2011 Nerves

I’m on holiday. It’s quite lovely and I'm enjoying it thoroughly. However I am plagued by irrational dreams (nightmares) about starting college again in roughly two weeks.

Throughout my childhood I was always nervous before going back to school. These nerves have followed me through my teenage years, into semi-adulthood and now into whatever you call yourself when you hit 22.

New Years Shmnew Shmears

For weeks I have been trying to remember last years’ New Years’ resolution without any luck at all. Whilst searching in my cupboard for a pen to write this very blog, I found myself eye to eye with a glimmering bottle of vodka, which was staring me down, calling me stupid and daring me to drink it. It was being mean. I then remembered.

The realisation that my pathetic attempt at a resolution last year, and for the past 4 years, has been to stop drinking so much, whacked me smack-bang in the middle of my alcohol-infused kidneys.

I’m sick of resolutions which I can’t keep. Especially ones which I don’t want to keep and just say I’m going to do because it makes me feel like a better person. Because when I break them, I feel worse. And that’s no fun at all.

The Prince

Once upon a time there was a maiden. This maiden lived in a beautiful land where the deep blue seas met the pure white sand of the shore, in a turquoise burst, as vivid and enchanting as the brightest star in the sky.

The maiden was not blessed to be laden with gold. She laboured many hard hours a day in an effort to raise enough gold to visit the weekly market; to care for her noble steed, Geraldine; and to buy enough candles so she never had to brave the dark.

The maiden lived at the top of a huge stone tower. Late one noon, sitting contentedly by her window, holding her quill and parchment, she was writing a declaration for story teller named Penguin, informing the people of the land how wonderful his works were. When suddenly, a grey-breasted carrier pigeon flew through the window and landed delicately on the maiden’s hand.

Cape Town Chronicle: The Foundation

Almost 22 years ago (it’s my birthday this week, gifts are welcome), I was born in the sunny city of Durban. I loved it there and had a wonderful childhood and youth. After matric UCT offered me a scholarship and it was an opportunity I couldn’t turn down.

Although my sister and her family live in CT, I decided that I wanted to go into UCT Residence (Res). We had been told throughout high school that if you had an “A” aggregate and held a leadership position within the school, you would get into one of the top Residences – either Fuller or Baxter. As this is what I had aimed for and achieved, those were the ones I applied to. Low and behold, I was placed in Tugwell Hall because 2007 was the first year that placements were completely random and no academics were taken into consideration. Great!

After doing some research, my mother and I had a bit of a panic attack especially as we heard a rumour that a girl had recently been raped and murdered in Tugwell. Ominous clouds hovered over my future in CT. I began visualising scenes of my imminent death which centred on me getting into the shower, as a katana-blade yielding psychopath tiptoed into the Tugwell bathroom after me. (I was however, tanned, toned and thin in these nightmares, my only reprieve).

Reality Bites

In a recent study, it was found that young adults would rather watch a few episodes of a series as opposed to a movie. Furthermore, for at least 43% of them, their series of choice is Reality TV. "I can watch it all day and I don't feel bad. I love it so much. It just makes me happy" said a 20 year old lass. However, its not just the girls who are going gaga for reality shows, "Ya I dig them because they're just really funny.".

Where did this obsession with Reality TV stem from? Instead of spending time with actual friends, people are content to sit on their couch/bed/chair/floor/toilet and silently watch other people who they do not know from a bar of soap.

Awkward Child Moment of the Week

Things got a bit awkward with niece number 2 this week. Apparently she overheard some people talking. Things went a bit like this:

"Kayli" she said innocently.

"Yes, niece number 2?"

"Whats a golden shower?"

"You heard wrong. There is no such thing. They said golden power. It's a little cloth you use to clean gold jewellery."

"Oh."

 

I'm getting HUGE

It's 10:28pm and I just got home from gym.

I plan on getting enormous. Like this magnificent piece of statuesque greatness. She is my muse, her name is Genevieve:

Please note the following facts which make her such a fabulous example of womanhood:


1. Her dam-like cleavage clearly portrays her earth-shattering sexuality.
2. A tan which would make Hercules ashamed to be called a Demi-God.
3. Her necklessness, a shrine to her power and grace.
4. Her bulging, globular veins, a testimony to her determination.

