Why I Might Just Quit Facebook (You Should Too)

Facebook has done a wonderful job of creating an application that feeds into human’s need for personal recognition and a feeling of awareness about others around then, and not much more.

In the past week 14 people have asked me why I no longer post as much as I used to, and after thinking and thinking I realised that asides from my total disillusionment, it had become a right bore. Mind you, this has nothing to do with Facebook itself... although I call it 'facebook fatigue'

I think users on Facebook tend to try to make Facebook an extension of their internal Confidos, and other than that, just try to share boring life details or thoughts in an attention power grab.

I’m guilty of it and so are you. After you read this, you should be cured.

Watching your friends and acquaintances on Facebook is a bit like watching a long-form documentary about Farming. While you don’t know all of the specifics and details about either, you can kind of figure how it all goes down.

The details you learn about your friends’ ideas, lives and events are not surprising:

·         Clever people say clever things

·         Dumb people say dumb things

·         Hip people go to hip events

·         Boring people’s lives are boring

·         Good looking people take nice photos of themselves

·         Rich people do and own expensive things

·         Fat people eat a lot

On Facebook you’re only as good as your last status update and if you post at non-peak hours nobody might even see it, this I cannot abide. 

Strawberry Daiquiris In South Africa

After a couple of strawberry daiquiris and a month without posting I feel I have enough material to start posting again.

You should know that I finally racked up enough courage to cross the border into South Africa... ahhh the land of milk and honey.

This is not true.

South Africa is a violent vicious place, where any indication that you are not a local marks you out for mugging and blatant xenophobic intolerance.

Why just the other day, when I had at last mustered enough courage to use public transport, i got into a bus and sat beside a wizened old fella I felt safe beside him. That is, until I opened my mouth. 

I asked him what the fare was and he replied in a series of clicks and grunts.

I gave him a blank stare.

And indicated by gesturing to my ears that I did not speak the language.

Dear reader, I cannot begin to describe to you the look of disdain that flashed across the toothless man’s face, only to be replaced by unbridled disgust.

Flashing out lip-gloss and calmly applying it did not seem to help my case with him, for he gave me the up and down and just as calmly turned to his travel buddy, clicking and gesturing in my direction animatedly whilst his partner proceeded to give me an oh so withering look over his shoulder.

I was unphased.

Even the beggars on the street do not take nonsense.

Why just the other day, one came up to me while I was waiting for the taxis and told me exactly how much he wanted from me.

She said, “Give me R5,” pointing at my bag.

I did not have that much change and was a bit put off so I shook my head, he would not leave, he encroached even more into my personal space and brought out a form with a list of signatures of other people who had given him R5 or more!

So that he would leave me alone, I counted out R3 in coins and gave him, he was not too happy and after waiting a few more seconds he moved on.

I am not sure how I am going to take to this place. A part of me feels like a rejected limb... bring in the medics!

Why I Don't Want To Go To Church

My 21^st birthday anniversary is in a couple of month’s time, to that end I have decided to start taking my fitness a little more seriously. Sit-ups, press-ups, lunges, and two hour walks.

For the first two days, I stuck to this regime, until I felt all the muscles in my body start to give.

 Day three, my stomach muscles felt like someone was pulling them end to end and hammering tunelessly at them.

So I dropped the sit-ups, I figured my stomach was flat and taut enough.

On day four, I had to ditch the lunges. The muscles in my thighs finally gave, all that tugging and pulling to get toned legs wasn’t worth it, besides who needs exercises when you do not have a car?

I do not.

So seven days later I am down to the walks alone.

Let’s see how long that’s going to last.

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Having said that. Something has been bugging me for the past couple of weeks. I cannot seem able to bring myself to go to church. Hush now, do not start judging yet. Listen.

Every Sunday morning I wake up bright and early with the best of intentions. I clean the house and take up my post just outside the gate. Soaking in the sun... that is what I tell people, when really it is just an excuse to stand and stare at people.

