“Bitch I’m back, by popular demand”
When you have herpes but you still wanna get in formation.
Disclaimer: If you have landed here in the hopes of finding out of place vulgarity, please divert to my old works. Jesus has warned that I may no longer acknowledge naaiers with my New Testaments.
If you are looking for synonyms for the word naaier, you are also in the wrong place. It is on my to do list, though, ironically, I have done many naaiers.. and I have filled my quota.
In this instance, quota is a synonym for poes.
It truly is a complicated little vocabulary I possess.
And now that all the pussy naaiers have left because I have offended them….. let’s get to it:
This blog was scheduled to drop on April 1st.
On the eve of the most pointless day of the year, as I logged on to grace the world [approximately 5000 mense] with the my latest sarcastic quip, Mr. Fuckerberg informed me via badly worded automation that I had been abusive and was banned for the next three days.
Just like my Lord and saviour. So I accepted defeat.
Except, that I feel the need to tell you that it was not some sort of prank or ploy.
As the only worthy April Fool’s prank is ‘I’m Pregnant’ [and ya’ll know my fertile ass ain’t playing], I fumed.
My sinner-names were flying out my mouth with reckless abandon.
But as promised, below is the inner-workings of my brain, my life- and in some instances, my diseased vagina.
I’m still waiting for Dr. Lagardien to call and admit that she was just part of an elaborate prank, and the last few months weren’t real.
“Shana, sien jy daai liggie daar? Daai’s n Kamera’.
And everyone will laugh while Lyle emerges form a cupboard, with Leon Schuster…. and a cheque for R50,000.
The thought is refreshing….
I’m then still itching?
I was stuck with my hands in the air. And for a second, I stood in absolute silence, glad for two things:
1: My boyfriend wasn’t here to see this mortifying moment.
2: Gadieja that said I couldn’t take more than six items into this fokken changing room had no idea that behind this red door, I was stuck head first in an extra-large.
Regardless of my new year’s resolution to embrace my curves and other things fat people say when they know they are about to surrender to their gluttony, I started banting for the last three months.
I have lost 14 kilograms.
And I was ready to dress my new body, kak brekerag after getting my Easter weekend overtime money.
Unfortunately, losing 14kgs, in Mr Price sizes, translates to: Foetcheck you still a XXL.
And as my inflated budget still didn’t allow anything from Woolworths and beyond, standing with my hands in the air ‘like this dress gon’ tear’, I was wholly convinced that I was still going to purchase this frock, and Vaseline.
And Vicks, for my imminent injuries.
I had two options.
Knock on the door with my elbow and let the minimum wage staff help me evacuate the non-designer denim.
Or phone my mommy.
My mind suddenly invoked Lyle.
“Lyle, you know for all the kak you put me through, if you could just find it in your heart to get me out of this fokken dress unscathed I will forgive you. Im raising your child my bru… one fokken miracle…… “
And of course, my dress remained above my head.
The nigger is consistent.
Regardless, I was well aware that my feet could be seen in the bottom gap of the door, penguinning. I tried to keep my feet natural while I deciphered the situation,
and my life.
‘Maybe I can just break it and pay for it. But then how would I explain what happened?’ – my thoughts were starting to become irrational.
I was panicking.
But I am a motherfucking soldier. I swung my free lower arm and yanked the dress, my headband and the skin from my shoulder almost through the fokken mirror. But I was free…. practically unscathed, save for dry lines on my side. I looked like I entered the magical stall of Narnia and ended up at the beach.
Just me, the sand and my surviving five garments. Living off the land for the remainder of my days.
Safe from Gadieja and her rules.
But this got me thinking deeper, of course.
I was in this stall, in this situation, because I wanted to compete with other women [I refuse to cloud my insecurities in bullshit].
One too many Hashtag goal memes had me feeling absolutely grotesque, especially while I was premenstrual.
I did what any insecure woman does. I kakked out my boyfriend for something he did in theory, and went shopping.
I knew from a very young age that I didn’t fit in with women. When the thin kinnes kept making me scary spice, I realised after the fifth occasion of me doing the pantsula at the back of the group, out of the view of the audience, that I wasn’t ever going to be accepted.
‘You can’t sit with us’.
[I also didn’t own a Von Dutch sweater] and I had to stand at the back of the toilet line at school because I was the biggest [which, let me tell you, doesn’t indicate the size of one’s bladder- or ego], I stopped trying to flash my ovaries in cliques.
Well, sort of.
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t the bitch with the light pink headband that called your boyfriend boeta. But in Standard six when my first friend Nicole said, ‘Shana, we don’t want to sit with you cos you not our type’, something changed within my soul.
I remember a carefree time when I wasn’t quite as self aware, though.
At college in my first year I had also lost loads of weight.
I was a film student and aspiring actress in 2006.
I am fuzzy on the exact details because of certain contributing factors, all relating to Stroh Rum, but I remember that a group of us were playing truth or dare with the third years.
I found it all riveting.
We were away for the weekend on a film shoot to assist them on their final movies. We were the untouchable greenies, but these guys were lamming with us and there was kissing and nakedness.
