If I Were A Girl

Let’s face it; you’re a lot less likely to hear a song with that title. I guess a lot of guy musicians don’t care that much about being girls. Not even for a day.

Yet every other female “songstress” wants to either ‘Act like a boy’ or they spend a good five minutes or so screaming at the top of their voices about what they would get up to if they were a boy.

This kinda worries me. Why do these women not want to just be women and get on with their lives? Is being a woman/girl/female such a bad thing? Why do they have to be boys to be able to do all these things they sing about in their songs? Why not just do it? Does this mean that men/boys get away with a lot more stuff because they are male? Ok, don’t answer the last one.

What bothers me is that they make it seem like they can’t do certain things because they are women/girls. Why is that? To me that means that they want to do these things, just that they can’t because they are girls. Either that or they spend sleepless nights thinking up ways of getting back at their misbehaving boyfriends. And after thinking of all these many different ways of doing that, they end their thoughts with... “If only I was a boy”.

Yeah like that makes any sense.

First off, if you were a boy, the guy wouldn’t be with you anyways. So you had to be a girl for him to do whatever it is he’s doing. Deal with it, you’re a girl. That’s what girls do. They deal with things like only girls can.
You won’t believe the kind of crap girls can get through that you (as a guy) wouldn’t even begin to bear. Yet guys continue to treat girls the same way. It’s almost as it that’s the way God intended it. Guys will give girls crap, and they’d just deal with it and get over it. Not an ideal setup, but that’s what happens the world over.

For some reason, we treat our women like crap for no particular reason. I guess it’s because we convince ourselves that we’re all wired up that way. But that’s not the way it should be. Nobody said that’s the way it must be.

Not too sure where I’m going with all this. I’m not writing this on behalf of all the men who treat women like crap and trying to tap into their (sub-)conscience, but imagine for a moment if you were a girl. How would you feel if she did to you the same things you do her?

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Age Restricted

We live in a very interesting country.

A country where your age is pretty much a determining factor with regard to the law and all that’s related to it. You’re allowed to do certain things at certain ages that don’t necessarily make a lot of sense once you sit down and think about them.

The main thing that I want you to think about here is sex. Not that you already don’t think about it enough. I just want you to think about it in a legal context.

In South Africa, it is considered illegal to have any sexual intercourse (consensual or not) with anyone under the age of 16; which is all good and well considering the times we’re living under.

I’m all for that. Let’s maintain that. Long live the constitution. Yet the very same legal system that prohibits underage sex, it also says that you can have an abortion at age 12. How does that work? You’re not allowed to have sex before 16, but you can abort a life at 12? How? So in case you end up sleeping with someone (i.e. someone old enough to impregnate you) before you’re allowed to; you are more than welcome to terminate that pregnancy because your body is apparently not ready to bear a child.

What do you know about sex at that age? I mean really. How do you even know about sex when the law says you may not be exposed to any form of sexually explicit material [read: porn] before the age of 18?

I guess it if weren’t for these restrictions, we would be a lot more liberal than we already are.

I love this country.

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Hobbilessness

It's no joke.

It's actually pretty sad how so many black people go around their day-to-day lives without hobbies.

I was watching Miss SA on Monday, and noticed how all the black people (all but one) didn't really have any hobbies as they were shown strutting their stuff catwalk style. One of them actually listed 'singing in a choir' as her hobby. What kinda hobby is that? Singing in a choir? Might as well list singing in the shower as part of her un-ending list of things to do on a lazy weekend afternoon.

Why is it that all black people can call a hobby (men especially) is kicking a ball around, while our white counterparts have such an array of things from which to choose?

White people have a whole world of opportunities in terms of sporting and recreational activities.

I was watching skateboarding on Supersport yesterday and not even one of all those white people who kept flying high up in the air were of African descent. Why is that? And this seems to be an international situation. Have you ever heard of black people going on holiday anywhere else except the beach? I mean, nevermind the fact that 98% of black people can't swim to save their lives, or even be good enough in water to at least enjoy the waves, the salty water and sand they all flock to during summer.

I'm not too sure who's to blame for all this chaos. We can't keep blaming our past for the limited oportunities we were presented all the time. Who's to blame for your not being able to swim or play any other sport except one where you have to kick a ball.
It's most probably because black people indeed are historically disadvantaged. All these other sports/hobbies need some sort of equipment/device in order to be played properly. For soccer, all you really need is two legs (or two arms - for the ladies), and anything round. It could even be a whole lot of old plastic bags balled up together to make a ball and you're sorted.

