Media stalks Madiba

While the media reported this week on former president Nelson Mandela’s medical treatment in the 1 Military Hospital in Pretoria, I noticed that the media camped outside the hospital.

I reminds me of a similar situation last year when Madiba got sick and was treated in the Milpark hospital in Johannesburg.

When news broke of his hospitalisation last year, Twitter exploded with the rumour that Madiba had died.

Journalists from all over South Africa and the rest of the world swarmed on the hospital and camped outside for days, eager for news of his condition.

The same thing is happening again, if on a much smaller scale.

Madiba (source: Wikipedia)

This time the government has been sensible by releasing information on a regular basis. Last year they were quiet and secretive, which led to further speculation that Madiba was on his death bed.

The fact is that Madiba is now 94 years old. It is safe to assume that he doesn’t have very many years left on this earth.

While most of us would be very sad when he does eventually pass, his death should surely not be a surprise to anyone.

So why is there such a big commotion every time he gets sick?

Are we that scared of losing the revered man?

Mourn him when he’s gone. While he’s still here, let him live in peace.

Zombies! Argh!

Remeber those recent ‘zombie’ attacks in the USA and Europe. Looks like it’s spread to South Africa as well.

Not really. It’s just me and a couple of dudes I met at a zombie themed birthday party recently. There’s something really fun about covering yourself in blood and biting random people. Ya’ll should try it.

Johnny’s back!

Hi guys! After a way too long break, I’m back.

Even though I love blogging, work has been keeping me very busy the last couple of years. When I started this blog, I was interning at a newspaper. I’m still working there but I’m now a midlevel court reporter. I was a crime reporter for over a year before I moved ovr to court reporting.

As you can imagine, it’s a very stressful, hectic job. It’s all murder, rape, blood, guts. And lots of crying. Way too much crying.

Since I’ve always wanted my blog to be light and fun, I kind of moved away from blogging tp ensure that my work life didn’t seep into Unfit Mind. I didn’t want to bum you guys out.

But I’m finally back and ready to get back to blogging. I was just a 21 year old when I started this blog and didn’t know much about anything. I’m now 24 and have lived and learned. A little bit, anyway. Hopefully I can bring back a little of what made you guys read Unfit mind in the first place.

If anyone’s even still out there, reading this.

If nobody is, that’s alright too. I’ll just have to write for myself. I’m my biggest fan.

In lieu of flowers, I choose to rant

I’m really pissed off right now and I know I shouldn’t be. 

I just read an article in the newspaper about a woman who proclaimed her love for her ex-boyfriend on Facebook. Nothing strange about that, is there? Nothing, accept the fact that the man killed this woman’s younger sister and the sister’s friend two days after the break-up. 

And now she complains about the newspapers printing her “personal business”. It’s called PUBLIC DOMAIN. Nothing you say on Facebook is private. 

But I’m not mad about her abusing Facebook. My problem is with her still loving this guy. 

Seriously? How is that possible? 

To this woman:He just fucking killed your 20 year old sister! He attacked her and he literally choked the life out of her. And he also stabbed her friend to death. He left them in your house, knowing full well you and your mother would discover the bodies. 

I know what his problem is. He’s a murderous bastard. 

But what the fuck is your problem? 

How is it possible to still love someone who did that? Can someone explain that to me? Is this woman so fucking desperate for love that she’ll accept it anywhere she can get it? 

If this is unconditional love, I thank Buddha I’ve never been in love. 

I know women get crazy when they “love” a guy. I’ve seen it countless times. I remember my older sister once got so angry at her boyfriend she actually hit him. He was a gentleman so, instead of hitting her back, he decided to leave. But my sister took his car keys and refused to let him leave. 

This type of desperation is disgusting. 

While I in no way mean to imply that men don’t get this crazy (the man mentioned above killed two people because he got dumped so I know men DO get crazy), I’ve only witnessed this first hand in women. 

And that makes me glad I’m gay. 

People (men and women) being so needy is something I truly don’t understand. 

