The world should be kinder to us groupies

On the whole of the big fat internet, there’s no positive definition of the word groupie. The world has no kind words for us. On Urban dictionary, we’re are defined as individuals involved in obsessive adoration of entertainers such as musicians, actors, athletes, and even political figures. Behaviors are juvenile and influenced by crush-like emotions or lustful sentiments, and often infringe the rights of the figure experiencing the attentions of a frenzied fanatic.

First of all, I am offended that the above definition makes no mention of writers. Authors. Because when a person puts pen to paper or fingers to keyboard or minty fresh breath to recorder and creates a story, they earn the right to be exalted and abused and licked by adoring fans. (When I stop faffing around and start writing hopefully fantastic, once-upon-a-time type stories, I want random, crazy-eyed people to try and throw their arms around me.)

This year has been a great one for groupies in Uganda. February gave us Nneka, a soulful, verse spitting Thumbelina from Nigeria. Her music is fantastic. If her lyrics aren’t pummeling your conscience, her voice is making you feel all these (slightly) inappropriate things. That show left people looking like they’d just been let in on something delightful.

In March, Eric Wainaina sneaked into the country and into Bugoloobi where he chamcated the full house at Jazzville with his quirky dancing and groovy music. That man sure knows how to make an audience love him. He choreographed a few dances, told stories, made girls squeal and even sang Dunia ina Mambo for some sweaty, overly excited girl who said she’d die if he didn’t. I was that girl.

Last weekend, Jane Bussmann was in town. If you don’t know who this woman is, take a moment to feel some deep deep shame. She’s a journalist, a comedian and the author of Worst Date Ever (Or How It Took a Comedy Writer to reveal Africa’s secret war), a funny and informative book. This book is informative both as an introduction to the issues in northern Uganda- especially for non-Ugandans, and as a how to guide for people who have to interview boring celebs for a living.

Bussmann, an irreverent, Caucasian comedian was able to write funnily about this sensitive and grim subject, without being offensive. This was and is the root of my groupiesm. She held a show at Mish Mash on the 20th, a show at which she was honest, charming and all those other things that I had better be like when I grow up.

In the spirit of growing up to be honest, I should mention that this article is being written on Friday Morning. I have no idea whether or not she’s going to be fabulous at the show but if my chat with her at XFM’s office is anything to go by, that show is not only going to rock; it’s going to boulder.

It’s a wonderful thing when you meet somebody whose work you admire, especially when your passion lies in the field in which they’ve excelled, so the world shouldn’t judge us harshly when we squeal and fling our bras and ask for autographs on our foreheads. Also, celebrities should quit covering their heads and dashing to their cars like we’re dangerous because it’s we groupies that swell their twitter and facebook numbers and that makes them feel important.

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Idiot’s guide to surviving boobsault

The last week has been a strange one for breasts in Uganda. Aside from the hoisting, strapping and ogling that they’re subjected to on a daily and usual basis; they have been publically assaulted, debated, youtubed, flashed in protest,  and debated some more. People who used to blush like peeled tomatoes at the sight of woman-orbs before all this have dived eagerly into the discussion; contributing blogposts, status updates and in a few cases, sustained ululations.

Today, we’re grabbing an opportunity that is never going to bobble back. We’re going to, for 500 words discuss breasts. I have my editor’s permission to write about chaks. Nungas. Wow.

The women who bared their chests outside CPS in protest of a policeman intentionally, aggressively and repeatedly grabbing the breasts of a female politician have elicited many reactions in Uganda’s boob watching elite, with some guy on twitter insisting that, “Turning the other cheek would have been the best course of action!” What does that even translate to in this situation? Is he advocating that all women approach a policeman near them, present their right and then left boob for rough fondling?

Before we drink from the fountains of the idiot’s guide (to protecting your boobs from assault), let it be known that I see no shame in the way these women chose to protest. As @eryenyu put it in her twitter, “This act of protest is not women bringing shame onto themselves. I did not see them hiding their faces. I think that was even more powerful”

On to the guide.

Lady gaga: This woman clearly has experience with touchers. Why else would she wear such spiky things on so many occasions? Be inspired by her to make yourself a porcupine skin bra. Apart from making your blouse dimple in a fashion-forward manner, these porcu-spines will enter the palms of any and all boob fondlers- crucifixion style- and the fondling cretin will yowl in a way that will amuse you for a long long time.

Your face: In the presence of stupid people who just touch women fwaa, you need to show them how full of disgust you are. Fold your face accordingly.

