Wheatless Existence

My bones shake, rhythmically knocking my kneecaps together. Thud thud clap thud clap clap thud. It begins to hurt. I can feel my heart beating in my ass. The wooden chair I sit on becomes a torture device, tightening to the pulse of my ass-heart-beat. My hair sprawls spider-like and sweat-drenched across my pursed lips, my creased forehead, my adamant, set face. Slowly, meticulously, I lift my head, release my lips from their sphinctered pose and say, “No.” The cheeseburger glares back. Animosity and strife rippling through the very sauce it's drenched in. It threatens to consume me, as opposed to the more socially acceptable adverse.

To fluff out what must be an agonising confusion for you, dear reader, I'm allergic to wheat. Have you ever tried a rye-burger? Don't. It's god-awful. My life exists with anguish, awkwardness and a constant, painful yearning. Every muffin becomes a crude Larson-esque Attila-the-bun character. Every hammy, pineappley, cheesey, phantasmagorical pizza slice slaps me across the face, jeering. Taunting me. Each noodle winds itself around my very heartstrings, squeezing, imploring me to perform my basic human right and eat the godly substance that is flour.

Sure, it's easy for you to tell me that I'm over-reacting, you apathetic wheat-muncher. This isn't a woes-me rant. It's a “try and see where I'm coming from, living with this most evil of all allergies” rant. Totally different. Imagine a life without butter-drenched naan bread, jam-filled doughnuts covered in puffs of sugar, waffles, sweet, glorious waffles, suspended in golden, sparkling pools of maple syrup, capped with billowing, voluminous peaks of soft, white whipped cream. Now tell me you don't feel a slight twinge of empathy.

Yes, there are substitutes. Yes, they taste practically the same. Yes, they cost give-or take nine times the price of regular wheat flour products. Yes, I'm a student and am in no way going to throw away precious drinking money on rice flour. (I probably would spend my drinking money on rice flour, if I was afforded the opportunity to have such a thing as drinking money.) The point is, despite the fact that there are a million wheat-free alternatives to choose from, I want the original. I want the waffles that give me headaches and stomach cramps, it's a discomfort that I've always associated with waffles. No pain, no gain. No waffle, no pain. (This is the point where I begin to concern myself with the state of my mental health.)

O.K, so I'm stubborn and ridiculous. I get it now. Once written down, I see that I've got to either perform acts of thievery to sponsor my rice-flour habit, or accept that I'm going to feel ill every time I succumb to the dreaded desire for wheat. Bite the bullet, not the cheeseburger. Suck up the situation and not the noodle. Find something worth ranting about.

I felt it. It was here.

I passed May this year in foetal position. My shivers of fear shook the very desk I hid beneath, my left eye twitched out S.O.S in Morse code, my stomach shrank to the size of the metaphorical fist clenched around it. Grievously aware of my toes remaining permanently curled, I devised methods of pulling off ringletted toenails as a trend. 1 month till the dreaded World Cup. The pillars of security hoisting my national pride were threatening collapse, crumbling at the edges like a Marie Biscuit.

I lived all 31 days of May with the fear. What happens when our country is flooded with every race you knew about, maybe even a few you didn't, and every single one of those unsuspecting travellers gets their wallets surgically removed from the safety belt-like contraption constricting their torsos? What happens when the first German tourist gets a gun to the head whilst cruising in his rental Beemer? He may not understand the hollered words, but the gun I'm sure he'll get. He'll spring from the vehicle like a cuckoo bird, watching his car insurance speed away up the foreign freeway.

I thought of the wrong kind of striker. Not the one trying desperately to bend Jabulani, the one with a placard, a war-cry and a vicious forearm. I mused on unfinished roadworks, dysfunctional airports, loud-mouthed arrogant, ignorant adolescent politicians. I was pre-emptively embarrassed for South Africa. I woke up cringing every morning.