Someone Help

I wrote a blog. A long one.

I wrote it in Word, but now I cant paste it here. It just wont let me. I may cry.

How do I make it work? I have a sad face right now.

Very Naughty Men II - The Fan Walk

Other than working at Caprice (ie. slutty men beach bar) I worked at all the Cape Town soccer matches on the Somerset Road Fanwalk. We had a quaint bottle-green hut, with a rose-red roof and a canary yellow door. Or so I thought. By the end of the World Cup I referred to said hut as a minuscule, creaky shed, with vomit-green walls, a congealed-blood-red roof and a pus-yellow door.

We made pancakes. No wait a second, I made pancakes. Up to 500 a night. 500 pancakes. 6 pans. 1 Kayli. I never want to see anything flat and round ever again.

Very Naughty Men

I have been trying to pull myself together and write about the World Cup for quite some time. I really wish I had written throughout the month because now I just have to much to say. I LITERALLY don't know where to begin. This story may be muddled, so please forgive me, but I shall try my very best.

So South Africa hosted the World Cup. People feared that the crime would be so horrendous that entire hotels of foreigners would be stolen. People feared that terrorists from our neighbouring countries would suddenly attack, using anthrax and air-born AIDS to kill the Universe. People were wrong. We hosted the most beautiful and moving World Cup that I think has yet been seen.

The Villiage Idiot

The stupidity of certain people really blows my mind. Like really.

I mean, we all make mistakes. Just the other day I was looking in the freezer for something to eat. Upon finding nothing which interested me I decided to close the freezer. My mommy always told me never to leave it open. The problem was that I forgot to remove my head first. I escaped with both a bruised right ear and ego.

But at least I was at home and up until the posting of this blog, no one knew of my sin.

People on Facebook however are publically re-tarded.

^Insert Interesting Headline Here^

I think I have become boring.

I can not think of any witty things to amuse my millions of adoring fans with. Im not sure what is going on, but it seems that my brain has switched off. Maybe I have been over worked this alledged "holiday". Although I still insist that I haven't had one. Yes, thats it. I have been over worked and until the end of the month finally arrives, I am still underpaid.

As my dearest Gran always says in response to a simple "How are you?": "I'm fit, fat, overworked and underpaid". That sums me up pretty nicely. The other day I ate so much that if I didnt know better I would have feared pregnancy. But no, nothing to worry about on that front.

I need a few more days to gather my brain from its various places of hiding, as it is most definately not in one piece. Once I have done so, I will have a bit of a tale to tell about my experience during that "Thing-That-I'm-Not-Allowed-To-Mention-In-Connection-With-That-Thing-Where-People-Kick-A-Thing-Around-On-A-Thing".

I hope the college Bosslady doesn't mind the delay. Maybe she won't notice.

It’s Time to Slut

I slept at The Sister last night. This morning I woke up to very cold weather. Very, very cold weather. I was busy pottering around the house making a cup of black Rooibos Tea with no milk and one sugar and I was wearing black, slightly faded skinny jeans, a white long sleeved t-shirt, a charcoal jersey with a hood and rather fetching leopard print slippers, when all of a sudden The Sister yells out:

“OH MY! THERE IS A MAN IN MY GARDEN!”

A Bitch of a Day

I’m glad I don’t drive trucks for a living.

Today I drove only 200km, but by the end of the day (9am-4pm) after listening to the same CD four times before realising how much I hated it and then being forced to sit in silence as there was too much Justin-freaking-Beiber on the radio, I came to the conclusion that driving a lot sucks sweaty, hairy, Portuguese, male prostitute ass.

I help manage the Cape Town branch of a promotion company. I loved the work, it was great fun- until today when I had to go to each of the events which were taking place in order to take photos of my “little sweetheart” promoters.

Milnerton->Tokai->Parow->N1 City->Brackenfell->Franschoek->Milnerton.

