I sat in front of a big black box for almost three hours yesterday. My mind was blank, numb, mush. My legs seized up from the weight of my body crushing down on to them. I didn't move. I sat, mesmerized by the flashing imagery before me. My mouth hung open, not slightly, but wide enough for dribble to trace its way around the crevices of my mouth and down into a safe nestle on my chin.
My hair stuck up like a cruel Don King impersonation, my hands lay abandoned somewhere near my lap. My eyes widened, drawing parallels to walnuts, dinner plates, bush babies. I breathe erratically, in, out, in, in, out, gasp, in, out. I shudder, I twitch, I smile mischievously. I relish every minute of it.
I am an undercover horror movie junkie.
Every fright stings my nervous system with piercing jolts. Adrenaline pumps through my veins like a power surge, increasing my heart beat, shaking me to my core. Every time some unsuspecting victim gets his head sliced off by an axe-wielding maniac, I let loose an initial nervous giggle, followed a witch's cackle. I savour each blood-curdling scream, appreciating every organ explosion with gusto. Ah, nothing beats the sweet smell of fear in the morning.
My penchant for the gory is shared by millions. We like to instil a safe rush of adrenaline, we enjoy the thrill without the possibility of hurting ourselves. Watching horror movies is the equivalent to a kiss from your great aunt Martha, It's going to terrify the life out of you, but at least you know that at the end of it, you'll be unharmed, if a smidgen shaken. It's the injection of excitement that we all crave in our mundane lives. We grow fearful everyday of he pains and terror around us, yet we still put ourselves through the Exorcist every few months or so. Is it to ensure our livelihood? Are we scared that, without our exasperatedly pumping hearts, we are empty, devoid of life? Do we watch them to prove that, in fact, we can take the fear? That we are stronger than we let ourselves believe?
Whatever your reason may be for scaring the bejesus out of yourself, horrors can teach us a few important life lessons:
Never clench your teeth during a particularly nasty scene; something WILL happen that will result in you swallowing parts of your own cheek.
Don't think that it's a good idea to stroll through your house in lingerie without a weapon if someone has called to tell you that they are watching you; you will die a dismembering death.
Refrain from all forms of paranormal contact activities; someone you know WILL get possessed and kill off the rest of the family, one by one.
Don't take showers in motels. Not under any circumstance
These are all relevant and important facts of life, facts that we would be unaware of, had we not witnessed them in movies. This strikes the conclusion that a bit of fear can bring a lot of assistance to the watcher. So go ahead, make your day, watch your horror, live longer than the sissies who don't.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Spidergirl
Picture this: You're lying in bed, trying to squeeze in a few grunted snores before work. You feel a searing pain next to your right eye. Your eyesight blurs, your face feels like a sewing machine base, your jaw locks and you start to feel woozy. Imagine my disappointment when this melodramatic pain turns out to be a spider bite not of the radioactive type.
The doctor confirms the worst, not only will I experience a list of symptoms of less than peachy discomfort, but I will not be able to climb walls with my new poisoned blood. Dreams of shooting webs from my wrists are banished. The possibility of swooping through the streets of Cape Town, taking out bad guys and accumulating mass appreciation, is dispelled. My heart breaks.
“Are you sure?” I tearfully ask the doctor, already designing my red and blue Lycra suit in my mind. “Just your average, everyday Button spider bite,” he responds, more concerned with my disappointment than my condition. My feet are heavy as I leave his mint-green office. My heart floats precariously in my throat. Gone is my opportunity for mutant fame. Relinquished are my delusions of radioactive grandeur. Doomed am I to a life of normalcy and apparent Yoda impersonations.
Despite my normal diagnosis I spend the days post-bite in a state of constant alertness. Every bout of pins and needles inspires my imagination to greater fantasies of flight and fight. I see myself manically pummelling a backstreet rapist, pulverising a knife-waving mugger, bringing a car down upon the empty head of a gun-toting hijacker. The more I think about these prospects, the angrier I become. Why couldn't I have become a spider-mutant? Why couldn't I kill and maim every evil-doer in Cape Town? It hit me at this point. It wasn't the radioactivity that I desired, rather the revenge I sought from these criminals.
How odd that my justice button was pushed by an insect bite. Trouble is, now I can't seem to turn it off. If you happen upon a red and blue-suited woman, swinging from a balcony in Long Street, possibly stuck and suspended by a broken piece of garden rope, maniacally threatening all bad-guys and yelling for medical assistance simultaneously, it may or may not be me. Criminals, you have been warned.
