Relationship 101s [Part I]: Taking Pussy Blogging Offline

There’s a lot to not understand about me. I put a lot of myself out in the open; sometimes inadvisably so, I’ve been told. Hell, half the time I don’t even know why I do what I do. Why I still write posts titulated such as this, despite knowledge of the fact that potential wads of cash – employers, not Nairobi senator Mike Sonko – lurk in mine online shadows.

Why I don’t think I’ll melt if I say pussy, or cock and such; or that I may be smote by more than just an overzealous friend or two for saying that religion oughta be banned for inculcating the very principles that sustain tribalism in Kenya. 

*insert chirping cricket*

I can see you exiting stage-left already, O mighty smiters of the lost souls.

So for the handful of you still reading, this professed atheist (I know, it’s getting old, innit?) and elaborate plagiarist continues to attempt itemizing his self. So polish your plumes to a dandy sheen, as a good friend says, and dig in.

1.      I am a man, contrary to misgivings of the inbox kind. I’m talking gender here, not debates on how uber-agressively inconsiderate manly men should behave. For that argument, scroll down further. To those strange men who do not realize that my Facebook pseudonym refers, quite literally, to “That Troublemaker Guy,” I’m talking to you. So don't call me hun or sweety again.

2.      I have been in love with that girl, coz she told me she was in love with me. The less said about that fallacy, the better. For Pete’s (and my) sake.

3.      I don’t much care for Big-wiggery, translated as the number of followers one has. Follow me if you like, but that’s about it. No expectations from me, none from you either. I do, however, give a lotta damns and dimes about the quality of followers and followings. The real relationships, those tweeps who’d bail you outta real jail at a moment’s tweet if it came down to it. Lessons well learnt by, among others, Martha Karua and Peter Kenneth recently. Oh, and yeah, I do call Twitter Twirra or Twirraville. One of my newfound friends thinks first meetings on Twitter are called Tweetroductions, while the other calls herself a Tweetsation. Accept and move on.^a

4.      I was once the quintessential nice (extended belch) guy. I still relate with and understand that rare abused species. Not rarely abused; rare and abused. I may have evolved into something else, as yet un-labelled or -defined, but the kind that still thinks it ok for a guy to embrace smiley faces on Social Media, as opposed to stupid abbrevs like Lol, and pseudo-onomatopoeias like ‘buhahaha!’ or worse even, ‘tihihi!’

And while I will for the most time walk away from a war of words on the status of my manhood [not that one, the general one] the same way I prefer to evade religious discourse, I do indulge myself in defending my roots. The so called United Woosedom, henceforth fondly referred to as the big girl's blouse closet, that has become of 'our men'.

5.      I do Karaoke/ Open Mic, and scream like a little girl when I’m impressed with a performance, complete with hands down and hinds up. Ok, more like a loud obnoxious prick; but, still. When unimpressed, I whip out my phone and tweet nonsense (when drunk and hardly bothered,) groupie hugs (when drunk and not listening to those on stage,) and pure unadulterated bile at event organizers (when not drunk.)

6.      Safaricom is my operator of choice as much as an ICC suspect is my president of choice. More than occasionally, however, the cockscrew on that patient theory has been tested when the network decides to go hard on this here client, totally ignoring the lube. On those annoying occasions, like many a client, I cheat on Safcom with my less vigorous and somewhat inefficient Zain line.

7.      I am friends with practically ALL my exes. See bullet 4 above. Especially the exes that 'mattered', who incidentally riddled 'past me' with bullet-holes; the so-called ones that got away.

You might think ‘friends’ is an overstatement. Good for you. But here’s what I mean…during my nice guy phase, I have been inspired to write publicly about 3 particular women I was ‘dating’. I use the term loosely, because in one of the 3 cases, it was more of an over-glorified summer romance that lasted all of 17 days. Mainly because she was only in Kenya on holiday, and I bumped into her – erm, no puns – in the tail end [stop that, no giggling either!] of her stay here before she had to go back Down Under [OK I give up].

Perhaps, maybe, that she was 6 years older than me also mattered. OK, and she had a boyfriend, who was visibly not me. Woooosah… Moving on swiftly, I am still friends with her. Sort of; her husband doesn't much like it. She got married pretty recently; and yes, to that boyfriend.

None of the other two lasted longer than 3 months either.

The one, is what beings not quite as linguistically refined as me might call a first love. I call her my introduction to the utter mind and soul fuckeries of human worship. She featured distinctly in the relic that is my first year on Campus, before stamping on what Ihad mistakenly thought to be my icebox, then proceeding to leave the country altogether. You’re allowed one bottie of jokes on past me’s account. And if I see “he has that effect on women” anywhere in that bottle, I’m not picking up the tab on past me’s behalf either.

Incidentally, OOMF [one of my followers] on Twitter and in real life also dated her. And we’re all one big happy family of Friends. Like the show. She’s also planning her wedding. Inn’ life grand?

And to top the list off is the other; my last ex. I wrote about our meeting about a month into the opening of this blog. I was dating her at the time. Fast-forward to the present, and she is happily married, expecting a bundle of joy. She married a good friend of mine; who was a good friend of mine while I dated her. And is an even better friend of mine today, not to mention their both being my business associates. I might even be godfather if I play my cards right!

8.     I also have friends of the female species, who are simply, friends. Not the woman you can’t date because you wouldn't bear to be seen with her so she becomes your friend, more in consideration of her feelings than your reservations about being seen with her. I mean smart, beautiful, women. Not the kind you wanna date but due to poor timing on your end you’re conscripted to the friend zone. Nope. The kind who become ‘your boys’ without you ever forgetting just how woman they really are. The kind your girlfriend’s insecurities might understandably peak around. And the kinds, as in one particularly sad tale, whose boyfriends like forbid to ever speak to you again like ever.

So am I the only lonely man? And have I noticed that 2 of the 3 women I talked about earlier married the guy they dated after (or during) me? No I’m not, and yeah I did. But that’s a story for a whole other day.

See part II

a.       The expression to Accept and Move on, is a phrase that has been added to an expansive array of phrases in Kenyan humour since the recent elections, during which the losing candidate, despite there being concerns that there may have been foul-play involved in President UK’s win, was asked to concede, accept and move on. The expression, in Urban Kenyan Lingo, is now used to mock sore losers.