Life’s waste

Waste is seeing a six year old in a hospital bed with no hair
Waste is having the perfect pizza being eaten in front of you while on diet
Waste is buying the perfect pair of shoes in the wrong colour
Waste is finally learning how to master that yoga pose and then breaking a leg

Waste is having a phone with ipod capabilities without the earphones
Waste is watching tv without sound
Waste is having a balcony with no view
Waste is meeting the perfect man but finding out he’s gay

Waste is accepting pregnancy and then suffering a miscarriage
Waste is having survived cancer only to die from suicide
Waste is coming home to a robbed house a week after you cancel insurance
Waste is looking gorgeous for hours and then only being seen after you’ve changed into your house clothes

Waste is not being with the one you love.

Waste. It’s the essence of life, but life wouldn’t be worth it without the lessons you get out of Waste.

My thought for the day. Use it, don’t use it…

The Cirque du Soleil clown lookalike rapist

This post is a fictional entry to Parenthesis’ Dazzle Me competition and should not be taken literally or figuratively.

The museum is buzzing. Artistic types wearing bohemian skirts, flowing shirts and beaded jewellery mumbling to each other in front of different art work pieces, old women in and out of the Mallacology section, young children screaming in and out of the Africa golden circle. I muse on how the lions grabbed their attention every time. I’ve wondered in the past why, they’re only stuffed animals after all. Their lifeless eyes do nothing for me, yet for the little ankle biters under a foot high, the stuffed lion captures their full attention.

Over the loud speakers I vaguely hear a name announced but I pay no attention to any of it, to the voice or the people around me – I hear all of it but it goes in the one ear and out of the other, not connecting at all with my conscious. I’m far too enraptured with what I see before me:

The eyes. They eyes foretell of a secret, a dirty one. His eyes, the man who raped me stands before me in the form of a picture hanging in the Natal Museum. It is not really him, naturally. But without the makeup and Cirque du Soleil hat and outfit, that face could belong to him. To Sarah’s Dad.

My best friend Sarah’s father was an eccentric man, he believed in star signs, tarot cards and fortune cookies. For hours on end he would muse over astrology and tell stories of gypsies and their kin. He would pick us up from school and drop us off at whichever venue we had chosen for the afternoon. He would cover for us when we came home late or snuck out of the house to go visit the boys across the street. We were fourteen and we could get away with murder when he was around, do anything we liked.

Sarah couldn’t understand why this was so, but she knew it was only when I was around. “He trusts you for some reason,” she said to me once. If she only knew the truth. The truth that involved him creeping into her room at night after we were asleep and the house was silent, whispering in a demanding voice that I follow him to the pool room.

Taking my reluctant hand until he would open the door, lead me to the pool table where he would bend me over, run his hands along my inner thighs and force himself inside me over and over again. I could smell him, feel him, hear him as he violated me, abused me, debased me with his actions every weekend for three years. It terrified me to think that by going to Sarah’s house it meant my body would have to succumb to this treatment, but it terrified me even more to not have a friend. Sarah was the only one who would talk to the nerd, the quiet girl, the girl who wore glasses and was too skinny.

I knew what Sarah’s dad was doing was wrong. I knew that I could have had him stopped. I knew that it was termed ‘rape’. But I also knew that every time I cried while he was grunting on top of me, he would threaten me with the chance I might never get to see Sarah again. That Sarah wouldn’t believe me. That I wouldn’t be allowed to spend time with her anymore. That, to me, was far worse.

A loud announcement brings me back to the museum. I stand here staring at this freaky picture in front of me thinking back to the days before Sarah decided that I wasn’t cool enough for her at school and stopped talking to me because her new friends wouldn’t invite me into the ‘cool’ circle. I realize for the first time how desperately sad and how dirty I feel that I had sacrificed my innocence, allowed someone to invade me in the most intimate and unwilling way for a friend who so shallowly and easily sacrificed our friendship.

“Listen to me and remember this,” he would say menacingly, out of breath, shoving his shirt back into the top of his pants after cleaning himself, and in his hippie way of speaking; “the guardians of the rainbow don’t like those who get in the way of the sun”.

I went to buy milk and came back intoxicated at midnight

‘We need milk’ I said to Cath, and off we went to the mall.  In the pudding isle of Spar my evil flatmate says to me with a glint in her eye ‘you know, there’s a bar just upstairs… We could go for like, one tiny drink’.

