what’s happening on tinder?

that was, and still is, one of my most hated questions. it used to be a personal favourite of this one particular witch i worked under, circa 2015, whose personality and mannerisms can best be described as resembling an office carpet: wirey, dull, of no particular use to society at large and tactless in every way imaginable. i mean, what sort of monster habitually sends one-word email responses without so much as a fucking salutation?

i vividly recall the day i received an email from said witch with actual punctuation in it. like, i’m talking a real life exclamation mark. apart from almost falling off my chair, i decided to get it professionally framed. it’s hanging in my lounge.

anyway. i’ve veered—far, faaaaaaar—off point. the fact of the matter is that i’m not sure what’s happening on tinder, but if i was to ever try and find out, it would be with one of these bios, ahem, firmly behind me:

tinder profile bio option one:

possible future lesbian looking for heterosexual male to bed and/or cohabit with and/or bed and cohabit with. must hate snails. must be committed to eating leftovers for a maximum of two days in a row without fucking complaining about it. yes, gary*, i’m fucking talking about you.

tinder profile bio option two:

raging feminist in the making. gassy AF. i fapp tri-daily. won’t tolerate a partner who eats oysters on purpose. may or may not hold a lifelong grudge against you if you don’t currently have a shrine dedicated to spongebob squarepants in your house. you must have also fantasised about living in a pineapple under the sea at least once in your lifetime.

tinder profile bio option three:

send plants.

tinder profile bio option four:

clothing, black. tequila, straight up. cat, alive. children, also alive. teeth, present. virginity, not present. tattooed. love yelling “fucking cunt!” at idiotic motorists while driving. like hooting. don’t fuck with me. i’ll cut you.

tinder profile bio option five:

2 eyed beauty. well looked after. spacious chest area. every man’s wet dream come true. serious applicants only. requirements: two months semen deposit, penis cleared into the owner’s vagina by no later than the third date. credit checks will be done.

tinder profile bio option six:

for the love of christ, just fucking marry me.

*name changed to protect individual’s identity

24 clever halloween tricks for 2020

halloween isn’t that big in south africa, but it seems to be catching on slowly. in a hungover AF state, i asked my fam to help prepare a list of tricks we could dish out next year. you know, because treats are so 1457.

1. breadcrumbs
2. a handful of flour
3. a piece of raw meat
4. 1 x pinch of cat hair swept up from the floor
5. 100g of dry or cooked pasta
6. one unwashed sock
7. cacti thorns
8. a particle of glitter (because, let’s face it, that’s all you need)
9. a brick
10. a spoonful of soil or compost
11. cat litter
12. foot powder
13. several pegs
14. 1/2 a panado
15. a broken lightbulb
16. used earbuds
17. stray eyelashes
18. a spatula
19. liquid washing detergent
20. a jar full of farts
21. raw garlic
22. a splash of jik
23. a broken spanner
24. anchovies

why is there a popcorn kernel stuck to my breast, and other pressing questions: an essay.

i came up with this headline on day three of a rather unpleasant flu. i saved it in my drafts. i no longer know why there was a popcorn kernel stuck to my breast, but figured that since i haven’t posted anything in my usual 27.6 years, it would be a sin to waste such an intriguing headline.

the 3 o’clock freeze

motherfuckers be transporting us to siberia err day. but seriously. i can’t fucking type under these conditions. i mean, it’s taken me 27 minutes to get to this point in my third world problem complaint.

i make coffee for the sole purpose of warming what used to be my hands, which are now just sorry excuses for leper’s tentacles with no earthly value at all.

the big freeze happens at 3pm every day, it’s all a ridiculous waste of company resources and i demand a raise.

uh, universe?

i’ve put together a list of grievances that i’d really love you to take a look at. ’cause, you know, the world revolves around me. 💅

1. walkway stepping stone labourers. who are these abominable abolitionists? i don’t care how drunk they think we get, or how closely related they believe our legs may be to t-rex arms, i’ve yet to meet someone whose natural step flow is anywhere close to these catastrophic jigsaw puzzles they leave behind.