Are you so unhappy being alone, so unfulfilled with yourself, that you can forgive anything just to keep someone’s love? 

Now this woman uses religion to justify her love. “Only God can judge people. Only He has the right to punish him (her sister’s killer)”. 

FUCK THAT. 

I may have stopped going to church a long time ago but I can distinctly remember the clergymen preaching that on Earth we have to obey the laws of man (unless those laws directly interfere with the laws of God). That means that we do have the right to judge people who do wrong. And we do have the right to punish those who do wrong. What’s so difficult to understand about that? 

This man, if he is guilty (his trial hasn’t started yet), should spend the rest of his life in prison. He deserves nothing less. I’m against the death penalty only because DNA evidence has proven that innocent people have been wrongly sentenced to death in the past. If there was a way to prove his guilt 100%, without any chance of being wrong, I’d be happy with him being fed to crocodiles. 

And I think the woman should be lobotomised. She obviously isn’t using her brain anyway. 

Sometimes I think animals have it better. The kind who choose mates for procreation purposes only. People tend to choose partners they love – or have feelings for. And most people love too much. That can be a bad thing, as evidenced in this case. Love can be dangerous. And not just to those who share love. Love has casualties. Fact. 

Now I’ve never been in love. And I’m glad for it. I’ve been in lust and in like. That suits me fine. That means that when a relationship doesn’t work out, I don’t go crazy and go around killing people in a murderous rampage. 

I sometimes think people in love have a mental illness. Or perhaps they are weak. I don’t know. I just can’t imagine feeling that pressing need for someone. It just doesn’t make any sense to me. 

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; love kills independence. 

Love is weakness. Love is a crutch. Love is dangerous. Love is overrated. Love is unnecessary. 

Love doesn’t exist. 

I *believe* love does not exist. 

Maybe it’s because I’ve never experienced it. Or maybe this belief stems from the fact that I believe humans are better off without love. 

Hate is not the opposite of love. So I’m not advocating that we should go around hating everything and everyone. 

Indifference is the opposite of love. I believe that. 

I also believe that we need indifference sometimes. Being indifferent doesn’t mean ignoring the important things. Being indifferent – to me at least – means having the good sense to step back from something and take a good look at it, being sensible in how you go about living your life and making good, right choices for yourself. Being indifferent means having the mental clarity to do this. 

For example; if this man was indifferent to his break-up, would he have killed those two innocent girls? I don’t think so. 

If Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold were indifferent to bullying, would they have gone on a shooting rampage and killed 12 students and 1 teacher at Columbine High School back in 1999? For that matter, if students there had been indifferent, would they have bullied those boys in the first place? 

Think about it. 

Rant over.

Ode to Barney

Neil Patrick Harris, the actor who plays one of my favourite characters currently on television – Barney Stinson of How I Met Your Mother – turns 37 today. 

Happy birthday and all that jazz, NPH. 

Barney is my favourite character on this hilarious sitcom. But I didn’t always love me some Barney. 

The main reason I started watching this show was because Alyson Hannigan (Lily) co-stars. I’ve loved her since her days as geeky nerd turned hot lesbian wicca, Willow Rosenberg, on one af my all-time favourite series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. 

The many faces of Alyson Hannigan (most from BtVS).

 

While Alyson can’t sing worth a damn – as evidenced in BtVS’s classic 6th season musical extravaganza/episode, ‘Once More, With Feeling’ – her sincere portrayal of Willow (ranging from angst-ridden teenager hiding her crush on her best friend, Xander, in s.1, to vampire-Willow from an alternate dimension in s.3, to her new-found lesbian sexual identity in s.4, to her magical downfall and turn to evil sparked by Tara’s murder in s.6 and her eventual redemption in s.7) was really one of the stand-out performances in a show boasting the talents of Anthony Stewart Head and James Marsters. 

That one time at band camp, when I read she had a regular starring role on a new sitcom (HIMYM) I knew there was no way I was going to skip the show. 

I started watching the show and I liked it. 

