheer volume of dates I’ve been on in the last year, and for what-cheap thrills, bad kisses, mommy issues, short man syndrome, mediocre conversation and egos the size of The Donald’s head?(I Tindered A lot). 

I’m alone in the adult world for the first time and that feeling of camaraderie- constant cheering and support from a large group of girlfriends has slowly tapered to “are you alive?” texts in between coffee runs and pap smears. I’ve tried to fill the empty feelings with dates to keep busy. See, I wasn’t even looking for meaningful connections or even the traditional Tinder hook-up. I was looking for time pushers just so I wouldn’t be that girl who really likes to sit alone on her couch after work and read a book for three hours whilst listening to scratched New Edition CDs. All so that on Monday when people asked how my weekend was, I wouldn’t say “great, I watched 32 episodes of Arrested Development and finished a book”. I was looking to have something to do for one Valentine’s Day.

This morning I deleted Tinder and went shopping online for a book I last read in high school. I found it at a book store near my house. I’m on my way to pick it up now (along with a good bottle of wine because I can afford non-poison now). This Valentine’s almost reduced me to that insecure mess I was on the last V-day that meant anything. All to prove to perfect strangers that I’m loveable.

I’m alright. I’m alone and rather pleased that I’m not frantically calling restaurants for a last minute booking (because that’s the human I am). So to you who doesn’t have a date tonight and is currently swiping right on everything (with your “I’m going out” settings on), it’ll be okay. Today doesn’t define you. The huge chocolate cake on your counter you bought as backup? That defines you. (chuckles at own joke)

Happy Valentine’s Day (read Tuesday)

The Empress. x

 

Happy birthday Sunshine

Tomorrow is her birthday. She’d have told me not to get her anything-I asked her every year and the answer was always the same. She’d have said something wise and witty and we’d have chuckled. We’d have then made plans to play in the sun. It would have been lovely.

nat
Thousands of memories. Etched into our hearts. More vivid because you breathe light into our souls.

A couple of months ago, I woke up to the news that one of my oldest friends had passed away. I remember it was super early and I fumbled for my phone in the dark to check the time. You know that desperate ‘please let me have a few more hours’ plea you make when you went to bed late and you knew better but the Wi-Fi was so nice at 1am. My too bright device informed me it was about 5am and I rejoiced at another hour and a half of loving  from my bed.

That’s when I saw a message notification from her sister and was curious as to what she’d message me about in the middle of the night. I remember now thinking I’d check it later and I put my phone back on the table next to my warm comfy haven. But my thoughts wouldn’t settle, so I thought I’d just fiddle with my phone. I read the message over and over for a few minutes. I couldn’t reply. But the more people responded I knew I had to say something. I think I said something short. Then I called another one of my besties. I don’t think we talked. I just cried.

I sat in the corner of my bed and rocked myself. It was a quiet weeping. It was also really just denial. I got out of bed, showered and got dressed because I figured I needed to do normal life things or I’d lose it. In my bath towel, seated on the floor, (my bath sheet is white mind you) I called my mother.

I hardly ever call my mother. She’s one of those no-news-is-good-news people. She’s very practical like that. So when I called her at 7am on a Tuesday morning she answered her phone in a bit of a panic. I got the words out. She called me a liar. I cried some more. Please note, my mom doesn’t like tears but was blessed with a daughter whose tears are just so easy. My water works rendered her helpless. She soothed me and gave me instructions. I carried them out like a good soldier.

After calling two other friends, I steeled myself and went to work. Baaaaaaaad idea. Fast forward two days and I was in a plane trying (and failing miserably) to get the chattiest woman I know to just. Stop. Talking. To. Me. I mean, I had earphones on and I was holding about 4 packets of Kleenex. How did she not get the message?

It’s been a rough couple of months.

2 or so weeks ago I woke up missing my friend. I wanted to be  close to her so jumped out of bed, took a shower and hopped on a train to her favourite beach. On the way there I remember sitting with my feet on the seat and staring out the window, thinking about what we’d take about when I got there. I’d tell her my hair was healthy but the salon ladies keep trying to make me relax it. I also wanted to tell her the boy who hurt my heart didn’t need the hernia I ordered- God was fixing me. She would laugh and tell me it was too late. I figured I’d tell her it’s okay that she’s gone because she was fine where she was and at least I could always come here and catch her up.

I didn’t make it. When the train pulled up to the station, I exited the carriage, but I couldn’t leave the platform. It hurt too hard. All the water in the ocean couldn’t wash away the ache. I didn’t want to walk down the strip and talk to myself. I wanted her. Here. I sat cross legged on the opposite platform and caught the next train back.

