Losing It

"So this is a story all about how my life got twisted upside down. . ."
...And I'd like to take a minute and just put in context, how it came to pass that I lost my virginity.

Yes world, once upon a time I was a virgin. . .Gasp!
Once upon several of the most awkward minutes of my life, that all changed... For the better. For a boy actually.
I broke my virginity "for" a boy, and only shared that truth with him (no longer a boy), a little earlier
In this week. So now I figure I may as well share that story with you.

THE STORY!

Girl meets boy either at a party or at a netball game, and boy leaves a lasting impression. High school ends and girl goes to KZN for matric vac. Lots of alcohol consumed; some shady substances sampled; and somewhere in the midst of all that, girl calls boy. This phone call establishes 2 very fundamental pieces of information
1) Both Boy and Girl will be attending varsity in the same city
2) Girl would like to take a flight, and wants boy to be her pilot

Say what?

That was the code back then in high school days. Some top secret stuff I tell you.
Flight/Fly = Have Sex
Pilot. = The guy with whom you have sex

After establishing point 2), Boy and Girl decide to stay in touch. . . No Duh!
Girl then takes it a step further when the time comes to enrol. Seeing as Girl has been accepted at all the tertiary institutions to which she has applied, she decides to enrol at the same varsity as Boy; just so she can have the pleasure of seeing his pretty face on a daily. And Yes! Boy is painfully pretty. Girl likes pretty boys.

Months pass with Boy and Girl co-existing on the same campus, and Girl being unable to say a sober word to boy. She crushed him SO hard that words escaped her when she saw him. So the 2 hardly speak, and if ever they did...well then Girl was too drunk for me to remember. They must have spoken I guess, because Girl one day starts panicking about not ever having flown before, and how she doesn't want to be a horrible passenger on boys flight, as he pilots her. Boy mind you, is a major playboy on campus, this only turning up the volume on Girls' anxieties.

Poor Girl is in such a pickle. What to do? What to do?
"Eureka!" The answer reveals itself to her.
Do Dude!

Dude is literally some dude whose daily quest it is to annoy girl with his advances. Girl knows Dude because he lives in the apartment directly beneath hers. So off to his apartment she goes; sober as a judge, and not in the mood to candy coat anything.

"So like listen, I was wondering if you could please have sex with me?" Says girl. Dude responds by widening his eyes open in disbelief.
"There's a guy on campus that I've agreed to have sex with", girl continues. "But I've never had sex before, so I'd like to practice. That's if you don't mind?" Dude fails dismally at a verbal response. His Enthusiastic body language communicated his consent in behalf of his words.
"Cool. I don't want anyone to know, so you can come up to my place when everyone is asleep" orders Girl, halfway out the door already.

Dude does just that. Dude still shows up and knocks on Girls bedroom window, even after being told that Girl was just using him; and that she'd die of embarrassment if anyone knew that she so much as looked at him. Girl opens window, and Dude climbs in. Once their both settled on her single bed, Dude subjects himself to receive another low blow, by trying to. kiss Girl. Girl grimaces at this advance, as the expression on her face screans "GROSS!"

***talk about being a disrespectful brat***

Considering the lack of humanity with which Girl masterminded her first flight, she pretty much got what she deserved. A failure of a firework; clumsy; turbulent first time. A flight too horrible to want to remember. Poor Dude even apologised, and begged for a second time to redeem himself. He wasn't granted a second time... At least not on that day he wasn't.

Not long after Girl had taken her first flight, the time came for Boy to be her pilot. Girl was of course not completely sover when this much anticipated day came, so how on earth can you expect me to remember how that went down? I'm just narrating.

Girl and Boy went on to have a successful and colourful sexual relationship. Sex aside they never talked, let alone acknowledged each other. This worked out swimmingly for "commitmentphobe" Girl, and playboy Boy. Their unspoken arrangement ended when it ended, and now 9 years after their 1st flight; Girl knows how to say "Hi" to Boy without wishing that the earth would open up and swallow her whole.

As for Girl and Dude...Shame poor Dude. He was a sincerely nice guy, and Girl owes him an apology as far as I'm concerned.

I would never have wanted to anyone to do unto me, as was being done unto Dude. All of that abuse, in the name of another Boy.

Sorry Dude! Wishing you a lifetime of fireworks :)

"...let me do me to myself." (plus the poem which was born from this blog)

For someone who is allegedly deemed “smart”, I sure as hell only ever do disgustingly stupid things. The list is endless       : -Leaving Wallets in peoples cars

                       -Forgetting my bank pin

                       -Realising I have no clue where my I.D is, after needing to go to the bank

                       -Forgetting cell phones in peoples cars

That’s a shocking degree of stupidity, for someone who simply has NO excuse for that kind of behaviour!

I shocked myself today at how dismally I failed such a simple task. I wrote myself a list of things I have to do (Yes friend, I’m only attempting it 3 months later). It’s a list of 14 relatively mundane tasks, such as:

-        Be on Facebook less

-        Get dressed

-        Work on wedding spreadsheet

Et Cetera. The 3 that I have managed to get done thus far; what with their having been my 1^st three; are: - Write a list                 (done )

- Brush Teeth        (done )

- Make Tea              (done )

It was when I got to point 3 that I figured that some herb would be the ideal accompaniment to a wholesome cup of morning Green tea. And well ever since then, the rest is suddenly history.

Like really now CHRISTINE!

Your crap is no longer acceptable! Just get with living a life worth living already. I refuse to let me do me to myself! I guess that somewhat makes me my own headmistress. I would ask you all to prefect me along the way, but I don’t have the balls to hear the truth from anybody else but me! 

Coward?

 I know. I am however only human, and that shit hurts.

The truth hurts.

My eyes hurt.

(***sniffles***)

My eyes hurt

Hurt with a pain

That, “remember your alive” pain

They hurt with a sting

An everyday norm

They hurt when their not crying

They blaze with pain, in the absence of a tear storm

My eyes hurt needingly

Constantly

Breathlessly

My Hazel Glories hurt

They hurt

Blush

And diminish in spleandour

Amidst a red, that was once white.

My eyes hurt

Bleeding waves of fears

Waves of a numbness

Too silent to feel.

My eyes hurt.

To help me feel!

C.Msibi

03 July 2011

              

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 

The begining

My breakdown has been long over due despite my only being 26 years young, but boy oh boy has it been a sticky icky 26 years of life. Right now however it's not about moping & self pity; it's about metamorphosis & facing the world on my own terms. 


IT'S ME TIME!


Being "perspectiveless" is truly a waste of ones life & coming to that conclusion is in itself a milestone for me. I'm by no means a guru, I'm simply a petrified someone who is supported beyond belief. Words cannot encapsulate the honour & privilege it is to be loved by those that me and my clutter of flaws love soo much. It is from that very same love that I'm fueling up with the strength; will & courage to bungee off into the realm of self realisation.


My life has been living me instead of the other way around for to darn long, and I'm ubber certain that that's down right wrong! Hence my need to embark on this piece by piece quest into hell knows where, so long as it's not here.

Feel free to tag along on my clumsy unthunk journey into happily ever after & my delving into me; because that's all I can promise anyone. . . is oodles & noodles of ME!