“]

NPH with a pregnant Alyson Hannigan (Lily) & a slightly less pregnant Cobie Smulders (Robin). [Interesting fact: Both their babby daddies have guest starred on HIMYM. Alyson's husband, Alexis Denisof (her co-star from BtVS and Angel), played a news achor who Robin very briefly dated in s.2. Cobie's boyfriend, an unknown actor who was once in a Disney movie I saw on SABC1, had a 1 episode role in s.4/5.

But Barney initially irritated me with his never-ending shagfest-quest, suit-obsession and catch phrase. Though I did like the actor who portrayed him. I’d heard of Doogie Howser, M.D. but I’d never seen the late 1980′s sitcom, so I had no idea who NPH was. I also didn’t see Harold & Kumar go to White Castle until 2006/7, so I hadn’t seen his hilarious turn as ‘himself’. 

NPH as Doogie in Doogie Howser, M.D., 'himself' in Harold & Kumar, Barney in HIMYM & Dr. Horrible in Dr. Horrible's Sing-along-blog.

 

HIMYM was my first introduction to NPH and while I didn’t quite like his character at first, I was impressed with his performance. It also doesn’t hurt that I think he’s the most attractive male cast member (normally I’d go for Josh Radnor but his ‘Ted’ is just too annoying). By the end of s.1 I loved Barney. He grew on me and I learned to ignore his catch phrase. 

If you don't think he is sexy, you're a lesbian (straight guys included).

 

Since my gaydar is constantly offline, it came as somewhat of a surprise when NPH announced in 2007 in People magazine that he was a “content, gay man.” While being gay didn’t change my opinion of him, it certainly endeared him to me even more. 

NPH is "a man's man"

 

NPH acts, sings and dances, which he proved in a recent episode of Glee (not yet aired on SA screens) and previously also on the fantastic 2008 web-based series, Dr. Horrible’s Sing-a-long Blog. 

Yet my gaydar didn’t ping once. 

I love that he didn’t make a big deal out of his coming out. He only did the People-interview because a “shocking gay scandal” was looming on the horizon and he wanted to set the record straight, so to speak. 

But he wasn’t closeted before the interview. He had been (and still is) in a long-term relationship with actor David Burtka. While David isn’t famous (he mostly does theatre), you may recognise him from his minor role on HIMYM. He appeared in a couple of episodes as Scooter, Lily’s stalker ex-boyfriend. You might remember he tried to get Lily to call of her wedding to Marshall in the s.2 finale. 

NPH and David have been together for about 6 years. That's like 18 gay years.

Pretty cute couple, huh?

NPH & David at David's 35th birthday surprise party a couple of weeks ago.

 NPH has a succesful career (I can’t wait to see him in the live action movie version of The Smurfs), a hot boyfriend, a huge following and is a good amateur magician.

 

He has it all, right? Not quite. 

He has a birthday wish list. Go ahead, buy him something. 

Via Twitter:

• VIP seats to the US Open
• A map to One-Eyed Willie’s treasure (there’s a gay joke in there, somewhere)
• An immunity idol from Survivor
• The ability to donate blood
• NPH.com
• Danielle Staub’s sex tape
• An actual Muppet
• Socks

NPH and David out and about, or as Robin would say "oot & aboot".

Shying away from the truth

Yesterday I was on Twitter and I mentioned to a friend of a friend that I suffer from a mild form of social anxiety disorder. We had met once before at a party our mutual friend, Sam (of the awesome Mission Succexy), had thrown and, despite imbibing copious amounts of beer and punch, I remained sober and shy. My little confession was a way to explain my awkwardness during the party. 

The next thing I know, a couple of strangers tweeted me links to sites that will *God-willingly* help me get over my panic attacks – which I don’t suffer from. Thanks, randomites, for your unwanted helpfulness. 

But back to me. 

While my rather stupid disorder is not debilitating, it surely is very annoying. You see, ‘slight’ is the keyword when describing my social anxiety disorder. 

I’m never fully anything. I’m only slightly funny, slightly a male model, slightly pyromaniacal, slightly a genius. 