Tomorrow is her birthday. She’d have told me not to get her anything-I asked her every year and the answer was always the same. She’d have said something wise and witty and we’d have chuckled. We’d have then made plans to play in the sun. It would have been lovely.

It hasn’t stopped hurting. Grief is a cruel thing because it lies to you about what time does. But tomorrow is like a time capsule, the one day set aside where I MUST be happy for you because well we’ve scratched bridesmaid duties off our list. I’ll smile.

Happy birthday Sunshine. Let your light sprinkle a little joy upon us for a day. Because the day after, we’ll be sad again.

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Diaries of a day drinker

*pours more vodka and adjusts the fan*

Happy New Year everybody! Yes, it’s early. The reason for this is that I spend every new year’s eve in church. I don’t know what I will do with myself the one year I don’t make it to Africa (read Zimbabwe) for the holidays. If this ever happens, please can someone strap a whistle and my address to my person? I can guarantee that I will be comatose by the time I am required to make my way home.

As I write this I am sipping on vodka and coke. I’m usually a wine drinker however, Africa makes it unreasonable for my pocket to sustain my preference of  the red stuff and they don’t have my nice bottles. So I buy vodka and lace everything with it.My Mazoe (I cannot explain this to you. You must experience it), my coke, my tea.. There isn’t much to do at my house over the holidays. Our helper is away so I am the helper. I use the strong stuff as both motivation and reward (I’m a good master). Also, I have a curfew here. You know, the usual African girl child curfew that stipulates that any youth that possesses a vagina must be within the gates of the homestead by 6pm or sunset (whichever occurs first). The vodka helps pass the time.

The vodka (bless the Russians) is also an amazing thought stimulant. This year has been a roller coaster for me and because I am such a lovely individual,  I shall share what few pearls of wisdom I have gathered. In truth, these are truths my mother should have shared with me but we’re black and we don’t believe we should share important things with our children until they are married. (except ‘stay in school, don’t have sex and booze is bad’)

A few months ago I fell for a boy whilst I was busy minding my own business. I swear I wasn’t looking. (ain’t that always the way) The boy expressed his desire to chill but was crystal clear about his commitment issues but I fell anyway (because I’m a girl and if you pay me enough attention I will plan our wedding). Chile, when a man says he doesn’t want a relationship or is a fuckboy or likes dressing up in his grandmother’s pantihose, BELIEVE HIM. DO NOT FOR A SECOND think that because he’s hitched himself to your particular brand of female that you can change any of that. And even if you do fall please #thuglife your way through the mess. Play the Backstreet Boys at home whilst you guzzle the wine but be Beyonce pretending to be single when you leave the house in your 5  inch heels.

The trouble with blurred lines and uncertainty in romantic situations is ambiguity. Are we a thing or not? Does he really not mind that I’m a raging alcoholic who hates the gym? Did he enjoy my cooking or was that a ploy to make sure I put out? Where in defined relationships there is security and you can ask these questions and trip when he gives the wrong answer (yes, there is always a right answer), in blurred lines situations, you don’t ever know where the boundary lies.

Know yourself enough to know whether this is a person with whom you can handle uncertainty or one that needs to know that you are high maintenance woman who likes holding hands in public. And then be honest with both yourself and him about what you want. If it doesn’t work out, you can always visit your mother and clean her house for two weeks whilst perpetually tipsy.

*pours more vodka and adjusts the fan*

Another thing women are never told enough is that we don’t come with ‘sell by’ dates. Be single. Be married. Be divorced. Be a mother. I am surrounded by women in each of these situations who haven’t hit thirty and FYI, they are currently QUEENING. SLAYING. Living the heck out of their lives. My plus one is almost always a woman I love. And I refuse to apologise for being 25 and slaving away to prepare my future (whether there is a fabulous man pouring my wine and letting me help him take his empire to dizzying heights or not). Love yourself so hard that the absence of a partner is not a vacuum, but more room for your wine.

Always carry condoms. Having been raised in a Christian home, sex and condoms are taboo subjects unless euphemisms are being used to describe how cousin Thandi’s belly got big. Thandi most likely got pregnant because her person didn’t have condom and was surprised when she accused him of hiding her period. Men don’t get pregnant and can walk away when you do. Buy the damn things and stay ready. Do not be sold dreams about team skin-to-skin or team pull-out. Do not allow your aunts to tell you that carrying condoms makes you a penis hungry slut. The world is already on team men-run-the-world, they don’t have to run your womb too.

