Tales of the Top Knot

Hi. As I was waiting for my ride in the blistering heat - the kind of heat that makes oranges sweat juice - a girl walked past me with long hair and a top knot. This got me thinking about the top knot. Like what's up with that? In my very unimportant opinion, top knots are to mankind what Trump is to politics, a joke. The whole point of tying your hair up is for (1) convenience (2) heat management and (3) in some circumstances a matter of life and death, say, what if your hair got caught in between the cogs of a giant machine?

I know it's trending, or at least, was trending (I can't seem to keep up with the crop-topped-tote-toting cool kids on the block, what with their long boards and round glasses). But trend (or fashion faux pas) aside, it's a hairstyle that isn't just an aberration it's unpractical because it's pretty much guaranteed to cause heat stroke or provoke a violent outburst.

Why?

Because wearing a top knot makes you look like something shat on top of your head or like human version of a Teletubby or like you're wearing a dunce cap made out of hair.

Look, at the end of the day it's all good because while I'd rather be punched in the boob than be caught dead with the least most sensible part of my hair tied in a bun, it's just me. And if you're the type of person who rolls with a top knot then that's cool too. Just know that it's nothing against you as a person (I'm sure you're very lovely), your head just looks it's got a big button on it begging people to say ugly things behind your condom-shaped back. And people being people, will.
In fact. I think I just did.

But enough of that. There are more important things to spend time contemplating like the polar ice caps melting, the plight of polar bears and the constant raping of our oceans by Japanese trawlers. Or, more poignantly, how all of these crushing realities sit hidden in the shadows of "real" issues like what product you're pedalling in your sponsored blog post and who wore what to where.


END.

BOYS AND THEIR EUPHEMISMS

SO. QUICK POST. FUNNY STORY. YESTERDAY - QUITE POSSIBLY THE DAY BEFORE - I WAS CHATTING TO A BOY, WHO IS ALSO A FRIEND, AND HE RELAYED A CONVERSATION HE HAD WITH HIS GUY, UH, FRIEND. IT WENT LIKE THIS (I'M PARAPHRASING):

HIM: I WAS CHATTING TO [...] THE OTHER DAY. HE'S SUPER OBSESSED WITH THIS GIRL. AND I SAID, HEY [...] WHAT WILL YOU ACTUALLY DO IF YOU MANAGE TO GET WITH THAT? AND HE SAID, "I'LL FLATTEN THAT."

I LAUGHED. A LOT BUT THEN I THOUGHT ABOUT IT. AND THOUGHT IT. AND THOUGHT ABOUT IT AND REALISED THAT I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANT.

BY THAT, I TAKE IT, IT'S IN REFERENCE TO A VAGINA. YOU KNOW LIKE "GET THAT, GET SOME, TAP THAT...?" AND TO FLATTEN, I'M GUESSING WOULD BE LIKE TO "POUND, PENETRATE, ENTER...?"

SO, IT'S A GUY'S WAY OF SAYING HE'D REALLY LIKE TO HAVE SEX WITH A GIRL. AND IT DEFINITELY DOESN'T MEAN HE WANTS TO FLATTEN HER LADY BITS BECAUSE, SERIOUSLY, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH A FLAT VAGINA, WEAR IT ON YOUR FACE? BUT THEN YOU'D LOOK LIKE A POES.

ANYWAYS.

SO I THOUGHT OF SOME MORE SEX-RELATED EUPHEMISMS, HERE THEY ARE:

BANG
BONE
BONKING
TAP THAT
HIT THAT
SHAKE THAT
TAKE THAT DOWN
TAKE IT DOWN TO POUND TOWN
GET UP ALL IN THAT
KNOCKING ANKLES
RUBBING UGLIES
BUMPING BICUITS
BUMPING BELLIES
BEATING GUTS
SLAPPING SKIN SUITS
BOW CHICA-WOW-WOW
DO THE HORIZONTAL SHUFFLE
DANCING IN THE SHEETS
THE FOUR-LEGGED FOX TROT
A BIT OF THE OLD IN OUT, IN OUT
A BIT OF "HOW'S YOUR FATHER"
HIDING THE SAUSAGE/SALAMI, OR IF YOU'RE SOUTH AFRICAN, POLONY
RIDING THE PONY
FEEDING THE KITTY

AND THEN I FOUN THIS: 400 EUPHEMISMS FOR SEXUAL INTERCOURSE

CALL ME OLD FASHIONED BUT I MUCH PREFER TO CALL IT WHAT IT IS, CLEANING THE COBWEBS WITH THE WOMB BROOM.