The doctor confirms the worst, not only will I experience a list of symptoms of less than peachy discomfort, but I will not be able to climb walls with my new poisoned blood. Dreams of shooting webs from my wrists are banished. The possibility of swooping through the streets of Cape Town, taking out bad guys and accumulating mass appreciation, is dispelled. My heart breaks.
“Are you sure?” I tearfully ask the doctor, already designing my red and blue Lycra suit in my mind. “Just your average, everyday Button spider bite,” he responds, more concerned with my disappointment than my condition. My feet are heavy as I leave his mint-green office. My heart floats precariously in my throat. Gone is my opportunity for mutant fame. Relinquished are my delusions of radioactive grandeur. Doomed am I to a life of normalcy and apparent Yoda impersonations.
Despite my normal diagnosis I spend the days post-bite in a state of constant alertness. Every bout of pins and needles inspires my imagination to greater fantasies of flight and fight. I see myself manically pummelling a backstreet rapist, pulverising a knife-waving mugger, bringing a car down upon the empty head of a gun-toting hijacker. The more I think about these prospects, the angrier I become. Why couldn't I have become a spider-mutant? Why couldn't I kill and maim every evil-doer in Cape Town? It hit me at this point. It wasn't the radioactivity that I desired, rather the revenge I sought from these criminals.
How odd that my justice button was pushed by an insect bite. Trouble is, now I can't seem to turn it off. If you happen upon a red and blue-suited woman, swinging from a balcony in Long Street, possibly stuck and suspended by a broken piece of garden rope, maniacally threatening all bad-guys and yelling for medical assistance simultaneously, it may or may not be me. Criminals, you have been warned.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Hacked
In this world of technological advancement, each of us believe ourselves to be moguls of internet magic. We are not. We are morons of the magic. For months now I have commanded my Facebook page, my gmail and my Blog like a true pro. I have sailed my ship of technology through rough seas and sun-bleached skies. I have danced in the very daisy fields of computer literacy. I have managed to lose all of my information to a douche of a hacker.
Whilst trying to access my email last week I received the heart-stopping message of doom, “The password you have entered is incorrect.” My palms started to sweat, my brow furrowed, my buttocks began to clench rhythmically. Steadying my quivering hands I tried my Facebook account. Once again I was told that I had entered the wrong password. Concerned that although this was a different password to that of my email, Facebook too had blocked me from entering. After four cigarettes and a glass and a half of Old Brown Sherry I had built up enough courage to throw caution to the wind and try my blog. DISASTER! I was once again denied access.
What could I do? My very existence was compromised. Several people referred to what had happened to me as “identity theft.” Are we in such a sad state of technological advance that losing email and Facebook accounts now constituted you as being indentityless? Who was I? Had my life lost it's meaning? Was I still allowed to introduce myself as Kelly-Paige or did I now have to find a new identity? “Nice to meet you, I'm Kelly_Paige22@hotmail.com.”
One account couldn't be reinstated without the consent of the other. Nothing could be rectified until I had Google convinced that I was the rightful owner of my account. Google hated me, told me that I “did not seem to be the account holder.” How did they know? What could I do to sway their vote? Was my hacker, at this very moment, pulling the Google strings, telling the Google geeks that they in fact were the honourable members of my prestigious Gmail?
After much toil and trouble, days of frustration, several unnecessary tearful fits from the people I threw things at in my frustration, and the completion of one very crystallized bottle of sherry, I managed to recover my gmail. Celebration! My life has been recovered. My existence has been reinstated. My identity has returned. I have been reconnected to the world. My life is back on course. How very, very, sad of me.
Whilst trying to access my email last week I received the heart-stopping message of doom, “The password you have entered is incorrect.” My palms started to sweat, my brow furrowed, my buttocks began to clench rhythmically. Steadying my quivering hands I tried my Facebook account. Once again I was told that I had entered the wrong password. Concerned that although this was a different password to that of my email, Facebook too had blocked me from entering. After four cigarettes and a glass and a half of Old Brown Sherry I had built up enough courage to throw caution to the wind and try my blog. DISASTER! I was once again denied access.
What could I do? My very existence was compromised. Several people referred to what had happened to me as “identity theft.” Are we in such a sad state of technological advance that losing email and Facebook accounts now constituted you as being indentityless? Who was I? Had my life lost it's meaning? Was I still allowed to introduce myself as Kelly-Paige or did I now have to find a new identity? “Nice to meet you, I'm Kelly_Paige22@hotmail.com.”