Finally, dear black girl, scrub your knees. With a stone. Our mothers have always taken pride in our dirty knees because it means we can polish the life out of wooden tiles and future husband will appreciate this. Mandela did not die so you cant wear a mini-skirt and be proud of your knees. Shine that floor and exfoliate like you are being paid for it.

Much love and hopes for mini-skirt summers

The Empress

 

 

 

 

Happy growing up

Stop wearing shoes that hurt your pinky toe

I’m 25. Recently 25. I feel 38. I feel 38 because of the mountains of animal excrement I’ve had to shovel through in my quarter century. And I don’t even have the biceps to show for all my shovelling. So cheque please. But before I exit the building, here are some nuggets of wisdom.

1. Every year that you celebrate shouldn’t be celebrated if you are just reliving the same mistakes, not growing, slapping band aids on gaping, self-inflicted wounds.

2. If the man you are seeing won’t step up and be the man you need (fuckboy) then respect yourself enough to walk away. Because let’s face it, clocking mileage on your genitalia for an undeserving individual (fuckboy) will only make you feel older and tired and used. But don’t take my word for it, ask Madonna. Don’t ask J Lo though. She’s in her 40s and looks like she baths in the tears of babies.

3. If you hate your job, stop whining about it and start looking for a new one. I’m not saying quit this one unless you’ve been saving (nobody tell you about saving until you want to quit your job, so look into that too). Your friends and family don’t want to hear about your unhappy work life everyday -save that for your work husband. (Mine is in her 30s and a veritable sensei).

4. Stop wearing shoes that hurt your pinky toe. When your are old and grey, all you will have are your feet and liver. And if you consume as much wine as I do, you may very well just have your feet.

5. Be nice to your mother. She was once 25 going on 38. She knows things. It’s like a secret society that knows how to stitch, make a mean pot of oxtail and stay sane in the eye of the hurricane that is womanhood. She also probably knows the power of emotional blackmail.

6. Stay legit with Jesus. And not just for the bad times. Imagine how you would explain things that you don’t understand without Him. All the inexplicable tears and miraculous blessings. There’s a serenity in knowing you aren’t in control.

7. Number 6 also doesn’t mean don’t try be in control-because let’s face it, out twenties are riddled with holes in the plot and miscalculations with dire consequences. Let’s keep our shit together ladies.

Last but not least. Stop looking for advice on the internets. The internets are bad. The internets are filled with crazy women with access to computers and wine. And half the time they post under the influence-don’t let the time stamp fool you. Day drinking is very adult.

Love and pretty pinkies.

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Honesty washed down with a bottle of red

They preach honesty

They preach honesty. They talk about its virtue and its healing qualities. They forget to tell you about the disconnect between honesty and those that are unprepared for it. Or the dangers of telling truths to psychopaths on the down low. You know, those girls that will call your mother and tell her how much she loves you and all along your mother thought you liked boys. Yes.

Have you ever told a truth to a drunkard or to a liar? Those are easy truths. They are facts of which both of you are aware (varying degrees granted). If a drunk does not know he’s drunk, he’s a liar. If a liar is blind to his fibs then he is off his meds. Like god from Nurse Jackie. You know, the crazy guy who yells insults at everyone except the English lady? Side note – Nurse Jackie is an expert liar and a great example of how BAD honesty is. Coming back to my point, the hard truths are the kind that drive a sober man to a bottle.

Like telling someone you love them and they aren’t ready to hear it? -or even more cringe worthy, they aren’t ready to love you. The salvation in the former is that X may come around one day. With the latter, you are highly likely to fall into a box labelled “here lie the remains of hearts suffering from unrequited love”. Don’t worry though, it’s happy hour every hour in that box, and you shan’t be short of company. The only trouble is that your sad story will never be the saddest or most embarrassing so buck up and guzzle away.

What I’m trying to say is, don’t go around telling people you love them or that you think about them all the time. If, however, you insist on doing such silly things, carry a bottle of wine with you. I recommend already ingested-it hurts less when you hear the crickets. If you hear the crickets at all over the thoughts of more wine that the tipsy voices in your head will inspire. That way when your advances are batted away with the skill of a test cricketer in his prime, guess what? Yup, you can have more wine.

It’s quarter to weekend though so let’s not have a bottle today.

The Empress

Xx

 

 

The Things I Leave Unsaid

I spend the better part of my life filtering what I think and say to ensure the longevity of my relationships.

I spend the better part of my life filtering what I think and say to ensure the longevity of my relationships. Relationships with family, friends and strangers on trains. The reason I do this is simply because people are unpredictable. People wake up on the wrong side of the bed every other day and unfortunately, no memo is circulated notifying the general public of this.

