So. You took a chance and texted your crush/old friend/estranged pet platypus that's also a spy/classmate and have yet to hear back. Now you sit in the darkness with your sobbing icecream pondering what you possibly could have done wrong. We all know the feelz, and we are here to help.



1. You expect him/her to entertain you
You know the one. He/she texts "hi" or "hello" and expects the onus of turning their boredom into an actual conversation to be upon you. Maybe it's just me (it's not & stop lying) but texts like these put me on full Love and Hip Hop mode: I'm in front of the camera and I need to earn my keep by being turnt up, in this case, witty, intellectual and hilarious.

Witty, intellectual and hilarious. rebloggy


Yes, we understand that sometimes you just miss someone and want to talk to them, even though you don’t particularly have anything to say, but gosh darn it, there is a limit.
Say, you were in a random fight and you want to text & see if your crush is over it. A “hey” is acceptable because with most people, reactions can range from a 7 page text detailing all the ways in which you can jump off a bridge with Google Maps links to the ones nearest you, to the more gracious “CHOKE ON A WEAVE, TURTLE-FACE!!!”. Mark my sage words, ladies and gents, this the only time you are allowed to send someone a "hey". Otherwise:


Solution
-Stop being boring. 
-Send "I'm bored, entertain me". We're all adults here. I'm your humour clande. Let's keep it real.

2. You're a creeper
Hello, Charles! Yes, our watchmen still have a picture of you.



3. You're a downer
This one is pretty straight forward. You know that one friend that's always itching to rain on your parade? Your excited "Hey I got a new job!" is met with "yeah but that company poisons rivers and you're just an intern, calm down".  You know the one (or are the one). The friend who minimizes your accomplishments or invalidates your joy by poking holes in whatever it is you're buzzed about, a process scientifically known as "Stealing your Happy".
The world is occasionally an unfair zone, bro, and some people see others as lesser than them. Regrettably, this is often the case where you know the friend is so ride or die, they'll still be there tomorrow morning even after you spend tonight drifting through their mentions on your Twitter Subaru. This generally means you handle the 'subhuman' with enough condescension to shrink Kate Upton's boobs right down.

Pic for fashun purposes. stylebistro

This dynamic generally manifests as folks thinking they have the right to take a flame thrower to others' joys and/or treat them anywhich kind of way, while expecting no consequences. You (in this case, said douchebag) will meet their protests of unfair treatment with the timeless "you're being too sensitive" claim and henceforth treat them like an emotional powder keg FOR BEING HONEST, which in turn makes them feel bad about themselves until they either end your ish with a chainsaw or delete your number and stop responding to your texts. Ta da!

Solution
Check yo'self. Some of us (yes, US) can make cutting and awful statements without realizing it, with no malice intended; we're just terrible people. 
-Pause in your typing of "Your Mum's chest hair!" 
-Think about your life
-Ask yourself, "will this text reveal that I am the secret love child of Cthulu and Donald Trump on the inside?"
-Reply with a Powerpuff Girls quote


 4. Your crush is madly in love with you and is afraid of the intensity of their feelings
Lol, no

Sorry. buzzfeed


5. Passive Aggression
Do we all want to be mature, socially responsible adults that own/understand the concept of Mason Jars? Sure. Are we?



Sometimes the person you wish to speak to has vanished for reasons that can be described, not inaccurately, as childish. Depending on their level of self awareness, they may concede that they are indeed throwing a tantrum, all while ignoring you for the imagined slight I assure you has been magnified in their heads to "That BASTARD bought me chocolate, he's calling me a darkskin" and other logical conclusions. For those not aware that they are being passive aggressive, well, we must say a prayer. By the grace of "Thank.you*eyeroll*" go they, and it's ok.


There's really not much of a solution that can be offered here, since you are at the mercies of forces you don't yet understand. Resolving the issue depends on exactly which type of emotionally unstable banshee-person you're dealing with:

Solution
-Shower said person with attention. Some kids throw tantrums to get you to look at them and reassure them that you're still interested. Therefore, text every hour on the hour and send pictures of yourself in their clothes that you stole from their washing lines because LOVE.

or

-Give them their space. Some of us throw our silent tantrums because we need time away from you to not be mad at you for the reasons we literally invented two seconds ago. Chill.