Your fist: In that heartbreaking breast tearing video, Ingrid boxes the man’s hand away. It returns, yes, but she boxes it again. Don’t stop boxing.

That ugly sweater: do you remember how, when you were a child, your mother would manhandle you into a prickly, yucky feeling sweater? One that would make your skin itch something awful? Keep one like that in your bag and whip it out whenever you spot a potential boob assaulter. When they lunge for your poor boob, throw it over their head and fix some of it into their mouths. Wedge the caterpillar-like material between their teeth.

Lastly, and very sadly, a man. Those louts don’t bother me when I’m with male people. Even my 11 year old brother has more power to stop a man messing with me than I do. A few glares and snaps from your brother will stop the louts at your stage from bothering you. For a while.

 

Boda men have the best stories

 I’ve had many experiences with boda boda men, the good far surpassing the bad in number. There’s the psychopath who tries to impress himself by flying over humps and the one who seems almost embarrassed to take money. There’s the big, dark one whom I used to be afraid of, who’s now my favorite because his fee is a constant 1500 from the stage to my house.

and den dis and den dat

 And then there’s Davis of Ntinda. I met Davis at 10pm just as I was about to board a Kyanja taxi. In the usual boda man fashion, he rode menacingly in my direction, swerved away at the last minute and then patted the seat behind him. “Silinji bitaano ku kisaasi” he said.

 Now if you live in Kyanja, you know that entering one of those taxis after 9 means sitting for at least an hour until it fills. I whipped out my negotiation skills and we agreed he’d drop me off near my home.

 When we started moving, he turned and said, “You mean you’re not a Muganda?”

Oh boy. I was not in the mood for this kind of talk. I knew what was coming, but because it was late and he didn’t seem threatening, I didn’t make him stop.

“No.” I said

 “Mbadde manyi when I saw you that you were a Muganda kubanga you are very beautiful.

The rolling of my eyes was audible.

“What are you? A mucholi?”

“Yes. I’m an Acholi.”

After a short pause, he said, “Sorry”.

Sorry? Did this man just sympathize with my not being a Muganda? Just as I was about to cuff the back of his head, he continued. “You know, Acholis are very tough. Me I fear those people.”

“You do? Well, I’m an Acholi from Kitgum. Kitgum Matidi. So ride faster.”

 And then he launched into one of the funniest stories I’ve ever heard. It wasn’t so much the content as the delivery that had me falling off the boda with mirth. Davis is a very funny man. He said,

“One time, I was driving to Dubai, you know, the Sudanese-Ugandan border. And when I reached Gulu, it was very late. 3 am in the night. I went to a restaurant and asked a woman for food. Haa. You Acholis you’re very tough.

When I asked what food she had, she said fish. But when she was serving, I saw also beans. When I asked her why she hadn’t told me about the beans, she shouted: YOU ASKED FISH. I BROUGHT FISH! The woman even wanted to fight me!”

 Here the motorcycle wobbled a bit, so I told him to either ride well or shut up. He continued

 “I just ate, but I was annoyed. How can a woman want to fight with you? I decided to go to a bar. When I reached there, I saw four women dancing very much. I didn’t know if they were drunkards or what. After some time, they came near me so also me I danced ka little little. When things became hot, I decided to go away. Naye when I reached the car, they all ran out and started abusing me. Awuruwuruwuru! Then they entered my car by force. Hmm. People of that place are tough.”

By this time, I was in stitches and we were at my stop. I paid him, asked his name and said goodbye. Boda men have the best stories.

On men and their vibe.

There’s not a man alive who doubts his right to have you. Hear that girl in lace dress and jimmy choos? Your car is fabulous, your entumbwe is shaped like perfect and that means nothing to the unwashed guy who sleeps on that patch of grass next to your office. In his head, he stands as much a chance of making the two-backed beast with you as that lawyer boyfriend of yours. The sooner you accept it and stop getting offended by the propositions of boda guys and askaris who waggle their tongues at you, the easier your life will be.

Stereotypes, sweeping statements and generalizations suck butt, but ah. Do you or do you not want to read an article by Apenyo today? Because this entire topic is built on those three things and it’s all I have in my head as a direct result of having been accosted by a group of rubbish collectors today. When I didn’t respond to their hisses and cat calls, they started throwing rubbish at my feet.

I’m puzzled by how so many men believe that the best way to communicate their appreciation to women is hisses and tongue clicks. Do women morph into domestic pets in the eyes of lustful men?