I spend hours on end tiptoeing (I don’t know if that’s how that is spelled) on eggshells to ensure the future of volatile relationships. And the worst is when I have to tiptoe around the feelings of individuals who I love and who claim to love me in return.

They say that we hurt and are hurt the most by people we love. I can attest to that. But shouldn’t the people we love be the ones to hurt us as little as possible-who go out of their way to make sure that our feelings are kept safe and secure? Should they not be the ones to go the extra mile to guarantee our happiness? Yet I constantly find myself drawing the short end of the stick regarding the preservation of emotions (real or imagined).

When I accidentally cross a loved one, I bend over backwards to ensure that the balance is restored and that I swallow MY pride and that MY emotions do not feature-regardless of how strongly I feel about something. Sadly (and pretty obviously) this has resulted in feelings of resentment festering and there is nothing I hate more than conflict with a loved one so very often, I acquiesce to their desires.

I want so very much, for people to meet me halfway when shit like this happens, yet they rarely ever do. So I’m stuck in a perpetual bubble of hope in which a significant of eye-rolling takes place. I want to keep less of my frustrations a secret because I am met halfway with a white flag-but human beings are inherently selfish and mean.

As a result, I keep things to myself and the word sorry is never far from my lips. So when I say sorry, think about whether you deserve an apology from me or you are just getting it because I want to shut you up and move on.

Dark thoughts and tequila

xx

Blood on my hands

this life thing is not a fair enterprise

Today, while scrolling down my timeline I stumbled upon the most astonishing news: Chris Brown’s latest offering-‘X’, may be his last. For an entire 12 seconds my world came to a screeching halt and I had flashbacks of my teenage years and how I memorised lyrics to dozens of his songs and drooled as his ink increased. Then I was distracted by another tweet about incompetent call centre workers who seem to have no training in customer care-or any knowledge of the services they claim to offer-and I nodded a vigorous ‘amen!’.

27 minutes later I was trolling the internet for Chris Brown news (I couldn’t help it), and lo and behold, an Irish online paper had published an article about his alleged resignation from the music industry. Further down the Google hits page, another (significantly less classy) webpage insinuated that his actions were influenced by his long-legged on-again-off-again Bajan lady friend. (I rolled my eyes so hard my head, hurt).

Anyway, the point is this: other people threaten to quit via twitter and obscure gossip mongers who are paid to mong gossip (I really don’t care that that isn’t English), type frantically away and make it headlining news. You become the first child in your family to graduate-you get a goat in your village and sunburn.

No, this life thing is not a fair enterprise. And today was a defining moment for me. In less than six months I will finish law school and click my shmancy new shoes into the real world. And the world will not tilt on its axis, neither will birds drop from the sky, but, a thousand voices will cheer when I get to do what I love.(yes these voices are in my head but that’s irrelevant) And the day I quit (touch wood), the internet addicts may not know about it, but I pray that my hanging of the proverbial towel will be for more than just billable hours and face time with high court judges (tingles all over my body).

Chris Brown and I have a few things in common though-we clean up nicely, love fast cars and are generally awesome. He’s just had a head start and the internet presence thing.

Love, peace and the early arrival of the long weekend!

Load it, cock it, aim it, boom

It’s funny how many people moonlight as busy bodies policing the actions of others. Let people live.

Whilst trolling the internet the other day, I came across an article about the scandalous content of the ‘Blurred Lines’ video starring the Black White Boy (Robin Thicke), the Fountain of Youth (Pharrell Williams) and T.I ( I couldn’t find a pseudonym for him because let’s face it, he has an unattractive-to me-wife and a boatload of children-he doesn’t need a nickname too).

The writer went on and on about the sexist, misogynistic and derogatory manner in which the women in the video were depicted. Made to prance around practically nude with strips of material strategically placed for the benefit of prime-time TV. Granted, feminism is all about causing a hullabaloo when women are mistreated, spoken down to or portrayed as objects whose only benefit is sexual stimulation or putting a hot meal on the table. (Don’t get me started on how they feel about the idea that women’s only contribution to society is as incubators who function 9 months at a time)

Anyway, what grabbed my attention is the shock and horror expressed by this learned author when she referred to how one of the models (video hoes-excuse my French), articulated that she felt liberated whilst having her tush (and other parts of her lithe body) flaunted and various angles in very visible lighting. She said she had a great body image (she would, she looks like Naomi Campbell and Lenny Kravitz had a baby) ergo, she didn’t mind gyrating provocatively for the directors.

I was struck by the uproar this seemed to cause. Why are people so surprised by this video?? It isn’t the first or the last time women have been stumbled upon baring skin whilst their male counterparts are decked out in their full attire with only a tattooed arm visible with loud, mildly offensive lyrics are thumping in the background.