 

Even when my water polo coach drove over my ankle in high school, or when I drove my bicycle into our gate and I went flying over it and smashed into the brick pathway on the other side, or when my brother tried to drown me (the 1st time in a swimming pool, the 2nd time in a sink filled with hot water) or when a neighbour’s giant black dog mauled me, I was only slightly injured. 

And my social anxiety disorder is also only of the slight variety. 

As a result of social anxiety disorder triggers and symptoms (see below), I am highly unsociable around large groups of people. I was a university student the 1st time I forced myself to go into a club. 

Sometimes, in my quest to be unnoticeable, I can come across as a giant ass-butt (see: Supernatural). Which is why one of my close friends didn’t speak to me for a while after my disorder flared up at her 21st birthday party. In my defense, I was surrounded by lots of people I’d never met before and I became very uncomfortable – to the extent that I wanted to flee. In her defense, I never told her about my disorder, so her anger was totally justified. 

I will say that things have gotten a lot easier for me in the last few years. Just escaping my teen years helped me tremendously. 

I remember I used to hate going to school. The moment I stepped through the front gate of my high school, it felt like every single student would stop what they were doing and stare at me. But not in a good way like when you notice that the hot guy jogging towards you in slow-mo is going commando (see: Juno). 

Now THIS is definitely something worth looking at.

 

While I knew no-one was staring it me, it certainly felt like every pair of eyes was on me and their hatred/disgust/judgement was aimed at me. 

Back then I always walked with my hands in my pockets, which annoyed my teachers to no end (“Do you have loose change in your pocket?” was the very clever refrain all teachers would ask of hand-in-pocket-learners). No bitch, it’s a way to hide my trembling, sweaty hands. My hands were a dead give away that something was wrong and I didn’t want anyone to know. 

In matric I had to train myself to walk with my hands dangling by my sides. After lots of practice it eventually worked and today I’m 5 years pocket-free. 

But I’m not just uncomfortable around strangers. 

I very obviously do not like being the centre of attention.

 

For years we lived minutes away from my mum’s eldest brother and his family. As a result, visits were a regular occurence. When they would visit us, I’d stay in my room and when my parents and siblings went over to their home, I’d refuse to go. After many, many arguments with my father about this, he eventually accepted that I just didn’t want to be around people. But he incorrectly thought it was because I didn’t like them. 

My uncle’s youngest daughter used to be my best friend. As a child, I suffered from several speech impediments. I had a lisp and a stutter. I would never call my brother by his name. Try saying “R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-ros…coe” and you’ll know why. My speech impediments, combined with my annoying bray, led to me rarely talking to anyone. She was the only kid I knew who didn’t make fun of me. 

My cousin is only 57 days older than me, we attended the same primary and high school (and spent 6 of those 12 years in the same class) and we were even confirmed together in church. We were close. These days we rarely hang out and we normally just exchange greetings. As my disorder became more of a problem, I just distanced myself from her. Our lost relationship is probably one of the biggest regrets I have regarding my social phobia. 

Also, my 3 siblings loved to hang out and chat with my parents in their bedroom. I didn’t. There was a time when I was really self-conscious about going into the room when all 5 of them were in there. I remember I once wanted to fetch a book of mine I’d left in there. But they were all in the room so I stood outside the room – against the wall and hidden from everyone – for almost 20 minutes waiting for just one person to leave the room so I could go in. I couldn’t force myself to go into a room with my 5 closest family members. They were too many. 

Now that was royally fucked up, right? I knew that even back then. 

Awkward and keeping my distance from other people - that's me.

 

But I got over it – mostly. And I don’t even rely on medication. It’s all will power, baby. And alcohol. 

These days my disorder can easily be misinterpreted as extreme shyness. I’m working on getting over that. That’s why I’m totally honest about it on my blog. 

Some people who read my blog or follow me on Twitter or enjoy my Facebook updates might think of me as this awesome, fun, funny guy. This isn’t cockiness. I’m just paraphrasing what people have told me. 

