Nothing Personal

I did not sleep last night. And I had run out of the drugs. I did not sleep last night. So, today, I am in a very sour mood. Very. I WANT TO KICK SOMEONE!

And I hate everyone. Every one.

That is, except you guys.

Everyone includes:
1. Mike Mukula- Where does he get the gall to flash his fancy, flamboyant house at me like that all week? I didn’t buy African Woman to have my face rubbed in it, I bought it to beautify my own house. It had a picture of Natasha Whatever-her-other-name-is from Obsessions.
My house, you must understand is very very ugly. Factors contributing to this include the following:

a. Lazy occupant
b. Lack of housegirl since Diana got pregnant
c. It wasn’t mine I swear
d. Appetite for steak subs from Me Takeaway which come in huge boxes that lead dustbin to overflow in a matter of days
e. Strict LC guys who ensure that occupant cannot just get up and empty dustbin for fear of being fined. (Fine for dumping doesn’t mean permission is granted, it means they will fine you. Took me a while to get that) So occupant has to wait until late in the night to sneak into neighbour’s large externally-situated dumpster and deposit his own trash therein
f. Occupant is too lazy to do that more than twice a month. Neighbour’s deserve it anyway—they always be blasting their WBS at night with the result that it sounds like there are two televisions competing in occupant’s house. So occupant has to crank his own television up really loud to drown out Kyekyo That’s It or whatever mind-poisoning gwash neighbour has been watching. Then neighbour thinks this is a challenge, like in The Fast and The Furious and he/she/not sure which and antisocial so won’t find out raises the volume higher. So occupant has to raise his volume again. It’s a vicious cycle, and in the end it is the children who suffer.
g. Neighbour’s children. Occupant has no children. Neighbour’s children suffer because they end up hearing Kyekyo That’s It with volume at full blast. Anyway…

The personal abode is a mess, so I bought this month’s African Woman magazine, intending to post the cover picture of Natasha on one of the walls in the hope that it will mitigate my living room’s ugliness.

Didn’t work. Natasha’s fine, but, apparently, not THAT fine.

As if the purchase of a cover that failed to repel the room’s hideousness was not enough of a waste, there, in the mag, is eight pages of salt leaping out and rubbing itself in my wounds of poverty.

And a photo of Mikey grinning at me, as if to say, “Hey, you, with the ugly house, you call that a living room? Even my cockroaches wouldn’t live there. You want to know what a living room is? Check this out. This is a living room, you Loser. You big-ass LOSER! Take that!”

And then, not finished yet, he goes on to call his wife, “Baby, tell this dirty muthafucker about our house.”

Then the interview, which you read, in which Mrs Mikey said, and I quote: “Oh there are so many expensive things in the house…I think the (most expensive) would have to be the sauna, steam and Jacuzzi and all of that. We didn’t spend too much on the boy’s bedrooms besides the expensive showers.”

I hate that guy.

Nothing personal, of course.