This is Day 2 of the Feeling Better stage of my last cold –I know this because I’ve been up most of the day, have managed to bake (usually a sign of danger, but not after an extended period of inactivity and lethargy –notably, during colds) AND I’ve cooked dinner too. Whether it was edible or not is another matter. The point IS, I’m up and about, and my current grumpiness is actually an additional sign of good health. It signals that I’m bored and itching to do Something Worthwhile.
After my last upbeat email, written through a stuffed nose, my listed Prospects seem to have literally fallen off the grid. Not a peep from ANY of them, all over sudden, the final insult being a message just now, whose content I won’t bother to horrify you with. Suffice to say that it was from a horny drug-pusher look-a-like. Meanwhile, I was submitted last night to a program during which, a man entrusted with a budget was tasked with the entire preparation of his girl’s Dream Wedding –and succeeded. In Style. I WOULD have left the room, because not only do I not want a wedding myself, but watching them is pure torture (there is surely a book somewhere with more wisdom to offer.) But I was too ill to leave the room, wherein I had dragged myself, and spent the afternoon trying to fall into a peaceful doze.
Whatever. I’m never getting married, I’ll finally land a dead-end job, have to adopt, and live in lonely singledom for the rest of my life, watching my looks and dreams fade in the mirror daily until (and I hope at least this wish is granted) I die peacefully in my bed. In clean panties.
Big Brother Africa is on (or will soon) be, and every so often, they bring an ad on one of the selected contestants, all of whom sicken me to death (as does BB, which I wouldn’t watch unless ordered to by God –and even then, I’d have objections.) There’s a lot of this on African media, these days: Confident statements in the nature of “I’m just me, myself…” immediately followed by a superb outburst of fakeness. Sickening. I have very rarely met people who are “just me, myself” or if I have, I’ve felt very sorry if this was true, as the “me, myself” they presented needed serious counselling. Or God. Or both. Which, by the way, may be true of most people.
Because, no matter what they’re really like, don’t people like to have their homes nice and clean and tidy when someone’s visiting? And don’t they like to go to work looking like they’ve just stepped out of a magazine shoot? And don’t they train their children to say the ‘right things’ in certain circles, or they themselves say the ‘right things’ in ‘appropriate’ circumstances? People who don’t make for uncomfortable company, and there probably are, in all of our lives, certain someone’s whom we feel we cannot take anywhere, for fear of what they might say or do –not in itself, but what that may say about ourselves, and whom we associate with. Not me, but then, that is my certain brand of craziness. I’m OK for people to think what they want to think, and will never go out of my way to persuade them one way or another –at least, about myself. If it’s about something else, I still won’t, unless I care for them, and they are about to make a big mistake. And I mean Huge. Because I am definitely of the school of ‘people need to learn their own lessons.’ Prophets are despised, and messengers too often shot.
And on this crabby note, I am excusing myself. I may be in pursuit of happiness, but right now, a giant hot chocolate and some cookies might hit the spot more accurately.