Fuck. My. Life.

I thought I would be clever and take supposed “shortcuts” which resulted in the trip being about two hours longer. It also took me into what a friend of mine refers to as “gum country” where I feared gangs of teenage miscreants standing at street corners; wearing black pleather jackets over white wife-beaters, baggy jeans which somehow floated just below their rectums and boots with metal toes.

Most of the “women” had crew cuts with tattoos of skulls and snakes on the back of their heads. They all had hardcore arm muscles and chains hanging out of their pockets. It was weird. I think they must shop at the same place as the miscreants. It's either that, or the fashion in “gum country” doesn’t vary much.

The men around town either looked like the above mentioned miscreants/”women” or would be accompanied by what seemed to look like an average family. These families were very sparse but the one common link between all of them, was that the fathers all carried kids on their shoulders. Letting them roam free on the ground obviously wasn’t a wise move, as a metal-toed boot could make easy contact with a small child’s head.

Another issue which I encountered is that at each and every parking lot I managed to lose my car, Geraldine. All the parking lots were built large enough to house the cars of the whole of the Asian Empire. I was already at a disadvantage as I have no geographical skills whatsoever and now I had to deal with this madness too:

In Franschoek I felt a glimmer of hope as I got to eat about 18kg’s of cheese at the Cheese and Wine Festival. Problem was that half the crowd was as hammered as the folk on the Tiger dancefloor at 3am. Avoiding them was the trick. Anyone whose eyes were glazed over and had a swerve in their step was to be avoided at all costs or you risk them trying to lean on you for support, attempt to engage you in riveting conversation or, as I witnessed (thankfully) from a distance, throwing up on your shoe.

All in all on a scale of 1 – incredible, I would give my day a particularly average 4. No, I lie; I would give it -2.53. It was a really, really crap day. In the larger scheme of things I rate I should stop being such a whiny bitch. But right now that’s exactly what I am: a whiny, complaining bitch.

And on that note, in the wise words of a friend: “Puberty is going to hit Justin Beiber harder than Chris Brown hit Rihanna”. Damn is he a whiny bitch.

Ten Reasons On Why Not To Drink Crackling & One On Why Its Not That Bad.

CRACKLING (n):

Used to indicate a wine that is mildly sparkling.
A crisp wine with a good acid balance that is fresh and lively.
The bubbles are crown shaped when they reach the top of the glass, which indicates a good sparkling wine or cava.

They make it sound so good. They lie.

Crackling is evil.

Crackling can be purchased from your friendly bottle store for a whopping R19 for 750ml or what is fondly known as a Missile, or R36 or 1.5litres for the mighty Bomb. But don’t assume that this fizzy, little piece of budget-friendly “heaven” is going to be as light on your body and mind as it is on your pocket. Quite the contrary. Crackling is a vicious beast which torments the body, mind and soul in a way which can break even the strongest man into a blabbering, vomit-laden mess.

In case you have not yet been convinced, here are a few more useful reasons.

If you drink Crackling:

1. You will hate the taste of it.

2. You will fall over frequently when moving from sitting to standing position.

3. You will undoubtedly hit your head on the car as you attempt to get in.

4. Your blood will be so thinned from the alcohol content you will bleed profusely.

5. You will not care that you may be dying from blood loss and will demand to be taken to the jol.

6. You will enter Tin Roof, stumble over to the bar and try and order a bottle of Crackling.

7. You will be turned away by the barman and focus all attention on finding someone to hook up with.

8. You will hook up with the most unattractive and most pungent smelling person on the dancefloor.

9. Your friends will try separate you from the man-bear-pig who you have pushed up against the wall, and whilst sucking on their neckfolds you will tell your friends to “Furhk Offk! I’mmn i welly dig dis dis pherswon”.

10. When you are finally dragged away from the siffest human being on the planet, you will end up passed out in the bath, covered in your own vomit whilst tonguing your muck-ridden shoe and groaning quietly until the early hours of the morning.

11. You never remember anything the next day.

This is where the Cardinal Rule of drinking in general comes in:

What you do not remember, most definitely did not happen.