And when it came to my turn, I was dared to walk outside topless.
Feeling confident in my pre-childbearing physique, I removed my top and didn’t quite get the reactions from the crowd I had hoped for.
Still confident, I completed the dare and walked outside.
And in the moment that defined my self confidence as an adult woman, I saw my friend look away as one of the older females whispered, ‘She really is bets for anything hey, shame’.
Recover from dying for me a little.
The thing is, I don’t like other women.
I simply do not relate to them. I am not affectionate, and I am not a sharer. I am awkward and unsavioury, regardless of how hard I try to refine my behaviour. This personality flaw became ever so apparent more than ever this week, when in an attempt to I assume, bond with me- a colleague swooped into the circumference of my [very] personal space to hug me.
What ensued was a combination of Brazillian fight dancing and ‘the robot’.
I vividly remember spreading my arms apart at different widths, in quick succession, just looking at my wrists hoping they would fall into default hug position.
After 3 seconds, which let me tell you is a lifetime in the hug-zone, we both realised we looked like we were preparing to pounce each other.
We laughed politely, but that wasn’t enough apparently. She needed more.
She leaned in for what I assumed was a friendly cheek kiss of the french people and then my fucking automatic hug arms that I so longed for three seconds ago sprung up in tardy fashion, having me in a kissing embrace with the woman I sort of know from the third floor.
Why am I telling you this?
It has come to my attention, mainly on Facebook [where the majority of the country goes to get their news updates], that even in 2016, we are still shaming each other and competing for boys. [We are also still drawing on our eyebrows, but I will dedicate an entire entry, at a later stage, to the sisters using their powers for evil.]
In one particular instance that had me standing on my head like a Whatsapp emoticon [ and that one time in Pringle Bay], I came across a live debate between two high school females, that threw me back to circa 2005.
A young girl named Britney and a typical group of Badroenisas were engaged in a non-scholarly debate about why Britney’s boyfriend, who happens to be a few years her senior, posted a pic of Britney and himself in a compromising position.
Now, I am no advocate for child pornography, and I will not make excuses for the people involved, but the main focus this day was not on the fact that this man was penetrating this child daily, or even that he was proud enough to put his illegal acts on social media…
The group of girls, and even some women who were older than the clique, were insulting Britney because in the particular image, she had a hole in her panty.
And this, even from grass roots level, tells you everything you need to know about women.
“OMG Britney, how can you look so basic when you being molested? Lmimp #GetNewUnderwear”
Women have never liked me.
Now, besides the approval and sisterly camaraderie I received from my beloved readers, I need to address that the internet is a Fanta-bubble.
I can revel in the delicious comments from women who relate to me all day, but at some point I have to admit to myself that the Facebook attachments and achievements I have are the equivalent of monopoly money.
But my real life friendships leave much to be desired.
I have five real life friends.
I saw one of them the other day, and as we reminisced about our AFDA days, she reminded me of why I am happy with my tiny circle.
[She also reminded me of a the time used to freeze vodka in small packets to pretend Im eating a bompie in class… and the time I broke the vending machine in the cafeteria because I was gesyp, and I stole all the cigarettes and gummy bears. And perhaps the time I got so drunk in Claremont main road that on the walk from Cubana to Stones, I peed down my legs………….
………..but again, this is not that story]
She reminded me that even though I missed out on sharing lipgloss and pretending to be a lesbian on the dance-floor, I also missed out on backstabbing, and skinnering
[I didn’t miss out on stealing burks though, I have been at both ends of that spectrum…. Hoekal currently enjoying the benefits]
“Shana Genever, you are cordially invited to join me aboard the blah blah boat for a Valentines Day Couple’s Cruise…Do you accept my invitation?”
Is die bra befok?
I couldn’t find my land legs when that message came through.
If only he knew last year I spent the day with Diarrhea, nursing a broken heart and rectum. Now he wanted to throw me in the deep-end, off the love boat.
We got onto the vessel at 9pm, arms intertwined.
I felt my chastity belt loosen beneath my belly button.
The sermon from the Passion concert the night before resonated in my conscience…
And in silence, I recollected every single romantic gesture a man has ever executed.. that took about seven seconds… of coming up empty.
“Die is n man van die here…. Die is n man van die here…..” I repeated in my head… Suddenly realising that my inner voice sounded a hell of a lot like my mother…
[Which was contraception enough]
And I went through the motion [Yes, of the ocean] in awe of seeing a man pull out all the stops with no expectation.
Pity he didn’t try though, those bands would have made me dance.
I was ready to sneak down into the captain’s toilet and bend over the basin.
There was hoekal turbulence…
And then he looked at me and said the words that made me know that this wasn’t like anything I had ever experienced before.
Shit, I ran out of time.
Wys you next week,…
Or whenever I lus, get a life…
I don’t need a PHD to know that I’m going to be taking Epsom salt baths for the rest of my life.
I’d still rather pop my cluster of toet blisters than hug you.
I am better
I am stronger