One account couldn't be reinstated without the consent of the other. Nothing could be rectified until I had Google convinced that I was the rightful owner of my account. Google hated me, told me that I “did not seem to be the account holder.” How did they know? What could I do to sway their vote? Was my hacker, at this very moment, pulling the Google strings, telling the Google geeks that they in fact were the honourable members of my prestigious Gmail?
After much toil and trouble, days of frustration, several unnecessary tearful fits from the people I threw things at in my frustration, and the completion of one very crystallized bottle of sherry, I managed to recover my gmail. Celebration! My life has been recovered. My existence has been reinstated. My identity has returned. I have been reconnected to the world. My life is back on course. How very, very, sad of me.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Prove to me that you're hardcore, show me your ink.
Gone are the days when just prisoners and society's drop-outs desecrate their bodies with symbolic representations of their killings or gang-related misdemeanour's. These days it's become socially acceptable, even expected, to coat yourself in an ink disguise. Without a tattoo you are considered a jock outcast- forever exiled to the realms of decency and dweebness. You are considered a sissy, an over-achiever, a wife-beater-consuming coke-sniffing pop-music-loving commercial junkie.
Mothers nationwide frown upon new piercings, tattoos, haircuts that inspire images of awkward poodle shavings. They forget that time breeds change. As the decades have swum passed trends have developed, broken, sustained and switched into new categories of existence. What was once considered as a badge for the screw-ups has now evolved into a broach for the trendy. We wear our ink proudly, showing it off with a pompous confidence that proves our alternative coolness, our separation from the over-crowded commercial society we dwell in.
Problem is, in trying so hard to be quirky and alternative, we've spread our influence, taking over the top spot in the race for majority acceptance. We no longer hold the minority, we seep into conventional society, declaring our difference all the while dominating the populace. Despite the irony of this situation, we remain a proud gaggle of human existence. We continue to inject ink into our skin, we pierce and stretch any appendage that can be located by a plastic glove-wearing sadist. We strut like peacocks, flashing our decorations like Christmas trees, glittering like proud glow worms.
I knock our separatism, yet still sign up for it every time I add to the growing list of baubles that adorn my body. I like it, we all do, that's why we partake. We give ourselves a sense of tribal recognition; connecting through sight with others of our kind, nodding in the direction of one we respect, sending our mutual condolences to those, like ourselves, who are outcasts. ([sic] all irony.) We “creative types” with our “alternative ways” and “trendy traits” will undoubtedly become a generation of child-rearing awkward misfits who were once cool, yet now are left with daily momentos of the folly of our youth.
None of us are likely to ever don a suit, we choose careers that allow for individualism, fearing the future and what our adornments will mean for it. Bring on times and their changes, I vow to retain my difference, to be an ageing hippy, to defend my tattoos to the end.
Mothers nationwide frown upon new piercings, tattoos, haircuts that inspire images of awkward poodle shavings. They forget that time breeds change. As the decades have swum passed trends have developed, broken, sustained and switched into new categories of existence. What was once considered as a badge for the screw-ups has now evolved into a broach for the trendy. We wear our ink proudly, showing it off with a pompous confidence that proves our alternative coolness, our separation from the over-crowded commercial society we dwell in.
Problem is, in trying so hard to be quirky and alternative, we've spread our influence, taking over the top spot in the race for majority acceptance. We no longer hold the minority, we seep into conventional society, declaring our difference all the while dominating the populace. Despite the irony of this situation, we remain a proud gaggle of human existence. We continue to inject ink into our skin, we pierce and stretch any appendage that can be located by a plastic glove-wearing sadist. We strut like peacocks, flashing our decorations like Christmas trees, glittering like proud glow worms.
I knock our separatism, yet still sign up for it every time I add to the growing list of baubles that adorn my body. I like it, we all do, that's why we partake. We give ourselves a sense of tribal recognition; connecting through sight with others of our kind, nodding in the direction of one we respect, sending our mutual condolences to those, like ourselves, who are outcasts. ([sic] all irony.) We “creative types” with our “alternative ways” and “trendy traits” will undoubtedly become a generation of child-rearing awkward misfits who were once cool, yet now are left with daily momentos of the folly of our youth.
None of us are likely to ever don a suit, we choose careers that allow for individualism, fearing the future and what our adornments will mean for it. Bring on times and their changes, I vow to retain my difference, to be an ageing hippy, to defend my tattoos to the end.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Metrosexual tables have turned
The ethereal fairy-like beauty next to me opens her mouth and lets out a burp that'd make windows shatter. It echoes throughout the quad-like rooftop of college, bouncing off the walls, vibrations moving the very concrete we sit on. She muses silently for a while before querying “Do you ever feel like the person you are in your head is not the person everyone sees you as?” Two of us stare at her, surprised, yet in awe of her vocal projection and honesty.