 6. You've outgrown each other
A sad reality. Your friend/crush/estranged clone is just not the same person they were 5 years ago when you met in the furry chatroom and neither are you. For some people, not responding to your texts is the easy, French exit type way out, as opposed to...more obvious methods.



Solution
Sorry kiddo, they're gone. Delete their number (you KNOW you're going to text that 'inside joke' to them at 3am eventually, spare both of you the awkwardness.) and try to move on. Internet hugs to you, internet hugs. 

There you have it ladies and lads, your WhatsApp chat is woefully lopsided because of one (or more) of the above reasons, BUT now you know how to fix it. Go ye forth and blow up your phone batteries by constant texting - this post is totally not sponsored by the company you'll buy your replacement phone from, promise. Until next time.



Long ago in a distant land, I, Evey, the shape-shifting master of evil was actively on Facebook, posting witty updates that took hours to craft and wolfing a tube of Smarties every time I got a "like". As the title suggests, this was circa 2008-2010, at which point I got massively bored and quit. (My current account doesn't count because it is exclusively used for buying jewellery online).

Yaaaaaass 31.media

During my tenure on Facebook, I fell into what was once the national pastime...and made the super bright decision of writing about it. Therefore, ladies and gents, today's post is brought to you by 2010 Evey, a more cheerful sprite prone to run on sentences, being judgmental and diagnosing random people as serial killers. Enjoy.
**********

Confessions of a Facebook Lurker

You may never admit it to anyone in this lifetime, and you may not immediately realise you've been doing it but 9 out of 10 people have contracted a serious case of the Facebook Lurkies. The other person is not on Facebook and rides a fixed gear bicycle to poetry slams. Fear not, good people, I am here to say what you cannot, and fearlessly name the people whose profiles you've memorized by now. Hark!

-The one guy from middle school that everyone wanted. Turns out he did NOT age well and at the ripe old age of 20-something looks....well, lets just say you wouldn't be all over him if he was covered in chocolate and bacon strips.

-The “One That Got Away”. The one guy you obsessed over for weeks, maybe (shamefully) months, but never had the cojones to actually make a move on. You will scroll through their timeline and see what a self-absorbed and ultimately dull douche they were and wonder if they'd put a hex on you when you were scratching Mrs Person on your laptop with a Swiss army knife. No? Just me? Alrighty then.

-The girl who is everything you would be in a perfect world. You know her: stunning, charismatic beauty with the heart of gold and penchant for philanthropy . She has the most incredible collection of literature anyone could hope to amass (assemble?) and does fabulous things like go to Dubai on vacation and drive out of town to this authentic cuisine restaurant on a whim. You can't hate her, but you can't like her either and this limbo keeps you refreshing her Facebook page (and insanely popular blog, what gives?) over and over again.

-The dorky girl who used to want to be you in middle school. Looking for solace after the confidence-shattering blow of Ms OMGs page, you click over to that slightly annoying, super socially awkward girls page from high/mid school. Lo and behold, how the tables have turned. She goes to med school now, has worked in an international internship program, spends her weekends at Fashion Week Paris/Milan/Narnia....and is now friends with that hipster guy from university that you worked so hard to convince that you were cool and edgy enough to hang out with.

-The edgy hipster intellectual guy from university who you need as a best friend. He's into studying foreign religions and poetry and has already watched your favourite anime twice. His essays have been featured in your favourite literature site, he has a band, believes in laziness and is crazy smart: so smart that you never bring up your opinions on things because you know holes will be shot through them, leaving you pretending it was totally a joke, because duh, you're totally not one of the sheeple, omg.

-The unflushable who keeps stalking you on Facebook, convinced that you're soulmates. You've told him over and over that you're not interested but you do get a slight kick from knowing he keeps forcing issues, 'cause, I mean, he is kinda cute. In a moment of weakness, you consider him a viable paramour (if all those other girls are into him, he's gotta have something going for him, right?) and surf his page to get to know him better. About two minutes in, you realise he TYPES IN CAPSLOCK and probably wants to skin you and make a new doll for his collection. ...you don't block him though, just in case.

Since you and I both know that a specific name jumped into your head at each entry, I shall quietly exit stage left and allow you to reach for your long-ignored Facebook account to find each person again, y'know, just 'cause it's been a while. Safe space here, no one's judging.