Reckless Youth - a relatively, somewhat, kinda, maybe, oldish person's ramblings/hypoethesis

I was in the shower. I've been reading a book and one of the characters reminded me of me when I was, uh, younger. This slingshot me back to the days of old and, surprisingly I'm not surprised, the memories that were drudged up weren't very super awesome ones. They were quite shitty and generally lead to a mild-to-severe feeling of grotesque remorse. Like I'd just uncovered a decaying body, the memories like a bad smell you can't quite wash out of your hair.

With age comes the realisation of limitations. Some are A-OK like realisation of temporary permanence, you know like, this too shall pass. And the other, when you realise you're basically calcifying in your body - well that one sucks balls but it's the very thing that forces growth. Emotional growth because, let's face it, your body's pretty buggered.

I hypothesise that when we're younger, the time we've spent in our shells, our bodies, hadn't quite solidified our sense of barriers, of limitations. We were like rock stars, drugged up to the gills sitting atop rocketships, Pluto-bound. Our understanding of death and destruction - innocent - because we hadn't experienced it yet, and if we have our interactions with it were lighthearted because, "What the fuck was gravity?" (Jokes. Kids don't really say "What the fuck. Or gravity. And defs not necessarily in the same sentence.")

This is where I'm coming from with the whole reckless youth thing.

Until we realise limitations, thanks to years spent locked in bodies that slowly seize up, which force a sort of awakening that's also known as growing up/becoming wise, we don't have the parameters that allow us to see the consequences of our actions. Or better still, we don't have [adult + binoculars = aduloculars] glued to our eyes. We're not like, "Hey you, bad decision chilling by the fence, I see you and I'm most assuredly not going to fall for that one... Nice try, dickhead." We don't think like that because we're borderless. Free. But this freedom comes with a price tag and that, my old(er) compadres, is the weight of our misguided, childish decisions we carry around with us. Some call this regret but I like to call it one helluva story. And, depending on how drunk you are, it's one you tell with the kind of oh-my-god-I'm-awesome confidence you later regret (God, again with the regret, when will we learn?). Or one you whisper into the ear of your psychiatrist under fluorescent lights that bark judgement down upon you from their lofty seat above.

ENDSIES XXX

PARDON ME AND MY RELATIONSHIT

GET REAL. So, like, lately I've been going through some sort of catharsis - fuckit, who constantly isn't, right? At some point or another, these questions pop into my head, "What am I doing with my life, where am I going, what's the point, is there a point and if there is, is it going to do the dishes?"

Result. I'm not doing anything meaningful with my life because all my friends on facebook seem to be doing so much more. This one has a blog (despite the fact she can't write and is as vapid as plywood), this one's traveling the world (or are those #TBTs?) and that one, well that one has severely rich folks so they've got it all.

Next question. Where am I going? Well, clearly just to work and back. For the rest of my life. And if I'm lucky I'll have a pension that'll last until I'm 80, even though in this day and age I'll probably get to 102. In short. I'm going nowhere. Let me clarify. I'm not going anywhere cool like Bali, or the Arctic.

And no, there is absolutely no point. And if there's no point, then what does it matter and if it doesn't matter then why do I mind?

Hello, ego, also known as comparison, jealousy, greed and all other forms of class-A cuntery.

So, in my rather finite wisdom, I've managed to figure out that all my unhappiness stems from my ego (two points to the girl who read A New Earth). But is the ego the actual cause of my unhappiness or is the relationship I have with my ego causing all the internal freakouts?

Woah, this shit's getting deep...

Is ego evil? No, it's essential to being, if I didn't think I was awesome in some way I wouldn't survive. Not in this world, not unless you live in a monastery. Therefore, if ego isn't actually a negative aspect to being, but rather a necessary one, then I can only imagine it's our relationship with ego that's the issue. Think about it. Log onto Facebook, get jealous, get angry at yourself for becoming jealous (come on, enlightened beings don't get jealous). Now not only are you jealous, you're annoyed at your emotional response to the primal instinct to succeed, to survive. "Ah", you say "I should be better, nicer, more at peace. If that bitch's getting married and I'm still single, I should be happy for her. Why aren't I happy? Why hasn't he proposed? Are we even right for each other? Why doesn't he help more around the house and generally just change everything about himself I don't like? I've given up so much for him? What about me? What am I doing? Where am I going? Who am I?"

Confused. And at this point, borderline psychotic.