The Gumbo’s from across the street leave for church before everyone else in the neighbourhood leaves the house. They are in the Salvation Army.

But they don’t leave all at once. First goes the son, he is nine and then the two daughters, thirty minutes later, mum leaves. Mr Gumbo does not go with them. Every Saturday afternoon he drinks himself into a stupor and does not wake up until the next Monday.

 Bless Mrs Gumbo for staying with him. You should know that their house is right at the end of the street, packed in between two bigger houses. How all five of them stay together in that house is beyond me. Bless Mrs. Gumbo for staying.

After the Gumbos comes Madzibaba Astriledge, he is an apostle/prophet/headman/guru and whatever other odd title you want to place on him. He will take them all. He seems to glide down the street, his long white robes billow behind him, and his almost two metre long wooden stick always manages to stay at least an inch above ground.

His baldhead waves and winks in the morning sun, and I find men with baldheads fascinating.

When he sees me, he starts smiling from at least three houses away.

 A toothless smile that has flies and other little critters flying in and out of his mouth (I believe I saw some doing that the other day). And his cheeks puff out, black and shiny from Vaseline like he is hiding little clouds in his mouth.

He does not say anything to me though.

Merely waves and tucks back his toothless gums in his mouth. I somehow think that perhaps the smile he gives me is contrived.

Next, comes the woman from my church. If you still yourself (that includes your heart), you can feel the little ripples in the earth with each step she takes. Her hips fight for each lunge, to the right, to the left, in a mountainous motion that has your mouth open a little and little drips of saliva dripping out.

Her skirt flits and stops, flits and stops. The moment I see her rounding the corner I know it is time to dash inside and get ready for church.

But I don’t.

I stand there mesmerised (well that's not entirely true), by her and the couple that follows, the little boy on his way home with a loaf of bread. The little girls getting ready to start playing in the street.

And the excuses swelling in my head, and then exploding into a million others in my head.

The biggest and possibly the most dangerous is that I say to myself in a voice so sage I could, in that moment, be a guru,

“You don’t have to go to church to be a Christian.”

I never admit that I am wrong because if I were, I would know but bottom line, LIES ALL LIES!!

Why do I have to go to church?

The answer to the question, “Why do I have to go to church?” is fourfold:

1.       It is in the fellowship of the church where we find Jesus Christ.

2.     It is in the fellowship of the church where we find protection from the demonic forces of evil and sin in this world.

3.       It is in the fellowship of the church where we find encouragement in life.

4.       It is in the fellowship of the church where we become Jesus Christ to the world.

For the reason that I believe Jesus Christ died for me, for that reason alone. I am ditching my crowd watching, people profiling nonsensical Sunday morning activities. Spending Sundays watching TBN is really not the same as the beauty of fellowshipping in Jesus Christ.

The Misadventures of Bob and Morgan: Part Two

We follow our miscreants (read part 1) as they deal with the demands of sharing power, and office life.

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On Thursday, it was reported that ‘mole people’ had allegedly killed the Bob (Bob) and the Morgan (Morgan) and Zimbabweans could not make up their minds about how they felt about that.

The story was a hoax. However, realising that any publicity is good publicity the two quickly launched into an I-am-braver-than-you fest, with the Bob claiming that his escape from the mole people showed that he was brave enough to lead the people for another four years. The Morgan not to be outdone launched a counter attack.

Asked to describe the Morgan’s bravery compared to his the Bob quickly raised his hands estimated that it was not very high and was the equivalent to the fist of a foetus.

Upon further questioning, the Bob admitted that he had in fact never seen the fist of a foetus.

Upon hearing this Morgan grew furious and demanded that Bob estimate again exactly how brave, he thought he was. Appalled that Morgan had called him a liar Bob quickly called a press conference showing the size of the mole people that had attacked Morgan adding that it did not require that much bravery when was attacked by people that tall.