Well, maybe a little. 31.media

Bisou bisou, bitches.

The workday is over. Her boss stands to leave, placing a hand on her shoulder as goodbyes were exchanged. She hopes no one notices her cringe and try to shrink away.
She could leave, but she chooses not to. Rush hour traffic comes in pedestrian flavour as well. Masses of worker bees squeezed into narrow sidewalks and walkways; crashing into each other as divergent streams of people merged....she'd pass. It never hurts to be ahead with your work.

Two hours later and she has her bag packed, warrior mask ready. She’d make an effort to look sour; less people would cross her path that way. Less people would invade her space. A smiling face is an invitation, it seems, and she intends no such nicety.

The guard at the gate gestures to the bag slung over her shoulder. It seems the sticky fingers have gotten creative, finding ways to smuggle out entire keyboards in child-sized bags. The thought amuses her, distracting her until she is brought back by the foreign hand at her shoulder, reaching to palm her bag. A rapid adjustment of stance, an extension of an arm that now held the bag at a comfortable distance, and her personal space is hers again.
Dancing just out of reach of the mandatory pseudo-frisking, she is free, facing the journey ahead.

Dusk rushes in to claim the city, as what remains of the worker bees trudges along. How many people could there possibly be in Nairobi?

She swerves to avoid the man with the bicycle as he whizzes past her in a cloud of sweat and a dark mist from his bag of charcoal, quickly sidestepping the child rushing after him. The couple coming up ahead continues to hold hands as she approaches, releasing each other at the last second. Both brush by her as they separate and reunite behind her. She clutches her bag closer, raises her arms higher, her shield against the Invaders.
She sees an idea there; a superhero tale about Personal Space Invasion. The hero would swoop in and hand the victims security bubbles, and everyone would live happily ever after. She would.
A faint chuckle is ripped from her lips by the wind, as she rounds the corner into Uhuru Park. The path narrows and she grows uncomfortable: she knows the city is on hand.
Ah, the city: fair Nairobi. Head down, she makes her way through the crowds.
The teenager with a massive handbag that bumps into her, weaving in and out of her path, preoccupied with her phone.
The street-smart children still in their uniforms who brush past her, headed for an afterschool treat.
The street vendor who reaches for her hand as she walks by, goods precariously displayed on the sidewalk.
The overeager conductor who chaperones her to his vehicle, hands on her shoulders.
The woman in the matatu, insisting on joining her in her seat for the journey; she’s small, she doesn’t need the space.
The smirking older man refusing to move, she is left to push past him as she alights.

Finally, her destination is in sight. Her heart races as she closes the distance between her and the gate. A moment of hesitation as her thumb touches the doorbell. Her hand finds the cool plastic of the DVD case in her bag as the gate swings open.

He smiles and she is sure she feels her heart stop. A casual greeting, questions about her internship, universally accepted “small talk”. She feels his gaze on her as she responds; feels his eyes on her face, feels them travel down to her bag. He compliments the custom print bag, she asks after his family, school, barely listening.
Finally, to the matter at hand. She hands over the DVD, his fingers brush hers. Her face lights up with a telling blush and she is thankful for the relative darkness, perhaps he didn’t see. Leaning against the gate, he begins to discuss plot points of the movie.
She nods absently: the movie was science fiction, a genre she had no interest in. She’d only borrowed it for the chance to speak to him, be in his presence, drink in his features, as she was now. The perfectly sculpted brow, the eyes that lit up with every mention of his favourite character, the lips that curved into a greater smile with each sentence: it is all almost too much.
A shy smile as she mutters a thank you. A knowing glance as he says she's welcome. He shifts position, intending to leave and her breath catches in her throat, hoping for a hug goodbye. A playful salute and he is gone. “Sawa, chekiane,”. Alright, see you later. She hopes it was a promise.

She cradles her fingers as she walks away and a slow smile spreads across her face.

Fin
*************
A  long while ago, in a more innocent time - when food was cheaper and gentlemen held doors open (May 2013), I wrote a thing for the Story Moja monthly photo drama contest and came in second. The story was originally published here and you totally just read it. Welcome to 2014, folks!

PS: Do I win Most Theatrical for this image or what?

via catholiclane


Greetings, fair citizens, 'tis I, your Literary Khaleesi. Who, incidentally has not actually read any part of that series and has probably watched three episodes of the TV version. Aim high, folks. 

