hands away

Wales was beautiful. The hills, the greens, the sheeps. And how nice people were…. Sometimes, I looked up and breathed it all in. And those moments filled me with a trifle bit more breath, enough to stay one more day.

Because I’ve been wanting to leave ever since I had arrived, you see. If I must admit it. And it’s not something rather easy for me to admit. Not after all this time.

It’s not because I was shacked up in a complete and utter shitty moth-infested hellhole with centipedes crawling up the tub* and folks whose horseshit** depressed me in a way I had forgotten. It’s not because it turned out that I really really– really – hated my job, or because it is insanely ridiculous to find ways to make ends meat in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD. It’s not even that I so gut-wrenchingly miss my mother’s sweet embrace, or my father’s warm eyes, or my sister’s loud obnoxious voice, or even my friends’ hearty laughs sometimes. It’s not exactly that I think I’ve made a mistake at all…

It’s because I started to cry when I was trying to explain what I was doing here to this beautiful man from Nairobi and he inadvertently gave me a Look. A Look that he quickly, politely, diverted. A Look that I quickly, graciously, recognised. A Look of empathic defeat, comforting pity. A Look that recognised me. And my desperate lies. A Look that unravelled everything.

It’s that I think I’ve slightly overestimated myself, you see. And though I’ve always known I am lost, and therefore must find a way – any way – that would somehow be mine, like a lost child that wasn’t cute enough to make international news***, the one I was counting so much on turned out to be a little… ill-fitted. For me. For now. Because, my dear, you’re even more lost and fucked than you had thought. Because you could never stand the spotlight anyway. Because it’s too soon.

And though I have come here like that 21-year-old girl who three years ago had found something she lost, something I wanted so much to find again, I am not that girl anymore….

So here I am now.
At square one.
Incidentally named Russell.


















Let’s see how we get on, yeah?




* CENTIPEDES!! Yes, we all agree that I am an undeserved prissy little princess but for THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS FUCKING HOLY – centipedes!? They are WORMS!!! With FEET. Thousands, in fact. Crawling. In. The tub. Where one is naked. Now, I somehow amazingly managed to not even mind for the first few days or muster a goddamned word of complaint (mainly bc this one girl did plenty of that), but add it to my growingly shattering state of mind and believe you me that I am feeling slightly robbed for not receiving an honorary trophy of Keeping It Cool In Hell, lemme tell ya… *wiggles finger in the air for no-one to pretend to care*

** In all fairness, I’m sure they are all delightful folks to hang out with. In small doses. (Although I am considering adopting this one guy but that’s bc he saved the little vestiges of sanity I had left, mainly by being a completely pessimistic bitch – and we all know how that’s just music to me ears (he was also queer - my faghag is happy).) But horseshit, specifically, the kind that one throws around to give oneself an air of nobility, be it moral or class or intelligence, as horses tend to convey (as oppose to bulls or dogs, whose shite usually refer to the pedestrian kind one throws around without thought, harm nor belief), particularly kills bc the horseshitter actually holds on to it like dear life, believing so much in its retching stench he/she castrates and/or bullies anyone or anything that might question its integrity, as if they’re on a self-serving high-horsed quest for the Equestrian Excrement Holy Grail, and THAT, my virtual friends, is the sort of shit that kills, okay, kills!!... End rant.

*** I am a horrible pretentious biatch and will die alone & unhappy. (Apply note wherever needed.)