A man’s likelihood to hit on you is determined by his profession. A court clerk is much less likely to waggle his eyebrows at you than, say, a doctor who will be all over you like a bad rash, if you don’t already have one.

Here’s a list of random professions and my analysis of how they relate to women.

Men in advertising: They’re the ones you’ll find in iguana on Thursday, dubbing be-weaved girls with the passion of senior three boys. When they’re not breaking their dance partners, they’re sweet, willing to walk to the bar and elbow people to get you a Smirnoff. They won’t hit on you just like that. They’ll co-gyrate with you peacefully and wait for you to express interest.

Salesmen: These ones are trying to make a living almost every time you see them, so they’re not going to compromise their commission by acting inappropriate. They’ll politely bore you with their lies like “Angelina Jolie wears these vests. It is scientifically proven that they’ll make your lips bigger” and “this frying pan is self cleaning. The moment you transfer your egg to the plate, it will absorb the oil and all odor”.

Bartenders have the best success rate as far as hooking girls that they wouldn’t usually approach. Why? Because humans are wired to be grateful anybody who serves them liquor. When you hit your third drink, they’ll start a conversation or offer you a promo T-shirt, or a free glass of something and then the vibing will begin.

Bank tellers: These ones think that when they handle our money, they handle our hearts as well. There’s one on campus who would write his number on your withdrawal slip and push it back at you through the ka hole in the glass.

Doctors: Maybe it’s the patient-doctor, helpless-savior dynamic that makes them so bold about making advances, but ai. As if you, full of malaria, are in any sort of mood for such.

 

Make a date with Bussmann, or one of her jokes.

When you read a book and like it, you really hope the author is a nice person. You hope they’re the kind you wouldn’t mind buying a plate of food. Sometimes, you hope you make their dating bar and troll google images for pictures of their exes, that you save in your Die, bitches, Die folder.

If the writing is very good, you even end up sleeping with the book under your nightvest. Yea.

If Jane Bussmann had been rude and vague in the answering of her questions, this story would be more interesting. I’d be writing bad, rant-ey poems and you’d have reason to point and laugh at me. But she rocked, so it’s just regular Apenyo gushery. Sorry.

Her favorite food is an ‘ice cream’ that she came up with in Uganda. It involves sim sim odii, a banana, a blender and a freezer. I’m not going to try that shit, because it seems like a chap chap train to dios-land.

Her favorite author is Graham Greene.

One book character that she finds puzzling is the father in Things Fall Apart. She says, “That dude needs a shrink and maybe some marital counseling. Infact, haha, imagine a version with a shrink written in! Imagine those conversations!”

This is what she thinks about Kony 2012:

“Uganda’s is a most incredible story. The reception of this video shows how big the story is and how interested the world can be. We could have two years’ worth of Oprah from Uganda alone!”(laughs)

She says, “Instead of rowing about the video, I think people should write and present their own stories. There’s just so much story potential in Uganda and Ugandans should grab it.” I agree.

On writing:

You know this chick writes a lot, eh? If you walk around massaging your temples, complaining about your terribly big load, of three stories per week, check her IMDB profile out HERE

And she didn’t even bat A level.

One of my excuses for not being serious about my short stories is that I spend all my mojo writing for manya Plan B, Stiletto Point and others. This is the advice she has for writers who want to become writer writers:

“I did one thing that worked and one thing that didn’t work. But I figure you want to know the one that worked. I hadn’t planned to write this book, so when it hit me that I could write it, I was very excited. I bought three family sized bars of chocolate and five boxes of diet coke and then locked myself in a little room and just wrote.

The first part of Worst Date Ever was done in 3 weeks and the second in 5 weeks but because I hadn’t planned on writing the book, the silliest things kept dragging me back. I’d make just…so many calls to find out the name of a bar, or a street. It was so stupid! So it’s really important to take notes. You never know what might hit you as a splendid book idea, so just take as many as you can.  Also, carry whole lot of food to your hideout.”

Jane Bussmann is doing what I aspire to do, and doing it well. One day, when I get my shit together and start to write with a direction in mind, it’s her fabulousness that I’ll be looking up to.

::::BOOM::::

So people, come and we watch her show at Mish Mash on the 20th of April. That’s Friday.  Buy a ticket early- 40,000bob, or at the door: 50b0b, or VIP: 90 bob (includes dinner) and come enjoy an evening in the company of this awesome comedy writer (South Park, Brass Eye, Smack the Pony).

So, What exactly is beef?

What?