I recently had a...friendly discussion with a person that commended my reading habit, claimed they would love to read more as they have so much free time, then spun around and said they can't because finding books is like soooooo hard you guys, omgeeeee. Mhmm. 

Since probably 95% of all posts on this blog are thinly veiled/passive aggressive shout outs, I shall now attempt to make the world a better place by sharing my most frequently used sources of books and hope the convenience of at least one of them will inspire someone to give reading a shot. And rub "I can't find books" guy's nose in it. Always to rub someone's nose it. Hark!


1. Exchange


As far as getting a lot of great books on the cheap, exchange is definitely (still can't spell that right on the first try. Thanks OBAMA.)  my go to option. While there are obviously lots of book exchange places scattered across our great city, broke days usually find me at a particular nook named JBL novels, a little bit after Archives - where the Town Mr Price is to the yolo generation. 

At my last foray into this tiny literary Eden, I swapped these two:


"Run for Your Life" by James Patterson & Michael Ledwidge
"Judge & Jury" by James Patterson & Andrew Gross

for these two.

"The Jester" by James Patterson & Andrew Gross
"The Beach House" by James Patterson & Peter De Jonge

Basically, if you have a book and want to swap it, walk in, find a book you like and trade. I've gone through practically the entire Patterson and Ludlum series this way, at KES.80.00 per book exchanged. The lady that runs the place, Patricia, is lovely by the way, super helpful if you need to find a certain book or just need a suggestion based on previous trades.

Alternatively, you can purchase a book from there at, it should be KES.400, then exchange it when you're done ad infinitum. For those interested in books with Fabio on the cover, it should be about KES.40 to trade the skinny books, KES.80 for a bigger dose of roguishly handsome pirate Carlos Raul sweeping the innocent chambermaid off her feet with...a magic horse...or his hair powers. Actually, someone make that book happen, stat.




2. Street Purchase

In my second show of support for Team I-Spend-All-My-Money-Making-Cadbury-and-Smirnoff-Wealthier, I'd like to shout out to the books guy set up near Koja who's been supplying my books for close to two years now without knowing my name or telling me his because that's how real G's do it. #SwansonApproved

You can't throw a nuclear missile in the CBD without hitting a dude displaying books for sale. Prices vary depending on the quality of books/location/whether the vendor likes your hair. The aforementioned Ninja at Koja has books that are literally new, with the Coelho's I usually get going for KES.350-400.

For my December list, I got this:

"The Fifth Mountain" by Paulo Coelho


This joins my Coelho shrine collection, shown below. Because we all need hobbies and leaving the house is overrated.

"The Alchemist", "The Zahir", "Brida", "The Pilgrimage", "The Valkyries"
"The Winner Stands Alone", "Aleph", "The Witch of Portobello"
All by Paulo Coelho


3. The Interwebs

E-books exist. You can get a lot of them for free on the internet, which may or may not be illegal, I don't know. To be safe: OHASZ advocates purchase of all books and music for download, do not arrest me, prison would be really bad for my skin.

My December reading list contains these two books, which, yes, PDF form, COMPUTERS ARE HARD. Also I'd have to download an e-reader and my phone already has one for pdf, so, y'know, time management. 

"Norwegian Wood" & "The Elephant Vanishes"
both by Haruki Murakami

I've heard and read a lot about Haruki Murakami so I figured I'd give it a shot in the interest of diversifying my literary diet, getting familiar with contemporary authors, and the most satisfying reason of all: smugly going "you haven't read Murakami? *disdainful look*" as I slowly back away from the Philistine, because DUH, Norwegian Wood is only the best exploration of complex themes EVER, obviously.

4. Bookshop Purchases: Sketchy Areas edition
There's a lot to be said about the seedier sides of our great city. Most of it is "Mwizi! Bag yangu! Shika huyo" and/or "Pretty sure that entire building over there is a brothel". For those of you with crippling allergies to being run over by Murang'a buses, fear not, we shan't cross beyond River Road.

Directly behind Odeon is a bunch of bookshops selling text books and revision papers; there's a cluster of them all along the street you get to beyond Posta, which is pretty safe, unless you're counting catcalls from lounging jav drivers.