It went all pear shaped from there.  After vodka/sours shooters, coctails, blowjobs and spring boks in shot glasses, one hippie venue, Max Normal live & a bday party, I found myself on the lounge floor at midnight eating a pie in a very disorderly fashion with Cath splayed across from me with no pants on.

Fabulous! Also, I was introduced to the bar right down the street. I foretell a danger.

Sheen Meme

I’m lazy as all hell today, my interwebz are fuxored and I’ve done far too much work to allow me some creative juices a flow, so here’s a meme I copied off an email.  Bite me:

* Two names you go by:  

1.       Sheen

2.       Sheebs

*Two things you wearing right now: 

1.         Multi coloured, low cut poka dot shirt

2.         Silver sandals

* Two things you want very badly at the moment: 

1.        My pasta to auto-magically warm itself up so I don’t need to trek to the kitchen

2.        Those papers to come together. I need to know man!
 

Two things you did last night: (significant)  

1.             Bent myself into a pretzel at Yoga

 2.           Had a few toots with the girls

* Two things you ate today  

1.            Nothing

2.            Yet  
 

* Two people you last spoke to:  

1.           A male collegue with a sexy voice.  

 
2.           Cath. We bitched and moaned and threw a tantrum or two.

*Two things you’re doing this weekend: 
   

1.          Sleeping in like  a motherbitch, I’m still trying to recover from my bday weekend.

2.          Eating some form of meat, I need protein, feeling anaemic.  Aneamic. Aneeemick.  The thing where you have not enough blood and your eyes are dark.  Ja, that thing.

Two longest car rides:  

1.      Sheppie to Hermanus then Pilansberg

2.      Cape Town to Mozambique

    
Two favorite beverages: 

1.             Very sweet tea or hot chocolate with just water

2.             Coke 

I tag everyone who reads this. Don’t try sneak out the back, I saw you, Bitch! Yes – even you! Sit down.

THANK SOMEBODY’S GOD / ALLAH / MARY / BUDDAH / KRISHNA & MOSES IT IS FRIDAY!

Win free stuff for le bedroom/bathroom/office – whichever you prefer, really.

Dear young (whisper: and sexy) Chris from iMod has been receiving a bit of flack on muti for his blog recently. Something about it not being geeky enough to earn Tech Blog 2008 award.  I say pooh to that! I am a lurker usually, I enjoy his writing and he’s informative and random, my two favourite things in a blogger. 

Whilst stalking reading Chris yesterday, I then noticed that he’s opened up a compo to bloggers of a rather, personal nature and I thought “well, why the hell not – let me be the first chickie brave enough to enter”. Because hey, if I was a guy I would totally be okay with everyone knowing I was sometimes a wanker, so why be coy just for the reason of being female? 

And so, here I am, telling you fabulous readers, to follow suit and enter yourselves, if not for the desperate need to have some quality time with your privates in self loving, then to support the worthy cause of mutual happiness by the bodies at http://www.hustlerextreme.co.za/.  Come now, I know you want to. 

I know that technically I am supposed to only list one of their products, but a service caught my beady little eye and I feel that since I am the last South African twenty something female not about to run off and get married and also the fact that I make one hell of a good bridesmaid, knowing about what they can offer is a brilliant feat of success on my part since I oft end up throwing the bachelorette parties for all my ball and chain buddies. 

Also, lets face it, my vibrator broke months ago, I’m kinda in need – you know what I’m saying?

Go me!

What happens behind closed screens

…when its an online convo between two singletons of the opposite sex destined to fuck around but never take it seriously:

9:57 PM SheBee: you don’t love me any more :’(

Pieletjies: or any less

SheBee: I’m breaking up with you. all you do is whine about how busy you are and pay me NO attention.  what kind of online lover are you?

9:58 PM: Pieletjies: lol.   i got a new iphone! 3g

SheBee: : did you?! thats fabulous. black or white?

Pieletjies: black

SheBee: good choice apparently the white ones are all cracking.

i got a GPS and a GHD

Pieletjies: i got a bsc and a vip

SheBee: I got a std and hiv

Pieletjies: : oh man

SheBee: i win, right?

Pieletjies: yes. fuck yes.  fuck me I cant see my glasses are all misted up

SheBee: steam ironing your penis will do that to you’

Pieletjies : from laughing man

SheBee: who’s your mate Justin [on facebook – Ed]  tell him i’ll shtup him for free and everything.  What a hottie!