Beef is what you get when you travel to a place with cows, identify one, stalk and kill it. If you’re one of those city types who aren’t really involved in the production or attainment of their food; those ones who buy meat from the freezers of nakumatt, then you don’t get to call your meat beef.

Beef is hatred that you may feel for a friend (in this case, temporary), an enemy (permanent), a kaloli up in a tree. If say, this kaloli has shat on you, you’re justified in hating it. But if you just hate it for existing, then you’re an animal hating psychopath and you’re going to hell.

Beef is also what a certain boy named Roger used to call girl’s butts in my senior three. But he was weird and way taller than everybody else, so we might all have looked like cattle to him. Who knows?

When?

You can have beef for a workmate who swankulas as he chews his popcorn or for an acquaintance who bitches too much.

You can have beef for your parent when they hide the remote control and try to convince you, an old person, that all the channels on Star Times apart from NTV have stopped working.

You are also allowed to beef boutique owners who sell clothes expensively, because are we supposed to walk around naked? Unfashionable? Just because we can’t afford their cute things?  Shya.

Where:

This emotion of hatefulness is very flexible. You can play with it in church (although the pastor’s sermon might water it down). You can let it fondle your mind when you’re in the boardroom, because, come on. How important is the HR’s rant on the proper use of toilet paper? You can direct beef at the HR chick as well, like: What’s wrong with making butterfly wings out of toilet paper? The toilet needed redecoration anyway.

Who?

N/A. Beef cannot be a person unless you’re Roger, and then beef is every girl with a vast behind.

How?

Hmm. When God created animals, cattle were among them. The first breed of cattle were monstrously large, up to double their current size. They were big and ugly and all had udders, even the boy ones. A la Otis from Banyard.

laba

So Adam said, “Really? Really God?  You expect me to milk that thing?” And God said, “Beera mu class. Don’t you remember what I said about you being the caretaker, overlord and king of all these creatures? Just visit the design studio next Tuesday at 3.30pm and redesign the cowethe!”

So Adam levitated to heaven but had a hard time finding the studio because all the signposts were written in whimsical fonts. When he finally got to the creation table and switched on the computer and found the folder named cowethe, and opened InDesign; he was exhausted.

You people, don’t insist on doing work when you’re tired because I’m pretty sure he’s the one who created mean chicks, commonly referred to as heifers.

On self racism and fantastic comedians.

Recently, I was invited to the office of a company that required my writing skills. Over the phone, the manager sounded amiable and the work he wanted me to do, while boring, wasn’t difficult.  More accurately, this job was a piece of sponge cake and I had no reason to feel intimidated.

But when I walked into his office and noted he was Indian, my heart jumped into my mouth. This was annoying because my mouth only has space for teeth and not an entire heart. My flare of nervousness didn’t blow the job, but it left me puzzled.

5 weeks ago, an article titled Intellectual African scum went viral. Its gist was that we educated Africans are useless drunkards who spend all day chasing tail while people suffer in the villages and the west continues to leech our resources.  It inspired a series of reactions in me; from a mournful acceptance of my uselessness, to quiet indignation to, finally, a raging disgust at the writer’s condescending and un-researched sentiments. I’m still sad about the way so many people unthinkingly accepted the article’s lashing and even became abusive towards those who so much as questioned it crowing, “The white guy (article’s persona) is telling the truth! Don’t try to convince us otherwise!”

That madness is what birthed the term self-racism.

Complex: My generation was weaned on Cerelac and television, so it’s possible that a TV stereotype has been carried on to real life where they assume white= glamorous bringer of wisdom and light and black = porter/gangster/helpless/needy.

This may be the reason why so many Ugandans are openly deferential towards white people. Sure, we all react differently towards newness, but for the love of Nakibuule! It’s possible to celebrate differences without worshipping them.

Conditioning: Last week, I had to sternly stop my 7 year old sister from singing a slave song to soothe Daniella, our resident baby and overlord.  Making hoeing motions, she sang: slave slaveslave, in America! Working day, day and night, planting sugar, sugar and tea, when I goooo to America!

When I asked where she’d learnt it, she said, “Yiii they taught us that song P.1!” I was horrified. An inferiority complex is drummed into us from when we’re P.1 babies. Note that this song isn’t taught to children within the context of say, a history class.

Courtship standards: The average middle class Ugandan man wants a girl with an education, a ‘reasonable’ accent that he can show off to his friends and some financial prospects. Most foreigners will take one look at a girl, be charmed by her dark skin and call her exotic because of her mbogo filled English. By the time African boys stop judging prospective mates using standards gleaned from M-NET, they might find all the girls’ hearts boarding planes.