2. kitchen sink manufacturers. yes, it’s all good and well for the still-growing children, who have bought into their parents’ pocket money ploy, but is it entirely necessary for the bottom of the sink to still be 16 parasecs away from me, even after my arms, hands and fingers are fully extended?

okay, universe. you can thank my 5am wake-up and adcodol-induced body for the fact that this is all i’ve got to complain about right now. but just you wait. just you wait…

my daughter’s approval

i don’t know what mitchell davis was smoking when he said ‘be yourself and i promise people will enjoy it; if they don’t, forget them’, but i’m going to go out on a limb and say that he wasn’t a xennial parenting a generation z / post-millennial / igeneration / founders / plurals / homeland generation teen at the time. because those guys think you’re a fucking idiot, no matter what you do. trust me. i live with one.

i mean, everything i do is uncool in my 13-year-old’s eyes. and as much as i’m behind the whole take-me-as-i-am thing, i don’t think it’s unreasonable to want your fam’s approval.

here’s what i mean.

me:

buys first ochre item in entire life to expand wardrobe colour (usually black, with a sprinkling of depression). excitedly shares the moment with teen daughter.

teen daughter:

that colour doesn’t suit you.

me:

here’s another.

me:

i made your favourite pasta!

teen daughter:

i hate pasta.

me:

and another.

teen daughter:

i’m going to hang out with my friends outside.

me:

bye, felicia.

(teen daughter’s friends giggle)

teen daughter:

so no, mitchell davis, i don’t think i can be myself and expect that people will enjoy it. sweet of you to think it, doe!

in the mood for food

an autobiography.

is it just me, or do you also experience the same thoughts when the temperature drops by 0.371 degrees and you’re stuck at work, staring at the rain softly falling outside your office window?

09:23 warm bar one chocolate cake drizzled with sticky vanilla ice cream…

09:54 why am i here. i should be in bed.

10:01 crispy bacon flapjack stacks with baked cinnamon apple slices and maple syrup…

10:21 this is bullshit, i should be wrapped up in a blanket cocoon while personal slaves hand-feed me until my eyes succumb to the pressure of my overstuffed large intestine.

10:30 mango pudding with whipped cream and almond sprinkles…

10:53 is it lunch time yet?

11:15 crispy oven baked four-cheese penne pasta with fresh parmesan and parsley sprinkles…

11:32 thank fuck! lunch!

11:55 (five minutes after finishing lunch) baked cheesecake with fresh berries and cream…

and, just like that, it’s past 3pm, you’re about to miss your deadline and there you are, stuck at your desk, nibbling on pieces of paper from the printer in an attempt to comfort yourself.

 

dear diary

i’ve recently started journaling again. it’s supposed to be good for the emotions—and frankly, a fuckload more of an affordable option than psychotherapy.

1 january 2018

why is life so hard.

15 january 2018

why is life so hard.

20 february 2018

why is life so hard.

6 march 2018

why is life so hard.

30 march 2018

why is life so hard.

10 may 2018

why is life so hard.

4 june 2018

why is life so hard.

15 july 2018

why is life so hard.

28 august 2018

why is life so hard.

what the fuck, guys?

*replace above image with female equivalent.

uh…did i miss some kind of pro-e. coli movement here? i’ve only spoken about this in hushed whispers before (kidding. i’ve been deliberately loud, in the hopes that at least one of the perpetrators might feel public shame—don’t knock it, it’s the only way us librans can pretend that we’ve confronted an important issue), but is there anyone else out there who finds themselves simultaneously gagging and blurting out “for fuuuuucks sake” each time they step into a (semi-) public restroom cubicle?

jirre. i can’t. who are you people? it’s actually gotten to the point where i have a print-ready file in my outbox, waiting to be sent to ORMS, with a request for a lifetime’s supply of neon sticky notes reading ‘can you legit just check if you have left any remnants of your faeces and/or period in here before you leave’?

tempted to also add: ‘does your home toilet look like this colossal, bacterial fuck up of an apocalypse too? please don’t invite me round for dinner. ever.’

on top of the germs and disease, there’s also this (photo cred: @deanphoenix, a.k.a. work husbie supreme)…

why indeed, husbie – why indeed.

#EatItAllAugust

there i was, minding my own business—not being pregnant, not being overly emotional, not drunk, not hungover, not stoned, not currently detained in a detention camp along the us-mexico border and starved for days—when it hit me: i must eat EVERYTHING. fuck three meals a day, i need twenty.

after a while, i started to develop a complex. was it just me? were there others? did i miss an astrological phenomenon? was i, in fact, pregnant? had my period not actually been my period, but a rare and disturbing form of vaginal scurvy?

i started talking about my incurable hunger to others, confirming the worst: it was endemic. my entire friend circle was affected.

to date, no one can confirm the source. we can’t explain what is happening. we can’t explain why it’s happening. we just…eat.