To Blog or not to Blog

Once upon a blog ago, a stunning friend critiqued me, and begged that I blog about the ACTUAL “New adventures of old Christine”. Silly me took heed of what my friend had to say, and now I find myself here; at a cross roads of sorts.

To blog or not to blog . . . about my personal adventures that is.

If I were a mother, I could guiltlessly blog about my mini me’s and all their heart warming antics that bring joy into my life. If I were a pet owner I could do the same. I am very happily neither mother nor pet owner, however sadly not in the position to freely blog about the actual people in my life; what with their happily having the right to privacy. So what’s a girl to do when she has this epic story to tell of her 3 minute weekend, and the man she agreed to keep a secret? Plus an unrelated dodgy story about my alias antics on Facebook.

She blogs away anyway right?

Right?

Wrong!

It has to be wrong of me to tell the tale of this anonymous He and I? The cyber stealing; the Wednesday chatting; nostalgic Thursday; Friday evening; the 3 minutes and the finding myself back in my world on a Monday morning with a grin too big for my face to wear. Who wants to read about dramatic phone calls to friends about whether or not to tell on myself, while brother man was being told about me and his friend, whom I didn’t know whether to mention or not? Who would even believe that I didn’t sleep with him on that lie laced Friday evening; let alone that I had 3 meals cooked for me in all of what was “3 minutes”.

It has to be even more senseless for me to tell on myself about the alternate FB account I opened, and how I found myself overwhelmingly being hit on by my most recent ex; who also happens to be the only man I had ever not cheated on? Why would I divulge in details of how he happened to fall for my alias ;who was in fact simply me by another name, allegedly located elsewhere in beautiful S.A? Would that not just be my putting the puzzle pieces together for him, and indirectly hollering at the tip of my fingers, that his latest crush was in fact his ex whose heart he wrenched? Why give my identity away after being soberly advised to close the account in question, without ever having disclosed to him, whom he had truly fallen for?

This smells like a catch-22 if you ask me.
What to do when faced with a catch-22?
Learn the damn lesson!! The lesson obviously being that I must make more bad decisions
So as to have priceless stories to tell…or not to tell.
Then for kicks and giggles, proceed to blog about it all; without saying anything at all.
;)

“I’ve got 99 problems . . .”

 I’m up at whoever past 3am, after having spent the greater part of the morning providing an ex with my assistance as a “Love Guru”.  The irony of it all, is not so much the fact that my ex who I wronged majorly would seek council from me; but more so that ANYBODY would ask me ANYTHING about love, what with my track record of terrifically horrible relationships.

What does a serial dater know about matters of the heart, and getting love right? Absolutely nothing if you ask me. And you should ask me, because I would know. I am that serial dater.

In truth it’s been 6 months since my last relationship, although there might be a soul or 2 who may have chosen not to hear me when I stressed that they and I were “just kicking it”. It’s been a kick ass 6 months mind you.  No obligations to phone people; no obligations to make time for people you aren’t in the mood to see; and oddly enough no obligation to sleep alone when you don’t feel like it. It’s been the perfect balance of companionship; convenience; choice & cock (in the completely opposite order of course). In the midst of all those “C’s” there may be room for loneliness, but lucky for me; I’m actually sensationally fond of my own company so I wouldn’t know loneliness if it were staring me in the eye. How radical is that!

This must be love right? What’s there not to love?

I’m loving not stressing over someone and their whereabouts. I’m loving not having anyone to answer to. I’m loving not feeling ignored because whomever hasn’t called me. I’m loving not giving a shit when people walk outside to take mysterious phone calls. I’m loving the right to close my legs for as long as I want and knowing it’s not jeopardising anything; but make no mistake, I am loving the variety too. I’m loving La vida single and the “lie-lessness” with which I conduct it.

Telling it like it is, is as fundamental as knowing your H.I.V status. It’s a must! It’s my number 1 rule, promptly followed by rule number 2 which would be to stay the fuck out of love. I anticipated the latter of the 2 rules to be harder to comply to, what with my being a bona fide lover of falling in love; this has fortunately not been the case.  The success of rule number 2 could be attributed to any number of reasons like not having found “The One”, mind over matter or a constipated heart; but all that matters is that it works for me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not hating on loves parade; I’m probably it’s number one fan… if not an addict. Love is as trippy as any (if not more so) than most drugs, and I’m the poster child for addictive personalities.

So do the maths.

If there were any such bogus profession as that of a “Love Guru”, they would be compelled by the rules that govern their profession, to order me to quit loving; and so I have. 

6 Loveless months of heart rehab, with a happier head space to show for it. So now I’m in love with being outside of love, and I kid you not it ROCKS. . . For now! And it should rock dammit, because I’ve got 99 problems, and a dick ain’t one.

C. Msibi

7 June 2011