Pieletjies: he’s a screaming queen

SheBee:  ah fuck man!  i always accidentally perv at gay men   i suck

10:06 PM Pieletjies *censored censored censored*

Pieletjies 10:05 PM this phone is AWESOME.  i swear my *censored* just grew an extra 4 inches. since I put on my facebook status that I got a 3g iPhone – I have had 4 hot chicks add me as a friend

10:25 PM SheBee: charming

10:29 PM Pieletjies: dont even laugh, they’re gonna send me pics of their panties for me to virtual sniff

10:30 PM SheBee: even if you get panties it still won’t beat the presents i’ve gotten recently. My online people kick ass.

Pieletjies: so, you would shtup a gay man, but not me? Whats wrong with me?

10:31 PM: SheBee: lol.  i think we’ve established that i would shtup you

but we’ve decided that would fuck up the relationshit or whatever gay phrase you used

10:32 PM so now you gotta put up with me checking out your mates, gay or not

Pieletjies: um would you settle for a 68 ?

10:33 PM: SheBee: where’s the last 9?

Pieletjies: a 68 is like a 69 except you do me first and I owe you one.

The five rand rapist man

I’m an old sap, I know, but I’m reading something that has had me in tears all day.  Go here.  I can’t understand how this can happen. The girl is six years old. Six-years-old-goddamnit.  Why was she left alone in the first place to roam the neighbourhood?

I am haunted by visions of her being trampled into the ground, the excruciating pain of her hymen being torn open and shred to bits. Of her not being able to breathe for some huge male is atop her, thrusting his entire body weight into her again and again and again. She must be so confused, why is he doing this – what has she done wrong? She tries to scream, but he muffles her small little mouth with his big hands and pushes her head to one side so that her neck is twisted enough for her face to be in the dirt.  She lays there too weak to fight him off, too terrified to try. The tears are flowing down her cheeks and leaving a clean stain all the way down her face.

Afterwards, the man stops moving inside her, gets up off the little girl, pulls up his pants and spits on a five rand coin and then throws it at her just before walking away. She’s left in the bushes with leaves in her hair and sand all over her tear-stained face. She tries to put her clothing back together but everything is just so sore and painful and her tummy hurts too much.  She’s only just learnt how to dress herself and she’s too confused at the moment to remember how. 

She’s all alone in the bushes, where are her friends? They saw the man chasing her, why didn’t they call anyone? Where are the grown ups?  How will she get home?

Pulling herself up, she stumbles a few steps before getting her balance right.  Concentrating one foot in front of the other, she starts making her way home. Back past the way she came, where he caught her in the first place.  Why is no one helping her, the can see something is wrong. Can’t they see how she’s walking?

As she takes one step after the other, blood is pouring out of her six year old private place. She’s so small and vulnerable and now she has blood running down her legs from somewhere inside her that she isn’t even aware of. How will her mother react? Will her mother even care? Is what the man did wrong? She just doesn’t know, she’s too young to comprehend why this has happened.

Six years down the line she’s outside the local shebeen leaning up against the tree pressing out her hips with her legs slightly parted showing off as much skin as possible.  Her breasts haven’t come into full blossom yet, but she knows it’s the way to most African men’s heart.  For R5 she will allow the drunk patrons to do what that other man did to her all those years ago, except now she’s older it isn’t very painful anymore.  She is only 11 years old but no one cares that what she is doing is wrong, its the norm. 

The R5 she gets is how she pays to feed herself that night.  Sometimes when her mother is away working, the R5 is all her family relies on, all her siblings will eat with.

It’s a blessing in disguise really, what happened to her when she was six. It prepared her for a life not unordinary in this country. It taught her that humans aren’t compassionate enough, not vigilant enough, aren’t investigative enough.  It taught her a career of selling her body, over and over again. She knows nothing else, she never will. Sex is a form of receiving money to her, nothing more. Why else would anybody want to do this, anyway, is there another reason she’s missing out on?

It taught her that HIV-infected men will find the youngest virgin around and rip into her hymen without a second thought in order to “cure” their self inflicted disease.  It taught her to be brave and withstand moral dilemmas and turn the other cheek towards right and wrong.

This is how she survives Africa. This is how she pays for her AVR medication that the government sometimes grants them.  The R5 rapist man taught her this.