Realising that it was only a matter of time before the people started thinking him a coward, Morgan quickly called a rally to show that how big the ‘mole people’ were .

 The crowd was quickly whipped up into a frenzy and demanded that the Morgan show Bob exactly how much bravery that required. To which Morgan quickly responded by moving his hands round and round in a circle saying that it required, “mountains and mountains of bravery.”

Bob called in the Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmedinejad, who said that the ‘mole people’ who had attacked Bob were very presidential, very tall. In addition, that they were not the same ones who had attacked Morgan. All the while Bob stood by his side trying to show the Iranian president how tall he should make them.

Asked to estimate exactly how many would be sent to attack such a Presidential fellow President Mahmoud Ahmedinejad could not seem to make up his mind, and awkwardly raised his hand to show.

This caused such confusion amongst the journalists as they were torn between three and four ‘mole people’ that could have attacked Bob that the police had to be called in.

Feeling pressure from the journalist over the number of ‘mole people’, Bob took to the podium and desperately began retelling the story by increasing the number to five.

On hearing this Morgan rushed to the conference and declared that, “I can prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Bob is a liar,”

Knowing this to be true.Grace hung her head in shame and hoped that nobody would see her. Embarassed because Bob was always making up stories about mole people

An unidentified member of the Bob family embarrassed for her uncle, wept.

All the while, Bob continued opening and shutting his mouth, hoping that some bout of inspiration would hit him and get him out of this mess.

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To be continued

Arm Wrestling With A Lesbian

I have a list of sports that i esteem so low i feel none of them
belong in the Olympics and rightly so.

Arm wrestling is not one of them.

I tried arm wrestling once and I am not sure whether it was the mix of
intimidation and humiliation that made me lose, or that for all the
nineteen years of my life I had lived in a state of heightened
self-delusion resulting in my humiliating loss.

It was not C's strength that I found intimidating; it was the starry,
retarded way her eyes focused on me, like Mike Tyson getting ready to
feed. I didn't even try to put up a fight the first few times, but the
celebratory high-fiving and hooting, combined with half a gummy ear's
torso still stuck to my eardrum, were reason to grow delirious.

"Fine, you fucker, let's go!" I yelled.

Getting into position on the floor while my friend T video-recorded
what would inevitably turn into a violent episode of The L Word. I
hoped I could turn my anger and humiliation into a sort of rabies
strength but was reminded time and again who was in charge.

Losing in conjunction with the stadium cheering was not the worst part; after
she beat each one of us, she would leapfrog onto the back of our
heads, crushing our faces into the tiling, and then spank us.
It was beyond embarrassing.

After that, i could never look C in the eye afraid that she would take
any opportunity to remind me how scrawny I was. I did everything in my
wheelhouse to avoid a one on one altercation. I averted eye contact
and generally made sure that we were never alone in a room.

I have not seen C since then. Everything about her scares me. I
suppose it has to do with the fact that she looks like a transgender
villain, and that at the time she was dating a man with shoulders the
size of a barge and a head like a steamroller.

I suppose my problem with her was that she was an unattractive
heterosexual who acted like a lesbian on steroids. That and the fact
that she dressed like a truck driver and cursed like one too. If
anyone had asked me if she were a woman, I would utter and reiterated
that no, I did not believe that she was female and that if we did any
further DNA investigation her constitution would prove me right.

Although her voice did all the proving one needed, it boomed from wall
to wall, end to end. Shaking the rafters of the house. I suspect she
is the reason why the earth would grow silent everytime she spoke.
Even a whisper from her sounded like a scratch to your eardrum.
I wonder about her sometimes, especially now.

Is she married? Living in a house with a white picket fence with her
children, little man girls with broad shoulders and buck teeth.

Or maybe she realised she was a lesbian after all *place-know-it-all emotican*

--
Vulnavia T. Gura
vulnaviag.blogspot.com