Now if I could only figure out how to translate my viral persona into my real life… 

For the time being I can temporarily achieve this level of viral awesome-ocity by getting drunk. When I turned 20, I went out with a few friends, got wasted and danced on a stage (well, it was more of a raised platform just in front of the DJ’s booth). I’m just glad I didn’t do the booty-pop. And thank Buddha this happened a year before Beyoncé’s Single Ladies-dance went viral. 

More than anything, this shows the effectiveness of alcohol in overcoming social phobias. 

Too bad I’ve stopped drinking anything except Black Label, more commonly known as Soweto’s Pepsi. Also, I try to not get drunk anymore. It really is bad form, you know. 

[Fast Fact: while I've been bordering on alcoholism for 4 years, I've only had 2 hangovers.] 

I’m not huddled on a floor in the corner of the local groendakkies because of my job. I’m a reporter. I have to ask questions. A lot of the time I’m the only journo at an event or I do personal interviews. I can’t be shy. So I’m not. My livelihood depends on me being able to communicate with people. So I do. I put a smile on my face – or conjure a sad-face depending on the type of story – and I get down to business. 

I want to do that in my personal life. How I wish I could vocalise what goes on in my mind. Then you would all love me even more that you do now. 

But I can’t. So I take to the interwebs – the only way I can spread the awesome-ocity that is Jody. 

Enjoy me. 

——- 

(Note: These lists aren’t complete – I only mention the things that are/were applicable in my case): 

Triggers for social anxiety disorder (social phobia) 

• Meeting new people
• Being the center of attention
• Being watched while doing something
• Making small talk
• Public speaking
• Performing on stage
• Being called on in class
• Going on a date
• Making phone calls
• Speaking up in a meeting
• Attending parties or other social gatherings
• Eating in front of people

Physical symptoms of social anxiety disorder (social phobia) 

• Pounding heart or tight chest
• Shaky voice
• Nausea
• Dry mouth
• Trembling or shaking
• Muscle tension
• Blushing
• Twitching

– Via HelpGuide.org
 

I’m definitely not feeling it

As per the rules of the Blogger’s Association of South Africa (BASA), this is my mandatory post about that thing we can’t mention where those men play with that round thing.

You know what I’m talking about.

In an effort to not get sued by it’s governing body, Queefa, I will refer to the coming onslaught as the “Fooseball-but-with-real-people World Cup”.

Touch it on its studio - it are here

It’s only 3 days away now.

The last time I was actually excited about the tournament was when SA won the bid to host the event back in 2004. I was totally with the masses, ululating in the streets. Okay, not really. I was in my bedroom watching the announcement on my tv.

But I was excited.

At least until I realised that I have no actual interest in fooseball-but-with-real-people. I’ve only played this beautiful game on a handful of occasions and I didn’t like it.

I’m just not a fan.

Before I anger any fooseball-but-with-real-people fans who will most certainly accuse me of being unpatriotic, I will defuse the situation by admitting that I don’t enjoy watching or playing any kind of sport.

Tennis = boring. Cricket = boring-er. Gholf = kill me now.

I played water polo in high school. While I could appreciate the homo-eroticism of playing a sport where you’re wet, wearing only a speedo, climbing all over each other to get your hands on the ball and taking group showers, I quit after a couple of months because I just didn’t enjoy it.

Also, only one guy on the team wore a speedo – the rest of us wore trunks – and girls were allowed on the team too (the fucking liberty!), so that was a bit of a let down.

The point is that I’m rather unimpressed with the whole to-do. Not because I particularly hate fooseball-but-with-real-people but because I hate all sports equally. I’m like a god that way.

This is why you won’t see me driving around with the SA flag portruding from my window (but mostly because I don’t have a car). Or phoning in sick so I can watch the matches at one of the fan parks.

I’ll be very happy when the tournament is over and the foreigners leave.

Living in Joburg I don’t appreciate the inevitable traffic nightmare which awaits me.

I also don’t want be lose my hearing because some people have the whack idea that loudly blowing vuvuzelas is somehow part of a South African sports culture.