'tis here that I went in search of Meja Mwangi's "Striving for the Wind" which I read in high school and adored. Sadly, nary a copy was to be found, but a kindly gentleman offered me this in its stead:

"Going Down River Road" by Meja Mwangi


This brand new copy left a KES.480 dent in my wallet, which normally would have been met wit a Yao Ming face and immediate exit from the place, but what can I say, it's about time I got into African writers. Speaking of which...

 5. Bookshop Purchases: Makin' it rain Edition

 Movin' on up, folks! This right here took me KES.1,200 away from my retirement, but this book will be part of my personal library for years to come, so *shrugs* whatevs. I got this from the Prestige Bookshop near 20th Century/IMAX/whatever you kids are calling it these days.

"Facing Mt. Kenya" by Jomo Kenyatta

Yup, I went there. As a history buff convinced I would have been an African princess/priestess/goddess worshiped by all mortals had I lived in the 1800s, I had to have it.
Which reminds me that I visited the Murumbi Collection in like October and have been meaning to write about it since then. What is this procrastination you speak of?

via buzzfeed

Speaking of new purchases, *expert segue executed* once upon a time, naive, high school Evey purchased a brand new copy of selected Edgar Allan Poe tales. Quickly devouring it and singing its praises to all who would listen, she received a request to borrow it from her roommate. Her roommate who returned the brand spanking new book in the following condition. 


Selected Tales written by Edgar Allan Poe *heavy sobbing*

Yup, that, folks is freaking mildew. I don't even.... I can't. Years and years later and I still get PTSD flashbacks when people start their sentences with "You remember that book I saw you with...".

My point here is, since Kenyan law frowns upon the use of katanas and light dismemberment for destroyed books, friends don't let friends lend their books to irresponsible douchebuckets. Be careful with your paper babies, and be more careful with others' paper babies. Let's all just be nice, ok?

Here's hoping you now have no excuse to not read over your December down time, onward to a more literary-minded Kenya. Excelsior! ...or get a Kindle.

Evey G, over and out.

via buzzfeed

*PS: You there, we see you. Tell us where you get your books. We have cookies. 
-Haji
If you're like me, you are partial to slowly rotting out your brain in the most enjoyable fashion yet: reality TV. You also enjoy eating batteries. Everyone does it and it's perfectly natural. However, isn't it just horrifying when you're watching your guilty-pleasure Reality show of choice, cheerfully judging the terrible people participating...then realise you can relate? Yea, totes the wost. In the interest of making lemon-flavoured napalm out of the terrible, terrible lemons I've just been handed, I present to you this post: the five most important lessons I've learnt in the course of my Sunday afternoon forays into the world of reality TV. Observe.

Surprise! No seriously, keep reading. thechroniclesofefrem

.

1. If you're "Just Trying to Help", don't be a dick about it.

In this case, I'm referring to the dynamic between Kim Richards and her sister Kyle Richards-Umanksy of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
If you do watch, you've seen the sisters struggle to rebuild their relationship, often ending in civil exchanges with enough icy undertones to give you frostbite at home. Granted, Kyle is kind of terrible and Kim is kind of waaaay damaged, but in a startling moment of clarity, I understand their deal.

 Sisterly bonding activities. stoopidhousewives

Kim has had struggles with substance abuse and horrifying choices in spouses practically her entire life, which is incredibly unfortunate and I feel for her, I really do. Her younger sister Kyle, who was for the most part the second banana, now has a tight family unit, a husband who loves her (in spite of being a terrible person himself, or is it because?), and an overall kind of great life. Because she's "got her life figured out", Kyle often tries to guide Kim on straightening out her own existence, by way of advice and interventions and such, which on paper sounds great. The final expression, however? Condescension.

To put it in context, say, you were undergoing some romantic struggles that your friend is aware of. Please note that you have NOT asked for their advice, you're merely talking abut what's been going on in your life, just sharing. "That" friend then proceeds to point out how it's your fault the girl you like only dates people with blue hair and basically implies that you know nothing on the matter, hence you should hush and let them tell you how it's done, since they've done it this way and it's worked. What's that? Your opinion? IRRELEVANT. Shut. Up. And. Listen. I know better.

I know better! leftphalange.tumblr.