If you’re one of those who read Stiletto Point in the Discovery Magazine and then come here to like or comment or whatever, you ROCK. Also, you’ll notice that a rant on Mish Mash and it’s rude management has been omitted. This is not because I am all of a sudden OK with the way they treated Lindsey, a colleague of mine. It’s because Jane Bussmann is in town and she’s, for some reason decided to hold her show there. At Mish Mash.

For those of you who haven’t read her book Worst Date Ever (or How It Took a Comedy Writer to Expose Africa’s Secret War), find it. Find it now because she’s fucking hilarious. She’s going to be being awesome at Mish Mash on the 20th of April.

See? See? Even her pictures ooze funny-ness.

You people, come and we go. Buy a ticket early- 35,000 and come enjoy an evening in the company of this awesome comedy writer (South Park, Brass Eye, Smack the Pony)

On obsessions *(not the dead band)

Obsession. Definition: The unhealthy immersion of one’s mind, soul and (where applicable) body into something or somebody. Or even somewhere. It is possible for a creature to be madly obsessed with a patch of grass outside their house, but this creature is more likely to be a ruminant, than, you know, a person.

Was it Louis de Benieres who said a man is only as good as his last obsession? I have several, which hopefully means that I’ve got a vast personality and not something that can be diagnosed.

People/ things I’m crazy for:

Enygma: This perpetually masked MC who sounds like a serial killer that’s a male stripper on the side has got me good. He says ayayaya, I swoon. He talks about ten reasons to date MCees, I buy yet another def.i.ni.tion shirt with his name on it. If you haven’t, for minutes, stared at his mouth through his balaclava and tried to place it/ attach it to one of the Ugandan males you have met, you can’t possibly be as obsessed as I am.

Matooke: My mother is a matooke fiend. She’s the only other person I know who can comfortably eat pressed matooke and fried matooke together as a meal. Boiled, pressed, stewed, flash fried; it is my favorite ever. I haven’t gone a week in my life without stuffing my face with this exciting nyamsockable, so it qualifies as an obsession.

Damp Squid: There’s a blog on the interwebs called Damp Squid and it is the world’s true source of happiness. It is where all smiley faces are manufactured, where laughter is tested for authenticity. Dampsquid is fabulously funny and everybody deserves to visit it. Feel free to read all the posts twice (thrice, four times. Who’s counting?).

Kimbra: There’s a space in every girl’s life for Kate Nash and Lily Allen type music; cute, feely, sweet and slightly bleedy. I thought I’d stuffed that space to capacity until I met Kimbra. Her music is fabulous, her videos are adorable and she grooves like drunken cat. I’m in love.

Mac lipstick: Finding a brand of lipstick that works for you is the hardest thing. You’ll suffer rashes, cracks, actual rips, lip pimples, itchiness, etc. So when you chance upon a wonderful tube that produces sweet smelling, nicely colored grease with which you can accentuate your fabulous lips, bright red joy fills your heart and makes you do weird things like buying a whole box of the stuff.

Ecclesiastes: With the possible exception of Revelations, this is the only book in the Bible that was written with the attention span of the average youth in mind. Content- spot on. Delivery- fantastic. Length- short.  It tackles angst, despair and dispenses advice in an open, honest way. King Solomon is basically saying, “Cut the bullshit. Life is hard and pointless, but you need to enjoy it, especially when you’re young. Take care and spare a thought for God.” I don’t read it as often as I used to, but this list wouldn’t be complete without it.

And just so that I can stop judging myself, I’m going to mention my library. Those are my obsessions. Tell me about yours in the comment section.

Let’s dissect Easter.

What?

Easter is a time of joy, a time to press palm to chest and massage the slight ache that’s been caused by sudden explosions of good cheer. It is a time to celebrate life by eating and laughing as much as possible over the four day weekend.

Easter is the way some people misspell the name Esther. I have been informed by the internet that the intelligence of a person cannot be gauged by their ability or lack thereof to spell. But I really hate misspellings.

Easter is also a time to openly obsess over animals like rabbits and animal products like eggs. From when I started watching TV i.e. from when I was 32months old, Easter bunnies and Easter eggs have filled the screen at this time of the year. I don’t get it. Do the rabbits get eaten? Are the eggs raw but coated with chocolate? Or just egg shaped chocolate? And what the dickens is nutmeg? sharrap. I am aware of the existence of Google.