Oh wow, I’m touched all over the place and back again

Glenda Penelope Scott.  That’s the name of my new GPS kindly gifted by MsBehavn.  She’s beautiful.  She’s clever. She’s polite.  I’ve tested her out and even gone down one ways to see what she does, and true to her trusty nature, the GPS goes fucking insane.  Beeeeeeeeep! PLEASE KEEP LEFT. PLEASE KEEP LEFT. PLEASEKEEPLEFTPLEASEKEEPLEFT!

Cath got a taste of Glenda Penelope Scott this morning on the way to the airport, both of us still slightly drunk and partially hung over and very bushy tailed and puffy eyed.  Cath thinks that Glenda she’s marvelous!

Quick question for you GPS users out there, what’s the skinny, do you unclick the GPS from its position every time you leave the car? I do that with my radio face, so I suppose theoretically I could possibly get into that habit.  I’m just so in love with it, it’s unreal!  I don’t want it to be stolen.

Also, I’m battling to find certain addresses, like mine at home, for example.  I just search for the next street, which is a big one and shows up no problemo, so any tips or information in personal experiences would be more than welcome.

On a completely different note now, as if I needed to be spoilt any more, Cow_Grrrl‘s parcel arrived yesterday. Oh my god, Suetjie, I cannot explain to you how touched I am. That we’ve never met before, or even spoken outside of the internet, yet you know me so well and represented almost all that I am in one box!  I am truly thankful and blown away by your kindness.  HUGE hugs for you, babe!

Cath had her own little parcel too and guys, we sat on our lounge floor and brought out the Rum (since Cam was at her Dad for the night).  Aside from things like baked beans (for my toast, because of the shopping spree last week), a beautiful little hand book for notes, a 15minute yoga book, O Magazine, a wireless router and other stuff, she bought me a frikken GHD!  HOLY FUCKING MOLY! Never did I expect that I would ever have one of those beauties before I sold one or both of my boobs. A GHD. A G.H.D. A frikken G-H-D.  You are insane, babe! 

Anyway, to tide you over until we here at The Shath, come thank you in person, I have written you a poem:

Oh cowgirl, oh cowgirl
You make me smile so
Out of the blue, you pitched up
With words of love, and tweets saying ‘sup

I’m so glad to have met you in this swirl
straight out of nowhere you send gifts of laughter
To make me smile more, before and even after.

Cath sat on her hands for hours, until we were both back at ours
And on twitter and the phone did she moan
But we had to curb the curiosity jointedly, you see
And when we did, in our excitement we had to fight for the toilet to wee

In twitter we trust
More than men’s lust
I am truly blessed
And our lounge is totally messed
But there’s a friendship that will last to the end
I’m so lucky to have met you, my friend

** THANK YOU **

Also, please look out for a very drunken vlog done by Cath and I.  Oh lawd.

Good bye and so long…

On my birthday wish list were a few things that I know were completely out of line and not actually expected by me or anyone else, namely a GPS Navigator, Home Internet or a hairy man. But then I forgot who I was dealing with in you Readers, you who have sent me my favourite books before, you who made me fall in love for the first time since a young girl, you who held me together when he died, you who I’ve met in person and laughed and drank and stayed over and joked and smoked with, all of you who read me and support me and challenge me to write better, be better, be happier, laugh louder.

In particular, you, who I’ve neither met in person nor spoken to on the phone before yesterday, you who took my tongue in cheek birthday wish list and made it a reality – you sent me a frikken GPS Navigator! You who has also sent me a gift for home internet! You who sent me an unknown parcel full of only god knows what yet to be collected from post office! All of you who sit there and let me drone on and on about myself day in and day out.  Don’t you ever get bored? I hope not.  Because lets face it, as much as I claim to love writing for myself, it wouldn’t be half as much fun without you here.

So too all of each and every one of you, thank you for being here. Thank you for letting me be me and not asking me to change. Thank you for being you and being okay with everything, for being supportive, funny, argumentative and entertaining.  Thank you for a fantastic few years!

The time has come where I will now close my blog off and say good bye, I’m tired of sharing my soul*.

Be safe, be well, and be happy,

SheBee 

* wahahahaha!  Whatever, you know I could never stop talking about myself. SUCKERS! 

But now that you have recovered from the immediate fear, regret, sadness and horror of me joking about ending this blog, you can’t be mad at me for saying I quit quit smoking, it’s a kak jol, yo.  I like cigarettes! They keep me happy and sane and I can afford them if I.. you know, stop eating.  Wah!  So, no – I’m still blogging, but I’m also still smoking.  Don’t shout, please.

Now get back to work you lazy git!