Yup, that, friends is how "trying to help" goes left in a hurry and ends in festering resentment that slowly dissolves the fabric of your friendship and ends with a closed-casket funeral for one of you, and a platinum lifetime membership to one of our fine correctional institutions for the other.

My point? Giving advice is a collaborative effort: you suggest your solution, seek my opinion on it and respect my choice if I decide it wouldn't work for me. HOW HARD CAN THAT BE, PEOPLE?

 Surely easier than this. community.babycenter

2. Omerta

Stop snitchin'.

No further questions. spacecadet.tumblr


 3. Get your Hustle right

For this lesson, I invite you to join me on the set of Love and Hip Hop New York. Y'know, the one that had us wondering what people saw in Jim Jones and now has us looking for therapists for Joe Budden? Yea. Not the Atlanta one, although that has its own unique lessons.

Lesson One: Sippin' on that sizzurp, like a lady. love-n-hiphop.tumblr

Our instructor on this is one Miss Yandy Smith, currently engaged to an alleged heroin trafficking, ex and possible future con (#FreeMendeeceesHarris), all of which is to be ignored for the sake of getting this vital teaching down: ladies, Get. On. Your. Grind.

Stand down, Team Mafisi. love-n-hiphop.tumblr

I find there is never really an excuse for being complacent with the concept of asking Daddy or your boyfriend for money, in my sanctimonious opinion. Where conventional employment is not an option, the onus is upon you to find your inner Miss Independent and get paid.

At this, Yandy is an absolute guru. From talent management, to a lifestyle brand, to contributing author for a huge to a jewellery line, Yandy Smith has her hand in a little bit of everything and it pays off big time: her house is fully paid for people!

 Get yours. iddavanmunster

I could sit here and wax poetic about the importance of finding a mentor in your lane as illustrated by Yandy and the value of having a cheery personality, but the next point urgently needs saying. Ready?

4. If you're going to go flying off a table to smack a bitch, look fabulous doing it.

 This also applies to throwing wine bottle WMDs and rearranging former best-friends faces with your fabulous clutch purse during birthday dinners.


5. Keep Your Words Sweet, You May have to eat them.

As I learned from this fine lady, there are 265 days in a year and I spend all of them being thankful for Mrs Porsha Stewart. Well, soon to be ex Mrs Stewart.
Aside from being one of the most quotable characters  on the Real Housewives of Atlanta, Porsha starts off the show being the girl with the civil rights background, a loving husband and never having worked a day in her life.

  Yes Ma'am. realitytvgifs.tumblr

Enter one of the most entertainingly unbalanced characters on TV yet, Kenya Moore. Granted, Kenya gets her cheques and is to be applauded for that, but her personal life is just...I mean, good heavens. Porsha is the first of the ladies to put on her Regina George stilettos and tear Kenya asunder, focusing on her...advanced age and state of unmarriedness. Also, the fact that she's kind of crazy.

No caption necessary. thisisnewstome

Catty, right? Since karma is a thing, we slowly see cracks in Porsha's relationship (mainly that she's married to a talking thumb. I can say that, because Kordell is a jerk.) that culminate in a messy divorce that is playing out in the tabloids as we speak.
Yikes. My point? Porsha's "pichur purfek life" imploded in the most horrid way possible, leaving her to deal with the very issue she stigmatized Kenya for the entire season: being painfully single. Lesson? Unless you're an icecream-powered psychic, it is unwise to rib on other people, worst of all about a situation in life that's both beyond their control and veeery easy for you to slide into yourself. Be cool, man.

 Yes, boo, YOU. whatisthisbushweek.tumblr

Got that, everyone? Good, goooooood. I hope we've all learned valuable lessons from these brave, terrible people who entertain us every week/whenever we get the complete season DVD.
And now, since I'm sure you could name all of the characters presenting our life lessons, I present you with your Reality TV Diploma:

The interpretive dance version. whatisthisbushweek.tumblr

Stay fabulous everyone, and have a rocking July. OR ELSE.



Ah, the restless march of technology. I wanted to start off this post with a quote about how invasive "personal" technology is, like any good curmudgeon, but it's the end of the day and I'm much too lazy to Google one right now: to be delivered on Twitter tomorrow. Maybe.