I say mildly offensive because, although the lyrics are extremely vile, we sing along to them everyday like it’s nothing-so nobody gets to be upset about that. If you are upset-have a seat-nobody cares. Music videos are about advertising and sex sells. Naked women are attractive-more so than naked men (here I beg to differ, but I digress).

It is up to us to change the channel should images that offend us jump up at us out of the big screens. It is our responsibility to shield the impressionable youth from the atrocities the music industry spews at us. We should not judge the sexy naked girl for showing us her very supple legs all day everyday. We should rather, encourage each other to make informed choices. If your best friend wants to be a video girl-don’t hate, appreciate.

I will be sitting here shaking my head at her, but hey, she doesn’t know me, I’ll probably never meet her and guess what, you’ll love the song she’s in 10 years from now.

Peace, love and many sexy legs.

Things I whisper To The Walls

Pity parties are no fun because can’t nobody dance with you (Update, I’ve changed my mind re psychologists)

There are few things as dumb founding as waking up one morning and realising that one is teetering quite precariously on the edge of depression. A few months ago, after going for days without chocolate or reality TV(and noticing an odd bruise on my right thigh that was turning green-no recollection whatsoever of how it was acquired), I finally accepted the symptoms as out of character and evidence of some mysterious forces forcing me to abstain from my addictions. (the bruise was an incidental and I still have no clue how…why…).

The things that have been going on in my life for the last ±12 months have all boiled down to one situation-I have been unhappy forever and the only therapist I’ve allowed my non-progressive self to cry the inner workings of my slowly shutting down mind to has been my low rental, cosy and white walled room. (I’ve always looked down upon people who see shrinks because I could never imagine pouring out my deepest, darkest and nastiest to an absolute stranger who probably has devil spawn children and is still in the closet).

Red wine became my best friend and I was always armed with gallons in my blood stream before tackling a night on the town. I mean this is standard behaviour for a college girl from across the way who can’t afford a cab to Long Street, entry into my favourite club AND to walk in sober – all in one night – but I’m talking everyday. One of the managers at the Tops around the corner yells “Shiraz or Pinotage today?” every time I walk in. (Hides face behind perfectly manicured nailed hands).

Anyway, on the morning I self diagnosed as an angry unhappy (albeit sexy and charming) 22 year old female, I got up, picked up my celly and messaged my brother (thank God for BBM- a la Xigubu) and told him I loved him. I WhatsApped my little brother and told him he’s made me proud because he’s the first of his siblings to don a gown and graduate-we never thought we’d see the day. I emailed my parents and let them know I was content with the life they have provided-for now. One day I’m going to be insanely successful and own a walk-in closet to house my many many shoes along with a well stocked wine cellar to cater for my vice.

The moral of the story is pity parties are no fun because can’t nobody dance with you. I love the people in my life that make me happy. I even love the assholes the contribute to the drama in my life that allows me to tell ridiculously entertaining stories about the numerous awkward moments and fantastical escapades. I have too much to live for to spend my time wallowing in misery and drowning in my booze (although I don’t mind the drowning that much).

Peace, love and the absence of psychologists.

The Empress

The life and times of a student with student issues

Becky spent an undisclosed amount of money on them and walked out of the store walking on water in anticipation.

This week Becky is looking for a bed. And this is all because Becky used the money her parents sent her for a bed last year to purchase shoes she did not need, but because they were so pretty and whispered to her how fabulous they would look with her black 70 buck dress and about the memories they would make together, Becky spent an undisclosed amount of money on them and walked out of the store walking on water in anticipation.

Of course the shoes delivered. I met a boy and had a ridiculously epic night dancing the night away in an equally epic party spot with an extremely “bad-influence” crowd with whom I’m sure spectacular memories were made (I have little recollection of said epic night). The shoes also left Becky with aching soles but who cares?

This week however Becky finds herself exhausted from pumping an uncooperative airbed every night before visiting la-la land. (I have also developed very attractive biceps from afore mentioned pumping-the single bonus to be gotten from this activity.)

Moving into an unfurnished apartment has left this lady with regrets. Today I spent over 3 hours trolling gumtree searching-to no avail-for an affordable double bed possessing inexplicable stains. It has proven to be the second most tedious task on earth ( after grocery shopping because I’m afraid of supermarkets) and I’m getting very frustrated.

The above information is advice to other shoe-loving reckless spenders about the perils of walking into malls on sale weekends and picking out the most beautiful shoe and swiping for it blindly.

Much love and painless sleep to you all.

Xx

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