My Life is a Tragedy. Whatever I do, I can’t seem to get it
out of Drama mode into Romantic Comedy mode, and I’m getting sick of it.
This is Day 2 of the Feeling Better stage of my last cold –I
know this because I’ve been up most of the day, have managed to bake (usually a
sign of danger, but not after an extended period of inactivity and lethargy –notably,
during colds) AND I’ve cooked dinner too. Whether it was edible or not is
another matter. The point IS, I’m up and about, and my current grumpiness is
actually an additional sign of good health. It signals that I’m bored and
itching to do Something Worthwhile.
After my last upbeat email, written through a stuffed nose,
my listed Prospects seem to have literally fallen off the grid. Not a peep from
ANY of them, all over sudden, the final insult being a message just now, whose
content I won’t bother to horrify you with. Suffice to say that it was from a
horny drug-pusher look-a-like. Meanwhile, I was submitted last night to a
program during which, a man entrusted with a budget was tasked with the entire
preparation of his girl’s Dream Wedding –and succeeded. In Style. I WOULD have
left the room, because not only do I not want a wedding myself, but watching
them is pure torture (there is surely a book somewhere with more wisdom to
offer.) But I was too ill to leave the room, wherein I had dragged myself, and
spent the afternoon trying to fall into a peaceful doze.
Whatever. I’m never getting married, I’ll finally land a
dead-end job, have to adopt, and live in lonely singledom for the rest of my
life, watching my looks and dreams fade in the mirror daily until (and I hope
at least this wish is granted) I die
peacefully in my bed. In clean panties.
Big Brother Africa is on (or will soon) be, and every so
often, they bring an ad on one of the selected contestants, all of whom sicken
me to death (as does BB, which I wouldn’t watch unless ordered to by God –and even
then, I’d have objections.) There’s a lot of this on African media, these days:
Confident statements in the nature of “I’m just me, myself...” immediately
followed by a superb outburst of fakeness. Sickening. I have very rarely met
people who are “just me, myself” or if I have, I’ve felt very sorry if this was
true, as the “me, myself” they presented needed serious counselling. Or God. Or
both. Which, by the way, may be true of most people.
Because, no matter what they’re really like, don’t people
like to have their homes nice and clean and tidy when someone’s visiting? And don’t
they like to go to work looking like they’ve just stepped out of a magazine
shoot? And don’t they train their children to say the ‘right things’ in certain
circles, or they themselves say the ‘right things’ in ‘appropriate’
circumstances? People who don’t make for uncomfortable company, and there probably
are, in all of our lives, certain someone’s whom we feel we cannot take
anywhere, for fear of what they might say or do –not in itself, but what that
may say about ourselves, and whom we associate with. Not me, but then, that is my certain brand of craziness. I’m OK
for people to think what they want to think, and will never go out of my way to
persuade them one way or another –at least, about myself. If it’s about
something else, I still won’t, unless I care for them, and they are about to
make a big mistake. And I mean Huge. Because I am definitely of the school of ‘people
need to learn their own lessons.’ Prophets are despised, and messengers too
often shot.
And on this crabby note, I am excusing myself. I may be in
pursuit of happiness, but right now, a giant hot chocolate and some cookies
might hit the spot more accurately.
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