Original image: imgur

Are you having a good week? I certainly am. With these cold Nairobi months just now kicking in, I'm discovering my Whitewalker heritage and enjoying my light cardigans in the face of the heavy trench coats favoured by my fellow Kenyans. Yes, darlings, I am....immune to cold. Okay, not really, y'all need to stop judging bloggers on the street wearing 4-6 layers of clothing. Surface area to volume ratio, people!

On to my agenda for the day: I'm a person who generally spends a lot of time in my own head and let me tell you, that is a scary place. The lizard overlords make us eat spinach! When I'm not actively ignoring my fellow man with my patented Unintentional BitchFace, or subtly reminding people that I'm better than them because I read complex books in public places, I'm immersed in the internet via phone
Anyone that has met me will probably not be able to tell you what the rectangular area smack in the middle of my face looks like. Like, seriously, I would dare them to describe my nose.


This is me. ...the pic is from like, last year.

As a result, I pay less than zero attention to my surroundings. I mean, sure, I've always got a fairly accurate picture of everyone and everything around me because I killed a spider once and I know his family wants revenge, so I notice "threats" faster than most people but unconsciously block out everything else. 
I didn't even know there were birds in my neighbourhood 'til I heard them this weekend. Having just read the Alchemist and experiencing a moment of unusual peace and clarity in what may have been a hallucination caused by overeating at Swahili Plate, it dawned on me: distractions. Specifically, of the mobile device variety.

It should pain me to say this at the ripe old age of below 30 but we need to unplug. Well, I do. You don't realise how much chaos you actually carry around in your head until you put that infernal device away (yes, that mans you too, reading this from your Galaxy Tab) and put your feet up for the day. Not even watching TV, mind you, the news these days...oy vey.

As I reclined in my onesie grown people PJ's recently, feverishly responding to texts and starting group chats about how Maziwa ya Nyayo needs to resume, but include adults & replace milk with pizza (and make free home deliveries), my Distractions Theory became even more specialized: I am an obsessive WhatsApp user.

It sounds like the most first world of problems, but I assure you it is a serious condition. I cannot count the number of times I've sat down to watch a series then ended up texting the first funny line, setting off a chain reaction of quote-swapping that culminates in a dazed me three hours later unable to tell you a single thing that happened on the show.

 Except this one. I can tell you about this one. popcultureplaypen

The minute something interferes with my ability to enjoy music (I cannot emphasize enough the benefits of LOUDLY singing along with Mohombi in a locked room. Dancing optional, but encouraged), it is officially a situation that needs urgent intervention.

As I write this, my phone is charging in another room. Yes, my entire plan for this is to put the phone at a slightly inconvenient length away then count on my laziness to deter me from getting up to retrieve the thing. Viva sloth power!

Now, I concede that some functions of the phone cannot be completely ignored, for instance, responding to texts from my Mum within exactly 7 minutes. While the Officers were very sweet about the "kidnapping" alert last time, I'm pretty sure I'll be put on a watch-list if it happens again. I can't be on a watch-list; they check those before they let you adopt cats.

 Mine. warwick.ac.uk

My point here is, aside from only the most urgent of communications from those that share the blood of my ancestors (not the Whitewalker side), I am off the grid. To this end, I've set myself a personal challenge: to fast from my greatest mobile vice, WhatsApp. This idea came to me in the dead of the night....at around 10:00pm while I watched Drawn Together in pajamas. Not everyone has friends, ok??
I could have easily said "stop phone surfing" but I know I've drastically cut down on that already and that would be cheating. Also, you probably shouldn't make bets with me.

I had previously uninstalled my WhatsApp in a bid to commit, but c'mon, watching well-intentioned group chats devolve into "I made that joke first" fights is kinda what Wednesdays are all about. Also, removing yourself from temptation in this case means you haven't conquered it, you just ran.
Hence, I have issued myself a challenge:

From today, until...Friday, I shall not WhatsApp unless it is an actual emergency. ....ok, I can look at messages, I just can't respond to them. Baby steps, right? Fine, compromise: since I will obviously be notified of WhatsApp messages when I switch on my wifi or data usage for innocent reasons, I am allowed to glance at the notification, but NOT the messages themselves. That way, I'll know I have 13 messages form 5 different conversations but not know which ones.  ....I just got withdrawal symptoms typing that.