Reasonable explanation.

This is not only about the men in our societies. Black women too are at a huge disadvantage. All they can list as their hobby is netball. Nothing else. (Well except the 'watching TV, listening to the radio, reading magazines' they mention at every chance.) Speaking of which... what kind of hobbies are those anyways? Watching TV, listening to the radio and reading magazines don't really count as hobbies in my book. Those are normal stuff that everyone who has those facilities available to them can do at any given time.
Seriously.

People (normal people, not you hobbyists) watch TV at least twice a day and for varying amounts of time.
You watch TV in the morning (the news or whatever) then again after work. Now ask yourself: is that a hobby?

Some people even go as far as listening to radio instead of watching TV (while driving or walking around of whatever). Does that make listening to radio a hobby?

While others prefer to read magazines. And I mean magazines, like Financial Mail or CEO os someting along those lines. Curling up on your bed reading Cosmo doesn't necessarily count as a hobby. Or does it?

If this continues, I think the black races is destined for extinction. All our 'hobbies' revolve around doing nothing. Being uninvolved seems to be our biggest and best hobby. Of course except chasing a ball all over the place.

But what happens when you're too old to play soccer? Or netball? And by old I mean your mid 30's. Coz for black people, that's when everything just stops. All of a sudden you're "too old" to be playing anything that might result in you sweating. It is at this point in your life where you start getting involved in those 3 hobbies listed above. It's really depressing.

Another thing black people consider a hobby is... you guessed it. Sex. Black people love sex. Even if they're not having it. Just the thought of the act itself seems to excite them. You wonder why we have such a large number of cousins, half-sisters/brothers and most of whom we don't even know about. That's why when black people meet they have to aks your full names. Surname and all. In case you're their family twice removed or something.

I refuse to have my kids grow up being exposed to only stereotypical black sports/hobbies. I didn't grow up like that, I wont expext them to be.

And plus, I need some proper hobbies myself. Reading a magazine while listeing to radio on TV just isn't gonna cut it.


:Paper!

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Scrutinize my ass!

So there’s this ad on TV. It’s some ad about protecting oneself (yes, I said ‘oneself’) from HIV and all that comes with it. Tag-line: "Scrutinize, turn HIV into HI-Victory". Crappy animation but great message.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all about an HIV-free generation, but this one really got me thinking. It seems the basic idea around this one is basically about looking out for your male friend in case they’re drunk enough to have sex with the loose-est girl in the club. You know the one who dances the most, drinks almost anything she can get her hands on, grins at almost every other guy who walks past her. Yes you know her.

Let’s be honest here. This is a very important message to all the guys out there who know a guy who does the whole targeting the drunkest girl in the area thing. This advert is talking to you. That’s right. You my friend. You.

As the voice-over lady clearly point out, “if your friend is too drunk to put it on, don’t put him in the game” or something along those lines. Which basically means, if you see that your friend is drunk too drunk to put a condom on. You should stop him. Somehow. Maybe advice him not to go after that girl. But whichever one you choose, just make sure his blood-alcohol level is low enough to allow him to put a condom on properly. I have no idea how any one is ever gonna verify your friend’s condom-wearing abilities under the influence, but this is a task that has been put firmly on your shoulders. You are the person who has to check that your friend can do the deed to do the deed. You know what I mean? So, let’s look at our options here... shall we...?

1. You could always do some stupid pop-quiz thing. You know, like, the basics of putting a condom on. Ask him that and see what he says. Maybe the traffic cops could also adopt this to find out if a person is too drunk to be with the female companion by his side. Anyways...
   

I guess that’s pretty much all you got. Otherwise there’s no other way of knowing if the dude is sober enough to even think about a condom. Still, even 100% teetotallers ignore using a condom sometimes, if not all the time. Even if the guy knows all the basics around condoms there’s still no way of guaranteeing that he’s gonna use it when he gets caught up in the moment of passion.

At the end of the day, using a condom is not really about being too drunk or sober enough to protect yourself. Using a condom each time you have sex is pretty much like everything else in the world. It’s all about choice. You can’t choose for the next person, all you can do is telling that person about the dangers of not using protection; the rest is really up to them. Nobody else. It’s between the two (or more) of them. You can’t make anyone do anything.