The vuvuzela - it can make me kill

And I sure as hell won’t miss all those crappy “SA lingo” lists. While I know, or at least recognise, most of the terms on those lists, I am loathe to actually utter the kak phrases those ‘writers’ claim are used by all South Africans on a daily basis.

And frankly, I wouldn’t want to associate myself with someone who uses the words ‘China’, ‘kiff’ or ‘fyndraai’ on a regular basis.

Fuck that and fuck you for being common.

Back to fooseball-but-with-real-people. Bafana Bafana doesn’t have a chance in hell of winning. And I’m not Damian (son of Satan) for admitting that. I’m just honest with myself. And sane.

This is not to say that I don’t want SA to win the world cup. That would be awesome. It would also be a huge ‘fuck you’ to especially the British media, who seem to have this major issue with us hosting the tournament.

I don't know why but the British press pisses me off.

Also – win or lose – I really want this tournament to be a success for our country. I certainly hope all our visitors are safe (except the British press), even though I’m not too fond of them. And that we don’t have a huge problem with infrastructure.

Wishful thinking, I know. But I can be a dreamer (sometimes).

And while I might watch some of the matches on tv, I will mostly ignore the rising fooseball-but-with-real-people hysteria. I will pretend it doesn’t exist, much like when we hosted the rugby and cricket world cups. And I will sleep through it – metaphorically speaking.

Christiano Ronaldo - if all fooseball-but-with-real-people looked like this I might have to start watching.

But you all are free to go to the games, wave your flags, show your SA pride and get crazy during the month. It’s your right We DO live in a democratic country, after all.

Just wake me up before July ends.

What is ‘Good Hair’?

Yesterday I went to an early viewing of Chris Rock’s documentary, Good Hair. For those of you not familiar with it, Rock travels around America (and India) to find out what the big deal is regarding black women and their hair. I loved the doccie. It was funny, honest and insightful.

But this is not a review of Good Hair.

This doccie made me think about the obsession Coloureds have with ‘good hair’. I actually think my people are more obsessed with having what is perceived as good – i.e. STRAIGHT – hair than black people.

I have no idea if my non-Coloured readers are familiar with this cultural obsession.

I think it has a lot to do with the fact that we’re a mixed race. We have our black ancestors and we also have our European and Asian ancestors. As a result, some of us have straight hair while others don’t.

Even though the texture of our hair comes down to something as inconsequent as genetics, we still attach meaning to it.

From left to right: Cindy (my lil' sis) and two of my many cousins, Lu-Maree & Shandré. All the women on my mum's side of the family are 'blessed with good hair' (the guys have a 50/50 shot). They absolutely know what power they wield in the Coloured community.

I think it’s really disheartening to have an obsession with ONE physical feature that so strongly dictates your self-worth. And that of others.

Yes, some Coloureds (I hesitate to say ‘most of’) will judge other Coloureds not on the colour of their skin or the content of their character but by the lenght and texture of their hair.

This sounds crazy, doesn’t it?

But it’s true.

Case in point. I sometimes work with an older Coloured man. Last week we were out together on a job. On the way back to the office he talked about how he has to go to Cape Town for his sister’s wedding but he really doesn’t want to. I don’t like encouraging conversation between the two of us so I said nothing. But after he gawked at me for about 20 seconds, I finally asked, “Why don’t you want to go to the wedding?” Not because I cared but because I wanted him to keep his eyes on the road since he was driving.

He then went on to tell me that he doesn’t like his future brother-in-law. Once again I was forced to feign interest and I asked why not. The first thing out of his mouth? “My sister is pretty and has long hair. This guy has a kroeskop… and he wears glasses.”

(kroeskop = nappy hair)

Yes, dear readers, this man (who doesn’t have straight hair himself) based his opinion of a man – who he admittedly doesn’t know well – solely on one physical attribution. HAIR!

How fucked up is that?

But he is certainly not the only one.

Once my mum’s cousin told my mum nobody is the family likes my one cousin’s new girlfriend. Obviously you don’t have to like someone if you have a legitimate reason not to. But she said (in a mock surprised voice), “she doesn’t even have straight hair!”

