Rolling in the Dough, Roach Genocide, and Peeing Standing

Do you know why I started this blog?
Of course you don’t. I only remembered why now as it is. This is knowledge discovery for us all.
You’re welcome.
I used to post these pieces as Facebook notes like some savage – until a friend said those fateful words.
“You should start a blog or something because you’re so talented and you’ll be famous and rich and people will love you and and and because YOLO.”
These words may have been altered slightly a lot.
So, thanks to Knightwisp, I’ve discovered blogging and the internets.
I’ve put him down in my will. Somewhere near the top, amidst the people who are getting my most prized possessions.
He’s getting my pirate patch.
Whenever he likes a post it’s like an invisible man comes up to me and hugs me awkwardly, pats me on the shoulder in an overly-manly-man sort of way, and his deep, songbird voice fills my ears.
“THIS POST DOES NOT SUCK.”
He’s a grown man, doing grown man things, earning respect, making money, and trying to find a woman who’ll happily rear his children, make him Rooibos tea and tell him he’s manly.
My brother’s quite manly. It’s his birthday today.
He’s 24.
I did the normal thing and read the birthday messages people posted on his wall. You know? Those people who won’t spent R1 on a text message or a bit of data on a direct message on some social network.
I didn’t have to scroll very far until I hit the jackpot.
“Hbd”
When I eventually stopped laughing at how sad that is, I ‘liked’ it and got to thinking.
Why even bother?
If you, a Facebook friend, cannot spare the time to type…
HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13,14, 15!
…characters to meaningfully wish someone happy birthday, why even bother?
Sorry. I needed to count and I knew I wouldn’t have enough fingers.
If a Facebook friend posted that on my wall, I would most likely comment with laughter and tell them to spare their effort the next year. Ungrateful perhaps, but how can I really appreciate 3 letters and no punctuation?
RISE GRAMMAR NAZIS!
I considered getting Brother a gift, but promises of riches were unfulfilled and I am most comfortable spending the money I get on food.
For the love of immediate gratification.
I had roughly 4 million. I used it to buy a defdrone defence device, excavate a tree, and upgrade my Command Centre.
Do you play Jungle Heat? I do. It’s like Clash of Clans, but with guns and no fairy dust.
I couldn’t pass level 437 in Candy Crush and found another procrastination-agent.
I’m a student. I get 100 bucks a week, and when I draw it out, the ATM gives it to me in 20s – as if to keep me grounded.
“Man, you broke. Let me help you ration.”
I hate FNB. If they aren’t reminding me of how broke I am, they’re taking away my money. Every time I draw out I can buy one less cup of awful campus coffee.
The only time I ever rolled in the dough was when I tried to make roti off an internet recipe.
TO THE DEATH WITH BANK CHARGES
Speaking of death, I single-handedly massacred an entire population of roaches.
You only need one hand to hold a can of Doom anyway.
Man, it was chaos.
In an apartment building, even if you don’t deserve roaches, you get roaches. Even if your place is clean, you can rest assured someone elses isn’t. Once they’re in, they’re in. Like immigrants with exoskeletons.
I opened up the bin and let out a high-pitched squeal like the fragile little girl I am deep, deep, deep down inside – somewhere unnecessary like my appendix.
It was crunch time. Flight or fight.
Grabbing the can of bug spray, I puffed up and yelled into the bin.
“AH! IN THE BIN WHERE I INTENDED TO PUT YOU, ARE WE!?”
I was crazed and murderous.
As are most women nearing and during certain times of the month.
We don’t like to admit it, but we can be utter bitches when we walk The Red Mile.
Ew. Lady things. Look away now.
Try telling me a joke. Just try. Laugh. Just once. Go on. Why are you afraid? You’re shivering. You must be cold! This knife? I’m going to cook now. What? CARVINGS-OF-YOUR-FACE-STIRFRY.
Al dente.
You’ve got to really sit back, take a breather and acknowledge that you’re being awful – but also that you can’t help it.
Boyfriend gets the brunt of it. I message him the most:
“How did you sleep?”
“With my eyes closed! Buh duh tss!”
It was funny. I laughed. I got annoyed that it was funny. I got annoyed that I laughed.
MUST. KILL. HIM. ‘TIL. HE’S. DEAD.
It’s worse if I don’t know the person. It’s a lot worse if I don’t know the person and they’re trying to flirt.
We women tend to feel miserable. Don’t believe those Always adverts. We’re only playing volleyball on our period if we’ve already overdosed on painkillers or are immune to pain.
We already hate men for not having a uterus and being able to stand while they pee – interaction just makes it worse.
It feels like your uterus is tearing its walls apart. Like someone let Hannibal in there with rough sandpaper and a hacksaw.
Be nice to me those seven days.
You won’t want to be hit in the face with a tampon.

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