I'm attacked daily for my chipped nail-polish, my vulgarity, my mercenary-like swearing, even my ferociously unfeminine appetite. I have reached a conclusion though- sitting with my girls over a hurried lunch break- one burping, one picking her teeth with her nail, the other sitting legs wide and welcoming, that we are still the ladies we need to be when it's appropriate, but mostly we're all just slobs when it comes to crunch time.
Gentlemen. Never fear, most of us will keep our disgusting qualities to ourselves, you'll never have to bare witness to the profanity of true girl-speak. (shoes, shopping and hair cuts have never come into this type of conversation.) We blurt the unimaginable to each other. We discuss the coarse reality we live with. It gets nasty. We become uncivilised, repulsive even. If only I could crack open this Pandora's box of indecency and show it to the world of men. All bets are on you'd have a lot more respect for the women in your lives, you may even fear us and our boorish speak that'd outshine yours any day. Luckily, this is a feat that will no longer have to be performed- girls like me have been showing ourselves for far too long to backtrack at this stage.
Our friends have been shocked and emasculated by our talents and yet, still, we soldier on- dispelling myths everywhere of little-white-glove-wearing darlings you may think you know. Guaranteed there are a lot of girls who manage to maintain perfection, I applaud you. You wake up every morning, repaint your nails, straighten you hair, lather your face in a swamps worth of gunk, don your pretty-in-pink sweater and set off for your day of mystery-maintaining madness. I must send these girls a warning- you're on the out. We're the new metrosexuals and we're here to stay. Got to go now- i have an evening to get to and need to do my hair.
I'm attacked daily for my chipped nail-polish, my vulgarity, my mercenary-like swearing, even my ferociously unfeminine appetite. I have reached a conclusion though- sitting with my girls over a hurried lunch break- one burping, one picking her teeth with her nail, the other sitting legs wide and welcoming, that we are still the ladies we need to be when it's appropriate, but mostly we're all just slobs when it comes to crunch time.
Gentlemen. Never fear, most of us will keep our disgusting qualities to ourselves, you'll never have to bare witness to the profanity of true girl-speak. (shoes, shopping and hair cuts have never come into this type of conversation.) We blurt the unimaginable to each other. We discuss the coarse reality we live with. It gets nasty. We become uncivilised, repulsive even. If only I could crack open this Pandora's box of indecency and show it to the world of men. All bets are on you'd have a lot more respect for the women in your lives, you may even fear us and our boorish speak that'd outshine yours any day. Luckily, this is a feat that will no longer have to be performed- girls like me have been showing ourselves for far too long to backtrack at this stage.
Our friends have been shocked and emasculated by our talents and yet, still, we soldier on- dispelling myths everywhere of little-white-glove-wearing darlings you may think you know. Guaranteed there are a lot of girls who manage to maintain perfection, I applaud you. You wake up every morning, repaint your nails, straighten you hair, lather your face in a swamps worth of gunk, don your pretty-in-pink sweater and set off for your day of mystery-maintaining madness. I must send these girls a warning- you're on the out. We're the new metrosexuals and we're here to stay. Got to go now- i have an evening to get to and need to do my hair.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Tucking the Tackle
He lifted it. He tucked it. He moulded it back into the crevices of his tightey whities. He removed his genitaliated hand from his waistband and shook my own freshly washed one. I gagged. He was unfazed, riding on the confidence of his ultra manliness.
Consider this image; a blonde Betty-Boop sashays down the sidewalk. With all the sensuality to kill a horse she moves with the grace of a willow. She stops, unabashedly plunging her left hand, merlot nails and all, into the depths of her peel-on, peel-off jeans. After groping, grabbing and readjusting for a time she yanks her hand back into the fresh air she walks in. This tells me that it doesn't matter how attractive you are, how confident, self-assured, uncomfortable or itchy, no-one, not anyone, should fondle their own genitalia in public.
This division between the socially acceptable and the straight-up verboden ignites the question of why (oh why) do men still partake in this crude, neanderthallic practice when they would be outspokenly adverse to the idea of a woman doing the same thing. Yes, we get that when your tackle begins to tackle one another it becomes uncomfortable. We sympathise with your awful situation and daily woes. Yet empathy stretches only so far. Your practise is indecent, unhygienic, often sweat-fuelled and smelly, and just damn gross. Public bathrooms, now there's a place for you to find refuge for your aching bits.