But my all-time favourite hair-related absurdity occurs when Coloured women give birth. This is more often than not one of the first things out of their mouths: “At least my baby has straight hair.”

My older sister was guilty of this when her son was born. I obnoxiously reminded her of her arrogance when my nephew’s hair “turned,” which is the term we use when a baby is born with straight hair but it goes a bit nappy after a few weeks.

I could see the “turning” coming a mile off. I’ve seen new-born black babies with straight hair. It doesn’t mean it’ll stay that way. It’s the same with Coloureds. Straight hair is only a certainty if both your parents were “blessed with good hair.” If, as is the case with my parents (as well as with my sister and her babby daddy), only one is ‘blessed’, your chances are 50/50.

That’s probably why I have what I like to call Jewish curly hair – it’s somewhere between straight and nappy and tends to curl (badly) when grown long.

My hair has always been problematic. When I was younger, I used to have a tuft of hair on top of my head that didn't want to lie flat on my head. Gel didn't help, so now I just keep it short. Or I wear a wig, as you can see in the photo on the right.

Anyway, these are only two examples of how hair influences our thinking. I really hate it. As a people, we just come across as superficial and nasty (thank Buddha I am above such trivial nonsense).

When two Coloureds have a problem with one another, it’s common for one to say that the other is a ‘typical Coloured’ – one that doesn’t contribute anything to society. This is obviously a very hurtful thing to say about your own race but when we can be so superficial, when physical appearance matter more than what you got going on inside, is it such a wonder we as a people have such an inferiority complex?

No wonder so many of us are fence sitters when it comes to important things like politics in the country. Countless times I’ve heard Coloureds (my family included) saying that they refuse to vote, either because “the blacks don’t do anything for us” or “despite blacks being in control the whites still have all the money – so obviously voting won’t help me”.

I know it seems like I’ve gone off topic but I believe there is a link between the way people feel about themselves and the way they live their lives.

Coloureds freely admit (to each other) that in general, we’re a pretty apathetic race. We can’t seem to come together for a worthwhile cause – hence the general derision of Coloured politicians like Patricia de Lille among my people. I promise you, if she had straight hair, she would be thought of as more attractive and, as a direct result, she would have more Coloured supporters.

Superficial, I know. But it’s true.

So it all comes down to hair. Just think about it.

Look Ma, no hands!

After positive feedback regarding yesterday’s post, I’m feeling pressured to come up with more posts of equal or greater quality. 

That’s easier said than done. 

Yesterday’s post was due to a sudden burst of inspiration, coupled with the fact that I had about 40 minutes left at work with nothing else to do. 

Yes, my post was nothing more than a time filler. It only took me about 30 minutes to write. I guess it was powerful due to its honesty. 

I was very happy to have something – anything – to post. 

The last week or so I’ve suffered from blogger’s block (It’s sad that I thought I’d coined a new term. Turns out, I haven’t). 

This is what happens when you have an unfit mind combined with a lack of anything to blog about.

 

I axed the only post I even attempted to write because I came across as too whiny and complain-y. 

And that’s not what I’m about. 

I want you guys to remember that when I start blogging about my sad life growing up. And it IS sad, believe me. Well, some parts are pretty sad. 

But I won’t blog about that for pity or to vent. 

I’ll only blog about painful past experiences – and scar myself emotionally in the process – for your entertainment. 

I know from personal experience that some of my friends enjoy anecdotes where I get hurt or do something stupid (I have awesome friends, don’t I?) 

I might soon post about why I’m the unluckiest person in the world (in my mind). 

But that’s for another time.

It’s my birthday… bleh.

It’s my birthday today. I’m 22. Yeah, I know – one year closer to the hell fires of old age. 

I’m a gay, you see. My people don’t like getting old. 