With the festive season upon us, obviously drinks will be had so please make sure your friends can put condoms on. If they’re too drunk, then lend them a hand. No, I’m joking. Don’t do that. That’s just off-putting.

Scrutinize, scrutinize. At least check if he’s got one on him. The rest is really out of your hands.

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Take it away black people!

Let’s face it. In line with whole brand consciousness that black people are famous for; the next most favourite thing black people love… is take-aways.

It doesn’t matter where or what they eat. Take-away is a must. KFC, Spur, Wimpy, anywhere they eat. They just gotta have… a “doggy bag”.

After spending only one week, of being exposed to only a handful of places from where I can eat, I’ve come to notice some very interesting things about how we as black people interact with our food. What we do and not do around meals, etc.

One thing that really struck me today was how out of a table seating six. Every one of them left with a plastic bag in hand. And this, after they all had gone to the bathroom together (well, nothing there… they’re women). But when I walked into the restaurant (Spur to be exact) there were six bags with take-aways all round the table. I actually didn’t think too much of it, but it did seem pretty odd. So I took a table within view of that table so I can see what was going on.
Few minutes later… they all came to their beloved plastic bags, smiles and all, and made their way out towards the door.
Now, they obviously didn’t take that food home so they can eat them at a later time, but to make sure everybody knows where they’d just had dinner. Spur. Not just any old food place. A place where you go for very special occasions, I gathered it was some sort of special occasion, coz one of the ladies had a wrapped gift-looking thing in her hand. To the people, this is the ultimate in splurging your accumulated riches. So obviously you want everybody to know you can afford to eat at Spur every now and then. Even if you get home late at night and all your nosy neighbours are asleep, but you know you gotta keep the plastic bag so you can put rubbish in it and place it outside on top of your half-empty rubbish bin to top it all off. Just to make sure they see it.

Ok, lemme give these God-fearing mortals the benefit of the doubt and say they were really and honestly just taking some food home (maybe for the children) to enjoy later. Ok? Cool.

But how do you explain all six people deciding to do the same thing all at once - ask for a doggy bag? Here’s what I think happened. I think one stopped eating. Probably the one who knows she might never get a chance to enjoy such luxuriously juicy ribs and chips. She’s most probable also the self-appointed leader of the pack. So she stopped eating, claiming she can’t finish her food because she’s had too much orange juice. Asked for a doggy bag so she can eat some more either later tonight, tomorrow or whenever really. So the impressionable “second in command” decided to do the same. Probably with a slightly altered excuse, but it worked. So the excuses kept rolling in one after the other. Maybe five minutes apart or something. But at the end of it all, each one had their own doggy bag being prepared by the waitron.

Still can’t really explain how they all ended up leaving the table empty for whatever destination.

Anyways, I don’t understand black people sometimes. Most of them do things for the next person, rarely for their sole satisfaction. I really don’t understand that.

teh PaperCut, signing out. I’m watching 300, excuse me a moment.

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I never told you

My life is ok.

I’m happy as hell.

I’m not sure how you are.

The last time I saw you, you were smiling, so that’s the image I carry with me always. Actually the very last time I ever saw you, you were all squashed up in the back seat of a taxi. I tried to get your attention. I thought of calling you but I knew it would be minutes before the phone rang on your side so I can tell you to look out the window to see me. We were in two different taxis going two different ends of the same town. You had always invited me to your place, but I always came up with some excuse. I guess I was just lazy to come to your side of the world. No idea why. I regret that. I don’t really have any other regrets except for that one thing.

I really wish I had spent a little more time with you. Gotten to know you a bit more. Whenever we were together we could never really talk because you were somehow always a bit busy with work or whatever. We really should’ve made time. I should’ve made time for that. I wanted so much to know more about you. What you were about. What troubles you faced in your life. What made you happy. Really and truly happy. If only…

I’ll never ever get the chance to hear you speak to me again. The stupid jokes. That smile. I’m sure I’ll get to see your face again. But I guess until then, all I’ll have are the pictures of you. Because I n all of them you’re wearing that big smile that I remember you by. If that’s all that’ll keep you in my heart, then that’s all I’ll ever need.

I wish I knew more about you. Your family. Your friends. You spoke about them, but I had never met them. Guess I didn’t try hard enough. I blame myself for the fact that we lost contact somehow. Probably at a time when you needed me most. There’s no excuse or reason for that. I was trying to salvage something that didn’t even deserve the amount of energy I had been busy putting into it. A total waste of time.