Sure, it is super urgent that I forward that one gif of a lion cub hugging a panda (it happened!), but you know what else is important? The promise I made myself to write for my archives everyday, even if it was just a paragraph completely unrelated to what was previously written. Yes, I very urgently need to fan that flame war on the Twitter timeline, BUT I also didn't realise how badly I need to bond with my trusty old laptop and listen to Mariah Carey inform her lover that she Still Believed they would someday find themselves in love again.


I'm a writer so I shall sit and open a blank Open Office Word Processor (subtle Ubuntu propaganda is subtle) document, and simply allow my thoughts to run wild. Sure, I will occasionally get the literary masterpiece that is "Captain Lactaid and the Cheese Invaders" but the point here is that I will find peace. If you're a singer, crank up the tunes and bless us with your voice, as I bless the neigbours with mine: so much so that they bang on the walls to provide musical accompaniment.

I have made a commitment, ladies and gents. I will probably live-tweet what I can imagine the messages to be, and I just KNOW this is the week someone offers me a lifetime supply of Wine Gums if I respond within 6 minutes, but I shall persevere. So far so good, no messages read since probably Monday 7pm. ...10:00pm. Ok fine, today morning, WHATEVER my finger slipped. I should probably check the last message I sent to be sure and not mislead my loving audience, but I won't. Strong Evey. Until next time, darlings!



Bon apres midi mes amis! Full disclosure: I had no intention of doing a post today, BUT an impromptu shopping trip on Saturday has me all riled up to be stylish. ...well, to write about being stylish anyway *adjusts jeans and T-shirt*.

Now, I have made several proclamations about putting together outfits on this blog, and I AM still in the process of acquiring the pieces necessary to construct them, so allow me to add this to my pile:


Ladies and Gents, introducing my spirit animal, Monkey D Luffy. Yes, you knew this was going to go the anime way, but hear me out. Seriously, guys? Seriously? Luffy is FABULOUS.

Just got real. via lionheart24movieanime

This is Luffy in Gear Second, also known as "Bend Over and Kiss your Bum Goodbye because it is OVAH" mode. Now, I won't even front, One Piece is so beautifully written that certain bloggers may end up in tears at some of the story or character arcs. Not me, of course, other bloggers. Others.

What makes my day is how the character outfits correlate so completely believably to their personalities. Take our dear friend Luffy. Luffy is probably the single most happy go lucky individual ever to grace your screen, which is clearly visible in his style choices, or lack of them. 




Standard Luffy uniform is generally sandals (totes relate), jeans shorts, his red vest and of course, THE HAT. Mad simple right? For further purposes of style inspiration, and in kicking off the #WhatWouldLuffyWear movement, I have cataloged my favourite Luffy style moments below:


7. Afro Luffy

Because everyone knows Afros give you super powers. Try it and thank me later.


6. After Timeskip Luffy

The importance of accessorizing cannot be overlooked, even when kicking serious butt.
5. Girl Luffy
via cosplaycostumes.co

Technically not a Luffy outfit but how cute is that for December at the Coast! Or a sunny summer day to go feed bacon to bald eagles in the park? Insert your cultural reference for sunny frolicking here.

4. Sun-smart Luffy


Sun damage is real people! Use that sunscreen!

3. Practical Luffy



Here Luffy dons chic black cargo shorts, proving once and for all that they will never go out of style. His reason? He needed the pockets to carry more meat. For real. *sheds single tear* Teach me, Master.

 2. Freeze and Shine Luffy

via  comicvine submitted by flashdamn

Ladies, take note. As long as you're wearing a jacket in the frozen Kenyan winter of July, it is perfectly acceptable to wear shorts/short skirts. Hypothermia? Made up by doctors who are jealous of your swag.

1. Sir Luffy

ridiculously amazing image by xxraccaxxdavidxx on deviantart

This. Just....this. This ensemble is my everything. If you've watched the One Piece movie Strong World, you too were instantly struck blind by the waves of Awesome wafting out of your screen when the Mugiwara Pirates stepped onto the scene to stare down Shiki. I mean, good God, man, Luffy is in a TIE!
With this image comes the only style lesson you will ever need: if you can make sandals and a straw hat work with otherwise formal attire and a GUN? You can wear anything and look fabulous.
There. We can close fashion now, it's over.

Wishing you nothing but fabulousity and good cheer, au revoir.

 I know you can hear the laugh in your head. sophiebridgers