I implore all men, boys and in-betweeners, keep your private plunders to yourself. Find a safe place, behind closed doors, blinds or fences, make the necessary adjustments, regroup with the rest of the world. Remember, it's just a hop, skip and a touch from public fondling to indecent exposure, guaranteed arrest and paedophilia charges. Refrain men, I beg of you.
Consider this image; a blonde Betty-Boop sashays down the sidewalk. With all the sensuality to kill a horse she moves with the grace of a willow. She stops, unabashedly plunging her left hand, merlot nails and all, into the depths of her peel-on, peel-off jeans. After groping, grabbing and readjusting for a time she yanks her hand back into the fresh air she walks in. This tells me that it doesn't matter how attractive you are, how confident, self-assured, uncomfortable or itchy, no-one, not anyone, should fondle their own genitalia in public.
This division between the socially acceptable and the straight-up verboden ignites the question of why (oh why) do men still partake in this crude, neanderthallic practice when they would be outspokenly adverse to the idea of a woman doing the same thing. Yes, we get that when your tackle begins to tackle one another it becomes uncomfortable. We sympathise with your awful situation and daily woes. Yet empathy stretches only so far. Your practise is indecent, unhygienic, often sweat-fuelled and smelly, and just damn gross. Public bathrooms, now there's a place for you to find refuge for your aching bits.
I implore all men, boys and in-betweeners, keep your private plunders to yourself. Find a safe place, behind closed doors, blinds or fences, make the necessary adjustments, regroup with the rest of the world. Remember, it's just a hop, skip and a touch from public fondling to indecent exposure, guaranteed arrest and paedophilia charges. Refrain men, I beg of you.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Gingervitis
There is a terrorist in my neighbourhood. He stalks members of my family, prowls the perimeters of my house and, when emboldened, will find his way into my lounge to pick a violent, bloody brawl with my eldest child. His name is Nibbles.
Nibbles is a ginger savage who didn't get enough love in his kitten-hood and feels the need to project his pain onto Harvey, my grey and white spotted fluffy ball of joy.
Harvey lives in fear of this menace, opting to spend his time hiding behind couches, in cupboards and under coffee tables to avoid an attack.
Every morning I wake to the piercing scream of my cat, only to rush bleary-eyed downstairs where i find him cornered by the maniacal tiger. I launch a 3litre jug of ice water at Nibbles, soaking him nose to tail-tip with the freezing liquid, quietly praying (as only an atheist can) that he won't be coming back again. Repeat process the following morning. Ditto the day after that.
It's been four months of feline fury that my family has had to deal with. Rushing Harvey to the vet once a week for sprained ankles, rabies shots, bandages, therapy.
My main concern is that the owner of the cat (Mrs X) feels nothing for what we go through every day. "He's an angel at home!" She exclaims, a reassurance that we are in fact bonkers and have not dealt with her beast day in and day out for far too long.
This is my question: Do I take out the whole X family or just Nibbles? They're renting for Christ sakes,they don't even belong here!
I'm not sure if I need a paint-ball gun or a bulldog, either way, I intend to "deal" with Nibbles just as soon as I can get him on his own. No-one messes with my boys and gets away with it. No-one.
Nibbles is a ginger savage who didn't get enough love in his kitten-hood and feels the need to project his pain onto Harvey, my grey and white spotted fluffy ball of joy.
Harvey lives in fear of this menace, opting to spend his time hiding behind couches, in cupboards and under coffee tables to avoid an attack.
Every morning I wake to the piercing scream of my cat, only to rush bleary-eyed downstairs where i find him cornered by the maniacal tiger. I launch a 3litre jug of ice water at Nibbles, soaking him nose to tail-tip with the freezing liquid, quietly praying (as only an atheist can) that he won't be coming back again. Repeat process the following morning. Ditto the day after that.
It's been four months of feline fury that my family has had to deal with. Rushing Harvey to the vet once a week for sprained ankles, rabies shots, bandages, therapy.
My main concern is that the owner of the cat (Mrs X) feels nothing for what we go through every day. "He's an angel at home!" She exclaims, a reassurance that we are in fact bonkers and have not dealt with her beast day in and day out for far too long.
This is my question: Do I take out the whole X family or just Nibbles? They're renting for Christ sakes,they don't even belong here!
I'm not sure if I need a paint-ball gun or a bulldog, either way, I intend to "deal" with Nibbles just as soon as I can get him on his own. No-one messes with my boys and gets away with it. No-one.
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