The opening ceremony did nothing to untangle my tweaked nerves. The off-key singing, awkward presenters, general-all-round awful music sent spirals of sickness oozing down into my finger tips. I held tight to my shuddering knees, curling closer into my human doughnut of safety. Regretting my decision to be in this country during the Cup, I resignedly watched Finding Nemo instead of Bafana's first game. However, I remember going onto Facebook at one point on the evening the game was on. Shockwaves radiated through my brain. We drew. We actually nearly won a game.

Suddenly a new dawn opened for me. This could be so much more than a mortifying experience for our country. We might pull this whole thing off. After choosing Spain as my team, I began to watch. Obsessively. Soccer dominated my mind and controlled my movements. Hells if Spain didn't pull through for me. The buggers won the whole damn competition. Pride flaked off me like dandruff.

Despite my initial pessimism, (a deadly understatement) I supported, I screamed, I blew a goddamn vuvuzela. I strutted my stuff on the fanwalk, ate Prego rolls the nights Portugal played, wore orange for the first time in my life when Netherlands crumpled Cameroon. I became a global patriot.

Don't get me wrong, I'm never going to be the happy-clappy type, sitting around a camp-fire, melodiously belting out my very best Kumbayah. But I supported. I did my bit. Just waiting now for the bit the world's going to do for me. I'll be here if you're looking for me, World. Waiting. (awkward cough.)

Humane Kindness

I dislike people. I dislike their smell, their words, their arrogance, their inherent meanness. They swarm and conquer like ants. They pounce unsuspectingly on a downtrodden earth, forcing it into submission with disease and an imposition of humanness.

The word “humane” distresses me. How supercilious of the human race to create a word meaning “goodness” and “kindness” and yet turn it into a reflection of the very beings who created it. On my stagnant journeys through life I've met more humane hamsters than I have people.

Eddie Izzard, reigning god of comedy and commentary, eloquently portrays the perfect scenario of the evil that doesn't exist in animals. His “Evil giraffe” skit brings tears of laughter to my eyes, and, simultaneously, enrages my over-worked bile duct. A dog takes a biscuit and is called a “bad dog.” The dog looks inquisitively up at his owner and says in a voice that would make James Mason proud, “Who are you to judge me? You human beings who've had genocide, war against people of different creeds, colours, religions. And I stole a biscuit? Is that a crime?” The owner proceeds to give his dog another biscuit. Between snorts of laughter, I find myself seething with anger after watching this scene. Why do people think that in desecrating the world we live in, we somehow have laid some kind of claim to it. Who are we to call a dog bad for stealing a biscuit? It's us who need to be slapped a few times around the face with a rolled up newspaper and sent, tail between our legs, to an afternoon in a kennel.

I'll admit that I've tried this method with people. Neither my sister or the now ex-friend appreciated the treatment very much though. Whilst we reprimand our animals for their badness, they frequently show more humanity than we ever could. There's a clip on Youtube that could wrench the guts out of even the most hardened criminals. It depicts a dog being hit by a car on the highway. None of the drivers stop for him. He lies there, crumpled and broken while the assholes in their sedans drive passed, content in their hybrid, air-conditioned, gass-spewing pouches of vehicular safety. Another dog, who witnessed the dramatic hit from the pavement, puts his own life on the line to cross the bustling highway to retrieve the injured dog. He places both of his front paws around the patient and drags him to the safety of the pavement. The “humanity” encased in metal speed passed, oblivious to the miracle enrolling on the tar outside. Tell me, who was more humane? The rescue dog, who saved the life of the other on his own munition, or the drivers who ignored the whole scenario?

I've considered convincing others to no longer refer to anyone being humane. Rather, try “hamsterane,” “canine,” even “frogane.” Anything but humane. We need to stop bigging ourselves up, inflating our already Zeppelin-like heads, hero-worshipping, pretending that the sun shines out of our every orifice. We do not rule the world, we're just labouring under the misapprehension that we do. Viva la era of caninity. Dogs, I will follow you into the vicious throngs of battle.

Ubernormal Activity

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.

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.

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.

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.