It's time to accept that we are not enlightened beings and we don't need the "new age" yogic pressure to become "at peace" and "egoless" because not being at peace is part of life. It's our karma, our struggle, our lessons and part of the journey. As for egoless, what does that mean? If it means not to feel the negative twangs of jealousy? Then, dear 'I've-done-my-200hr-yoga-teacher-training-raw-vegan-eating-hemp-cotton-wearing' friend, you've done fucked up.

To deny one's emotions. Is to deny the gifts of existing. The privilege to feel angry, sad and all flavours of fucked up is the very catapult we need to: 1. Not just survive but thrive, and 2. Feel immense bliss when it decides to show up and high five us in the face.

If we, instead of denied our ego, embraced it like an old, annoying buddy who pushed our buttons but in doing so, pushed us forward, we wouldn't have the additional baggage of a constant internal battle between good and evil. Face it, the two co-exist, it's all very poetic really.

What if we used the energy of our negative emotions as charges to propel us up and off our backsides, thereby creating a positive change? And what if our reactions stirred in others a negative reaction that caused a positive outcome? What if by making people jealous, we also inspired them to act, which in turn forces us to grow even more...?

So bring on your selfies of you and your crew living it up in Greece, or Thailand, or NYC. Plaster my feed with photos of your fabulous life, your wedding, your new baby. Brag about your new job, your new book, your new car. Do it. You have every right to and, in fact, the universe demands that you do so that the rest of us lazy cunts can be forced to come face to face with our feelings of inadequacy and use it as fuel to light a fire under our asses. I really didn't want to end this rally-call-of-sorts with the word "asses" (now I have to add this bit in the brackets).

END.

P.S. Someone had better like or comment on this post or I'll have to kill myself. Or at the very least, reconsider my career as a writer. Joking.
I'm not joking.

THE ONE... is dumb.

This one goes out to all my single ladies... And everyone else.

Recently, I've been thinking a lot about the "one". This could be the result of a recent breakup from said "one" or after watching one too many back-to-back seasons of Sex and the City. Either way, it started working on me like a Russian gangster.

Why is it that we, and by we I mean girls (and some guys), are so obsessed with the idea of the "one" when we all know that one is never enough? Why do we allow ourselves to get so emotionally involved that we morph euphoria into jealousy and allow our daydreams to turn into expectations?

Why does bumping biscuits have to mean anything more?

Why is our concept of love so flaky - so... untrue to itself?

And why do we repeat this cycle of bullshit? Surely after enough hurt you have to take a step back and ask what's going wrong. Why doesn't this work out, what's missing or better yet, what have I missed?

Ask yourself honestly, what's does love mean to you.

The dictionary's definition of love can be summarised as a state of extreme fondness, yet pick up any book on spirituality and the concept is about wanting only happiness FOR OTHERS. It never says, to "feel loved you need to be loved by another", it says "love yourself". And, granted we do when we're single and, or, recovering from the heartbreak caused by a previous lovescapade turned titanic, but as soon as we find a piece of ass we'd like to take home to meet the parents, we project these gigantic expectations on to them and call it love. We rely on their verbal and physical affections to quantify our worth or lovability. We stop giving ourselves our love and start fixating it onto someone else and with disastrous consequences. Worst of all, time and time again we have to deal with the gut wrenching hurt that we call disappointment as a result of not giving ourselves and another the freedom to just be because we're too busy trying to fit them into our idea of who they should be.

Enter perceived rejection, judgement, criticism, defence, conflict, drama, control games, power struggles, twisting of the truth to suit your story, lies, manipulation, anger, hurt, resentment and eventually after you've successfully managed to fuck each other up enough, a breakup.

And then we do this all over because we watch way too many movies where relationships are perfect (guys are the ideal combination of manly, hot and sensitive - the coup de grace of desirability - and girls wake up looking like knockouts and no one ever seems to worry about having not brushed their teeth before engaging in missionary morning sex) and everyone lives happily ever after. This seems to be the template we use as a reference point for our relationships and it couldn't be more unrealistic or more destructive.

Let's face the fact. There is no "one", there are no such things as soulmates, we are all connected and yes, sometimes when you're really close to someone you guys can pick up on subtleties - know what the another is thinking and so on - but fuck, you can have that with anyone. Bottom line is, love, the kind of intensity we see on TV that has most of the female population in hot pursuit, doesn't exist because we've confused infatuation (which never lasts) with love and we call it being "in love".

I don't believe love is intense, or demanding, or anything other than completely accepting, gentle and understanding. Love is something unconditional, it doesn't get upset when he/she doesn't call because love, real love, can only be love.

