The Memories of Nobody

Readers.

I know I have deserted you, but please do know that it was not my intention to live past my previous post and yet here I am!

Hmmmmm.

Well, I recently overdosed on painkillers. Which I failed dismally at considering I’m still here and all that shit.

I’ve taken to an interest to the sport of hanging, I think that would be better and ultimately less painful since I once heeded that the neck breaks first.

Firstly though.

Let me explain to you why I am back in this perpetual cycle of self-destruction.

I recently lost my sisters phone. A phone that was lent to me, since I had lost mine three months prior. I did it again my devoted cyber children.

I trusted man.

Like I always do I slipped into his trap and became a victim of his cruelty. 

Encore.

I blame myself though, for having had faith in humanity. The remembrance of their evil smothers me at night. It’s hard to sleep when you are your own antagonist. I am my own enemy because I always let shit like this materialize. It is not mans fault for being sinful and evil. It is my fault for temporarily believing they were not.

Its mind-boggling isn’t it reader that the lose of a phone could almost have been the apprehension of my demise. Yes I do perceive from your point of view that the thought of this scenario is absolutely ludicrous. Do keep in mind though that you are not me. You do not reside in my head. You don’t have your own inner voice constantly putting you down with its pessimistic remarks to the choices I make in this hurtful life that I live.

Fight Club?

The picture?

You should know this film if not best you organize getting a hold of it.

Tyler Durden lives in my head. 

My identical own. 

I do not have the privilege of physically seeing my nemesis like Norton but he holds upward of the same effects on me.

My inner self tortures myself.

Every isolated moment of my pitiful life.

Recurrently I have the urge to just break out in tears and hope for the Lord to roar cut and free me from this purgatory.

Would you like to know what hell on earth is?

Having your rival latch himself inside your mind to comment and see all your wrongs and mistakes, they then constantly remind you of them.

Everyday reader, every fucken day.

It’s almost as if I torment myself. What is worse is when the bulling won’t stop.

I found myself speaking to my inner bastard today as I hopelessly made my way to the campus library to capture what seems to be my last remaining days

….

“It’s either you go, or I go”.

Deep down though, I know I can’t escape him.

I am the opposition.

Out

Sir Bastard

Welcome.

Well after a long period of time, I have finally fallen back into my rut of comfort.

Let us start off with the “progress” shall we? First of, I am now a full time student at AFDA School of Motion Picture and Live Performance. I am flourishing academically so I’m not complaining much in that department, but still HE managed to pull me out of the haystack.

I’ve taken onto a rather wild lifestyle nowadays since I now reside solo dolo in the city.

Actually a couple of weeks back I was shocked to find my beautiful older sister temporarily fixed to my door demanding an explanation as too why the building securities were up her ass looking for me, crying “vandalism”. 

Only too find, long after I had denied it multiple times prior the revelation of the truth I was found guilty. The previous weekend I had had a drink too many and ended up falling through the roof of a fellow tenant from the first floor.

Spectacular Spectacular. 

 I don’t remember a thing. Please understand that I was not lying rather I was recalling what was in my memory. Sadly, that story was not.

                                                                                     Sigh!

I think I have a problem.

I am a binge-drinker.

Not an alcoholic. Alcoholics drink repeatedly throughout their lives and cannot exceed a certain time frame without their poison of choice.

I however, drink vinously in a shorter period of time. Immensely.

I then opt to go on very challenging adventures, which I hope to conquer before the end of the evening. I’m not usually conscious by then in any event.

Here’s my diagnosis.

I drink to numb the pain. That moment when I’m stuck in “autopilot”, it’s an intensified state of ignorance. I am not I. I am another. A Bastard that lodges himself inside of me. The bastard that does what he wants , when he wants to do it. There is no such thing as a second opinion to him. Most importantly though, he giveth not a shit about anybody!

I’m serious here, believe me I know this guy.

I party with him all the time!

I think he lives inside of me because he brings me a sense of happiness. Secretly I love him, because he just magnifies everything I feel and think on a daily basis. His constant distaste for man intrigues me.

He is a Bastard.

I am a Bastard.

Therefore I am not worthy to keep existing in a world where my inner hero is a villain.

Last night. Well early this morning I awoke in a state of howl. I squeezed Fudge extremely tight as I wiped away the declaration of the rapture in my soul.

After the befall of this session, my face softened.

 I am back, back to the place I call home.

As demented as it may be. Even though I am the Bastard.

                                                                                               …

                                                                          I cannot live without pain.

Out.