I’m really sorry about everything. About the way things turned out. It really didn’t have to end the way it did. In fact it didn’t have to end at all. I should still be able to look at our pictures, call you up and make plans for the next time we’d be together.

I miss your smile. So broad. So genuine. So real.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about you. But I am. And I know you’re looking out for me… Thanx for that.

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It's about the connection

That’s really all it’s about. Connection. Connections.

Look around. There’s probably something next to you that you feel some sort of connection towards. If anything were to happen to that particular thing you would feel like something’s gone wrong somewhere in the world. And then when you take a step back, you realize that it’s really only a thing. An object. Probably made out of plastic (as most things are nowadays). Most probably replaceable at a store near you. The store probably has thousands of them just like yours. But you wouldn’t want those. You’d want yours. Because somehow it feels different to others. Even if you closest friend has one just like it. You still prefer yours.

Yes, the connection we as humans have with objects is quite amazing. To me it’s what makes us human. Imagine if you were surrounded by millions of things and you felt nothing towards any of them.

What would the world mean to any of us if nothing in it meant anything? We’ve come up with a phrase for it; “sentimental value”. Basically the amount of feelings you have invested in that particular object. That it reminds you of something. Of someone. Of somewhere. But does anything change when it’s not there? Maybe. But for how long? A day? Not likely. The longest you’d “feel empty” is most likely to be less than a couple of hours. And in most cases far less.

I personally have a lot of things around me that I feel I shouldn’t be so attached to. Because the reality is, shit happens. Phones break. Laptops get stolen. Cars break. You break your favourite coffee mug. The list goes on and on and on. But can you honestly say you’ve lost a part of you? Literally? I don’t think so. Everything in this whole world is replaceable. Every single thing that was ever made by man; is 100% replaceable. Everything. What aren’t replaceable are the feelings towards that particular object. You obviously won’t feel the same way towards it as you did its predecessor; but it’s more often than not, exactly the same as your old one if not better.

But the fact of the matter is that it is replaceable.

Holding on to old things for ages, might sound like such a sweet thing to do, but in all honesty, you’re just a glorified hoarder. I’ve got a number of things I’ve kept for ages, and every time I come across them I convince myself that the longer I keep it, the more it’s gonna mean one day when I show it to the person concerned on some “hey, still remember this?”. But those days never really seem to come. So I keep stashing the stuff again. That’s really a total waste of time.

I’ve lost a couple of friends and friendships over the years and not one compare to any material thing I’ve ever lost over any given space of time. The thing about losing people it that we often think we can always get other people to replace the ones we are willing to give up.

Human interaction (in all its forms) is important to me. In most cases you find yourself constantly preoccupied by a lot of distractions and so on, without much regard to who you are with, more concerned with what activity you’re doing with that person.

Maybe I’m over-thinking this whole thing.

Maybe not.

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I am a writer

I’ve realised something.

I’m a writer. Wondering how I know… I think like one. I can’t just relax and have normal breakfast like everyone else around me without noticing how they eat. How they carry themselves, etc.

I noticed this morning as I was having breakfast and couldn’t wait to get back to my room and write about it. Not only then, but for the most part of my days, (especially when I’m not doing anything, like chilling on the train or whatever) my brain starts wondering off into a place far far away. Not exactly sure where this place is, but it goes there for a number of different reasons, usually it’s my creative space really. The same place I go for my designs and stuff.

I don’t go all crazy and start lighting candles and burning incense all over the place. Just that my brain sort of goes into overdrive.

I’m no longer able to do anything without thinking about writing it. Ok not necessarily anything.

But the point I’m making here is that I’m transforming into something here. Something I like. Something I’ve pretty much always been. A writer. Though I must admit I haven’t always been a writer. I think before I became a writer, I was and still am first and foremost a reader. I am an appreciator of words in all their form; from poetry to lyrics to articles and everything else in between.

As I sit here in my little hotel room 800+ kilometres away from home. I figured it’s only fair to jot down everything that happens to and around me over the next month or so. I’ve already got two pieces for today. The 1st of December 2008.

I thought of the second one just this morning as I was having my breakfast…
I don’t think I’m gonna lead a normal life in a long while. And I’m not complaining one single bit.

:P

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