Moral of the story - Don't fall, or at least try not to but if you have to fall for something, fall for yourself or down a few stairs and get a little perspective...

The end. For now.

xoxox

PULL & BEAR!!!!

 THIS LABEL IS LOVE. A few weeks ago I died and wound up in hipster heaven - not that I'm an ombre haired, Oliver Peoples person with an ironic disposition and far too many pairs of black skinny jeans and (or) creepers, a fringe, red lipstick, and bulky cable knit circa 1980. I don't freak out at the sight of a fucking triangle and I don't roll my own cigarettes, I also don't have anything against hipsters. If I were cool enough to rock out in all denim I'd probably be one... Which brings me back to Pull & Bear. If the name weren't on-trend enough, the tartan and distressed denim mishmash that cascaded on steel racks against the walls should suffice. Fortunately, the only thing non-hipster were the prices (surprisingly affordable) and most of the customers... Ah, more irony.  

I can't remember what music was playing but it was probably something too-cool like Alt J, and, one minute I was trying on a jacket, my quasi-hipster being released and the next, I was trying to convince myself that by buying stuff I was really buying a prolonged experience. Needless to say, I exited the store with a lot less cash and a much bigger ego. Dammit!

Girly Tip #6: Wax on, wax, what?!!!!

The post is inspired by recent events, also as a form of therapeutic release on my part.

So, it goes like this. A few days ago I was on a mission to find a decent place to get a wax, a brazilian to be crushingly honest. Now, being on holiday in Amsterdam (tough life) you'd think the first world would have a barrage of such places - they don't and if they do it'll set you back 35 Euros. Yikes (times that by 14 and you have the cost in rands and at that rate I could get three waxes done back home - perspective). Being a frugal individual I figured that I'd just do it myself and save 25 bucks.

This is one of those things that seem like a good idea at the time.

Wax in hand I waited for a day when I'd have the house to myself, which happened to be yesterday, god forbid someone walk in on me, naked, with my leg in the air, draped in wax and a look of utter dread plastered on my face. The thing with wax, and I learnt this the hard way, is that once it's on it has to come off. There's no backing out and my determination faltered about thirty minutes into it, after having meticulously worked my way down, down, down... Let me quickly clarify a few things. I have no fucking idea about how to wax. I mean, yeah I've used wax strips for my face but never in a million years have I waxed a larger or more delicate area. This was an over ambitious attempt after watching one or two DIY waxing videos online.

Back to the story.

I'd figured that I'd easily and quickly/forcefully rip the hardening wax off against the grain before it... crystalises and adheres itself to my skin/hair with such gusto that cement would seem easier to remove. The panic that ensues as a result of this insane time limit only makes you sweat more, resulting in a loss of grip, rendering you utterly helpless. And, then there's the pain. Yes, it's sore to get it done professionally but christ all mighty doing it yourself takes pain to a whole new level. And what does intense pain do, yeah makes you sweat even more. So there you are, leg propped up against a table like you've been frozen mid kick, pale-faced and sweating, wax everywhere - on your fingers, the floor, your feet and of course your lady bits, and you're trying your best to pull the skin taught and work up enough courage to yank. Only when you do, as soon as your brain registers the indescribable pain of the hair being ripped out by the roots, you loose all the power in your arms and stop. Breathe and try it again. Needless to say what normally takes a quick "one-two-ouch" can only be achieved in increments of a few mms at a time. Leaving you mentally strung out, physically exhausted and emotionally scarred. Why? Because you still have to do the other side...    

If I could impart with any advice, it's this. Don't try this at home. Just don't. Or if you don't have much option, like me, just do your bikini line. Or practice first. Practice a lot. Practice on anything that has hair and keep practicing until you've got the application and removable of hot wax down. Also, being drunk might help (or maybe not because if you have very thick hair, you might start bleeding and end up bleeding to death because you've drank too much booze and alcohol thins your blood... And then people, like your family, will find you dead, boozed, bloody and looking like your into some very sick sex stuff and no one will want to go to your funeral because they've disowned you and your dad has to lie to his golf buddies and say that you died of a heart attack, and the lying and not being able to understand why you did this will wear heavy on his heart until he ends up killing himself and your mother will kill herself because she can't "go on"and your siblings will become drug addicts and rapists and be on the news...) or a ask a nurse for a shot of pethidine. Or, get a very dear friend to do it for you. Or, don't do it but if you're hard headed and think you can handle this because you've pushed babies out of your vagina and pain is nothing, good luck... You'll need it.