Infatuation

My Tutu, temporarily.              

Suppies Readers 

This oncoming post, at the least is an extension of the previous post...'Tutu'. 

It's been over a week now since we last exchanged words, an unnecessarily stretched-out week it has been indeed. Night after night, right before I slip away into the demented nightmares that define who I am, I softly whisper "Goodnight Tutu" .Why do I do this? I guess wishing Tutu an awesome night wherever he may be, no matter what he is doing and whom so ever he is fucking I want him to enjoy it.Just because I wished it so. Insanity? Perhaps, I've never really questioned it before. I also am far too proud to say it to him, via social media. You see, I absolutely loath being ignored. I simply cannot stomach it, but unfortunately our subject of choice, Tutu read the last message I sent him and yet he failed to reply to me. So I kept it at that. Obviously concluding that he had moved on (of which I do not blame him) and had forgotten about me already. Pursuing romances and basically just doing him.

This was not the case.

How do I know?

I have a problem, I give chances. Chances to bums that don't deserve them.

Chances to idiots that keep wronging me.

To the point were I have to scrape for one last chance for the unworthy individual, followed by the horrors of my conscience. That haunt me. Harassing me mentally. 

This is not the case with Tutu. 

Tutu is in Cape Town. I am in Johannesburg. 

There is no chance to give.

End of the month, we agreed on. The due date, that temporarily puts a halt to our social communication. Until we meet again. 

In many years to come.

A peaceful departure. For two young hearts to lead the path they were destined to travel on, and if our paths cross again...

I am afraid that I will not let go.

Not again.

Gran(^•^)Dad

Tutu

Whats Up,
Readers!!

My sincere apologies for not having posted in so long.Alotta shit went down.of which i will be sharing with you next week.
Now during my festives I had somewhat a "summer romance" .
And here is some of what i felt.

                       

Doesnt it look like i drink blood Of virgin children.

I woke up this morning and wrote. I had to.
I dreamed about you during the early hours of the morning, well actually at the break of dawn.

Even though I know, NOW you hate me.
Even though I know your family has turned you against me.
Even though your numerous cries of lies filled my heart with hope.
All knowing of your sneaky ways, I gave in. I was at your mercy.
Even though I knew deep down that your lips were the lips of a harlot.
I still kissed them.
Even though I knew your hugs were open to any human being with a bosom, I still hugged you.
At that moment I felt "loved".
Accepted, wanted and needed in an affectionate fashion.
Even though you told me you loved me, and I knew you've uttered those words a thousand times to your perpetual "Female Aquintances".
I returned the statement.
Not because I did love you TuTu, but because I too wanted to feel the warmth of telling someone I love them.
Even though I am not in love with you, but rather at the sweet idea of being in love. I reciprocated those sweet words, because I know my fate.
That.
In actuality, I am unlovable.

Even though I knew very well that my fate as a Forever Alone was carved into stone far before the beginning of time.
I fell for you.
TuTu.
Again.
Since we had an unfinished romance from back when I was 13, you 14.
Even though I knew it would hurt when I left you in Cape Town. I knew I would come back to my rut.
You would flee once more to your infinite bitches on call.
And I would be here.
In bed alone. Missing your fake hugs and affection.

Even thought your family did me wrong.
I still dream about you. As if desperately searching for a place in my mind where we can be as I want us to be.

Another Heart-Ache,
Another Failed Romance.

-GranDaD

Plans, Plans, Plans

Molweni
(A general greeting in my home language- isiXhosa)

Now just a reminder, that all blog entries are written 3 weeks in advance. So basically this was written on the 26th of December still.

Plans for the festives you ask? Cape Town! A city oozing with a variety of fishes, wines and hard liquors. All of which collectively tantalize me from the thought. I will be visiting "family", of whom I have not seen of spoken to in a little of over a year. I am a bit chilled at the thought really. Reviving a conversation with them, last spoken a year ago! What makes me quiver even more is that I had deleted one of them on BBM as I do when I feel threatened by the contact. I swore to add her on watsapp. I saved her number, yet I failed to send that message.
Soon after I mistakenly blocked my phone, so I lost her number.
 Fuck.
 This very true story of mine somehow sounds like a load of bullshit when spoken aloud, aint'it.

What am I to do?