Most importantly, Easter celebrates the beating, killing, entombing and resurrection of Jesus the Christ. If you have no idea who he is, beera mu class.

We Christians believe that while everybody is entitled to eternal life, you only get to enjoy yours if you believe in Jesus. To avoid being Zanzi roast pork after you die, you’d berra look your life over head to your nearest Christian worship center.

When?

Easter happens every April. Or every beginning of spring. Or two weeks after the last time you visited your kids in boarding school (first term). Or every time Bwaise’s residents have to buy floaters for their children and rafts to be able to leave the house.

Where?

All over the world. Even before Christianity, people were celebrating harvest festivals and cavorting with rabbits and chicken fetuses. Right? Tom Robbins, that heretic has upset all my good beliefs.

Why?

Why has Tom Robbins, that heretic, upset all my good Christian beliefs? Because he’s convincing and funny and attractive and his writing rocks. He’s a feminist and a lover of religion. Or is he? He seems to harbor all these Christianity busting notions. But this has nothing to do with Easter. This is me shamelessly rambling so that I can beat my word count.

Who?

N/A. Unless there are people actually called Easter. It’s a holiday. In plan B we are not desperate enough to start anthropomorphizing holidays.

How?

The way you celebrate Easter depends on what you think it is. If you’re a Christian, the right thing to do is go to church, be filled with happiness that your savior king died and rose again, then go home and eat a lot.

If you’re a bunny-egg person, go on doing whatever it is you do. Do trees get decorated? Man, I don’t know. Ask an American near you.

If you’re atheist, start the marination early. Tenderize your flesh with intoxicants so that when roasting time comes, you’ll be all soft and delicious.

A day in the life of a writer

Writing is easy peasy until you start to call yourself a writer, then it’s the most soul crushing, life sapping, mind bamboozling activity in the universe. Sure, there are warm, spurty feelings to be enjoyed after you finish a story, but mostly, it’s crap. Today, we take you into the comically sad but smug life of your average writer.

3.00am: I’m ejected from dreamland by Rihanna howling about love and hopeless places. I hate that song. I hit snooze.

3.10am: Ugggh. I don’t think I’m very talented at waking up. I hit snooze five more times

4.00am: I throw my phone under the bed so I can go back to sleep unmolested by that woman’s whining.

8.30am: I get up. Sure I’m late, but I’m not going to panic. I’m a ‘creative’, which my employers take to mean unstable, eccentric, lazy and brilliant. To get fired, I’d have to do some really scandalous stuff. Getting to work one hour late is nothing.

9.40am: I saunter into office and head straight for the kitchen. Coffee must be had. Peter’s fruits must be sampled. That guy eats too healthy anyway. Any healthier and he might start sweating fruit juice and shitting fruit salad. So really I’m doing the guy a favor

9.45am: My ears alert me of heavy breathing and snorting right outside the kitchen door. I hear somebody gurgling phlegm. It’s the boss and I think he’s smelt me in the building. Quickly, I arrange my face to resemble that of a sick bunny, slump my shoulders and splash tap water around my nose

9.46am: “Why you disgusting puddle of nothing. You unproductive sow! You heifer of unproductivity. You…you…why are you late?!”

9.47am: I say nothing. We’re both aware of the dynamic here. If he fires me, I’ll be broke for a while, sure, but he’ll have lost me. Where will he ever find such cheap cleverness again? So I saunter over to my desk and open multiple youtube videos.

9.49am: I creep back to the kitchen, fill my basin of a mug with coffee and proceed to wake up.

10.00am: Angst

11:00am: Disorder

12.00pm: Pain, suffering. A brief but violent episode of sobbing under the desk. I consider throwing myself down the three stairs that lead to the parking lot. I disregard this dumb thought. Why is writing so hahaharrrd? Waillll.

Fuck

12.30pm: I walk out. You’d say for lunch. I say in protest.

2.30pm: I return yelling “I can do this! I can do this!” and then recite a couple of positive affirmations

3.00pm: I read dampsquid.wordpress.com for inspiration and inform everybody on facebook and twitter how happy dampsquid is making me.

3.10pm: “Why have I not received any work from you yet? Do you think you’re here to play? This is not your father’s farm!”, yells the boss.

3.12pm: I write some brilliant stuff

3.14pm: I send this brilliant stuff.

3.15pm: I leave office. I’m done with my work, aren’t I?

4.00pm: I play video games/ read books/ drink stuff.

5.00pm: I sleep.

And then I do it again.