If you’ve ever seen the now deceased gay-themed American series, Queer As Folk, you might have seen the s.1 episode where Brian Kinney (Gale Harold – who played Susan’s boyfriend in Desperate Housewives s.5), one of the main characters, turns 30. He freaks out and, viewing sexual promiscuity as his birth right, goes on a boinking rampage to get that last couple o’ hundred pre-30′s fuck-sessions in. He’s very handsome, so getting laid ain’t a problem. 

Gale Harold... I'd do him.

The next morning (D-day) his friends burst into his place, drag him off to a funeral parlour and they promptly stuff him into a coffin. The scene ends with Brian himself closing the lid of the coffin. It’s a very disturbing (yet hilarious) scene. 

This perfectly illustrates the fear of gay-ageing. Being young and gay may be fun but being old and gay isn’t very appealing. 

Unless you’re sir Ian McKellen and can get toy boys to keep you company. 

Like I said, I’m 22. In gay years that’s probably about 27. I only have a few more years left before I’m gay-old and have to accept the fact that I will die alone. 

But I don’t particularly care about that. I like being alone. I’ve been single for about 21 months now. And that’s the way I like it. 

I’m no Carrie Bradshaw. I don’t pine for a mr. Big to come save me (although I did like Burger). 

Someone as pathetic as Carrie deserves to die a single, old hag. IMHO.

Thank Buddha I don’t have to worry about pesky romantic feelings. 

I rarely get those. And when I do have ‘feelings’ for a guy, it’s physical, primal and urgent (read: lust). 

And it never lasts. 

I dated my last boyfriend for about four months. I was over the relationship within the first 3 weeks. But I didn’t break it off because he was a really nice guy. And his grandfather died early on in our relationship. Plus, he was majorly closeted which meant we didn’t see each other every day, even though we both lived in tiny (in comparison to Johannesburg) Stellenbosch at the time. Not seeing him often made it easier to be with him. 

Also, while I (mostly) practice celibacy when I’m single (past experiences have taught me that casual sexual contact can bite you in the ass – sometimes literally), the opposite is true when I’m with a guy. So there was THAT that kept our relationship alive. 

But sex only goes so far. Like our relationship, the break-up was pretty low key. We went our seperate ways and even though it wasn’t a bad break-up, we haven’t had any contact since. 

I’m a loner by nature. I don’t like large crowds and sometimes I get annoyed with people when they want to talk to me (which is ironic since, as a journalist, I make my living getting people to talk to me). 

I’ve technically lived alone since I was 17. I went to university and lived in a single room dorm. That counts as living alone, right? Straight after university I moved across the country for my job. Now I really live alone. Which is awesome. 

But I miss having my mum and sisters around to clean up after me. Which is why I always milk the helplessness when I do go home. I’m so bad, I won’t eat at home unless either my mum or one of my sisters make me something to eat AND bring it to me. True story. I know, I’m awful. 

But I digress. 

I love the single life. 

Like I said, people can easily annoy me. Boyfriends are even more annoying. I don’t like having that burden. You always have to explain yourself. And you have to work had at being a better person and boyfriend. So annoying. I don’t like putting that much effort into getting laid. 

 Which is why I haven’t had lots of relationships. Only two, to be honest. And the first one I kept secret from my friends, especially my only gay friend, who likes to blab. 

This is not to say that I close myself off to relationships. I am open to it, I just won’t go out looking for one. If it happens, great (as long as it doesn’t last too long) and if it doesn’t, better still. 

Independance is the key to my happiness. I’ve always believed relationships steal that from you. 

In July my parents will celebrate their 25th anniversary. I’ve watched them over the years. They’ve had their (extremely) bad times and now they’ve moved onto their good times. That’s great for them. 

But I remember the bad. I never want that. 

And seeing my three siblings going from one unfulfilling relationship to the next doesn’t give me much hope for love. Also, I come from a very whorish family (and I’m actually talking about the men now – on my mother’s side). 

I’m not a whore. I’m also not into romance or love or sickly sweet expressions of devotion. 

I’m alone, though - as a friend correctly noted in a feature she had to write about me for one of our journalism classes last year - I’m not lonely. 

Me ego is too big for me to ever be lonely.