Carry on as we had last left things?
I'm nervous.
My hatred for the human soul makes me unable to uphold an upbeat conversation with "them", in the absence of alcohol that is.
Because.
With IT. I can conquer any obstacle. In actuality, when I am intoxicated I make it my life's mission to be "liked" by every human I come into contact with. Almost in a desperate attempt to be accepted as one of them
-the humans.
As I myself do not classify myself as one of them.
I am something different. A roaming shell, whose soul is filled with innocence and ignorance. As is so with a toddler or even a buddy (dog). In search of love.The love that was taken away from me.
Buma (my son).
I try to lurk for it else where.
The World. The humans, they force me to abandon my heart filled motto. To become like one of them. If not I am too week to survive.
Well maybe I am.
Have I drifted aside?
Let's see if Cape Town changes my mind.
Cape Town.
Buckle up, I'm on my way.

Bottle in hand
-Gran(^•^) Dad

The Tale of Pixi

Mfundi,

As you must know by now that I have 6 nestlings whom I adore dearly.

*If you think I'm crazy, you can go ahead and fuck off!*

                                   1. The Love of My Life
                                                     Buma

                                                  2. Fudge

1. Buddi

    (Like Buddy)

4.Pixi

5. Budda

(Like Buddha)

6. Chidgey

Pixi. Pixi is quite the wildling. Always pacing and involved in some sort of an escape plan with Buddi.

Since, unfortunately I am residing on a farm, Pixi finds it quite cute to jump the wall and disappear every so often. A Couple of weeks ago though, Pixi's disappearances became rather frequent. She began leaving once a week instead of once in two months. She was getting out of hand. Following her return, after four days of being awol. Pixi was plumper than usual. She was very much expectant. We could all tell.

I then decide to familiarize my mother to relax and that Pixi had finally returned from her unorthodox visits. Of course she was relieved, she then chocked on her praises when I informed her that Pixi was expecting a piddle of stray puppies. In a jiffy, her applause turned to curses.

"How could she! We thought she was irretrievable. If a life on the streets is what fancies her.Then so be it. I don't want her here I ain't raising no stray puppies!!!".

I was struck dumb.

But.

I can't help but perceive why Pixi did it. She needed to get out. See a variety of grimace. I above all know how frustrating it could have gotten to be kept a prisoner for so long.

During her freedom run, regrettably she became a slave to the male form. 

Pixie and I have a great deal in common, I sympathize with her. Along with her thoughts and actions.

Still had Pixie disappeared once in a while and had not returned pregnant, that would be perfectly understandable.

Unfortunately she over did it.

Excluding her heightened need for the paternal flesh, we are indeed alike.

In this very descriptive analogy. That I devised when I was incredibly shit-face high. I am Pixi.

Run away girl, on a quest to find even a grain of ecstasy. Scolded and chased away when we attempt to give our very dull lives a speck of meaning.

Before her departure, after her return. She became very distant. Almost unrecognizable, but my child nonetheless!

Pixi lives with the neighbour's now. Same farm, different division.

My destiny lies in that of Pixi's (minus the piddle of pups).

Lost in a ball of misunderstanding

Fade out.

Gran(U.U)Dad

The Update I Never Posted

Moshi Moshi
Readers.






My sincere apologies for not having updated last week. I was very high for most of it. I swear to you I'd forgotten it was Friday on Sunday! So I figured I keep you in your toes for one more week.

For those few souls out there who were actually concerned, I am "glad" to inform you that I am in fact back home. After being hauled to one of my parents' anointed church elders, to confess my sins and beg for the formidable forgiveness of my parents (for having spoke my mind,that is). I was finally welcomed back home.
I still don't want to be in this fucken place, but godammit!
The food is nifty as fuck!
Given I do the preparations,most of the time. 
Honestly speaking now, the only reason I went back and "denounced satan" was purely based on the fact that I was hungover. I was shit-faced and I needed to sleep unhesitatingly. I would do and say anything just to get into bed and rest my aching liver!

The moment it had dissolved, the hangover. I found myself still trapped in Freddy Kruger's world.
 Veritably, I wouldn't quite mind having a tango or two with Mr Kruger before he whisks me off to my fairyland.

I still have them, the nightmares. They haven't let up one bit.
Insomnia.
It's noticeable presence has latched itself onto me and has probably embedded itself into my DNA by now.
So.
I smoke. 
I drink from the sweet bosom of Wawi (weed), become quite impressed with the concept of life until my body is forced to shutdown. I need Wawi, without Wawi I am crucified by insomnia.
What a damned procedure it is for me to to conclusively drift off to my own personal virtual reality.
Where I am surrounded by absolutely no humans, rather I am comforted by my canine friends; who's love is perpetually fixed.

Your Demented Friend,
Gran(^•^)Dad