Farewell for Now!

It’s that time of year, ladies and gents: camp time. That means that I won’t have very much access to the Internet to give an account of the fantastical adventures of bullshit that I will inevitably endure. I will be back in late August/early September and I’ll make sure to fill you in on all my juicy “WTF?” moments. With that, I leave you with this video very reminiscent of my childhood.

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Africa Pt 3: Bollywood Edition

I’m not sure how in fuck’s name I have so much to say about Africa on this blog; I honestly don’t.

Maybe it’s because I keep encountering people who are highly uneducated and ignorant. Or maybe these people just eat Quaker Instant Dumbass for breakfast. Whichever be the case, it absolutely always tickles me pink when a mouth-breather approaches me without warrant.

One such time happened as I was once again pedaling on a stationary bike in the gym. I should have known. Bad shit always happens when I’m on the fucking bike, as you may recall from “Sweat” ( https://daysinthelifeofthesociallyawkward.wordpress.com/2012/02/21/sweat/ ). I should just stop using that machine. It so obviously attracts the wrong crowd.

As I exercised and listened to the string of expletives that is aggressive rap music, I noticed a woman around my age come into my line of vision. She started talking like I was expecting her, when really I was just trying to live my life and ignore the world. I kept pedaling but paused my music and removed one of my ear buds. She repeated her question.

“Are you from South Africa?”

I should have punched her out for her stupidity right then and there, but I was feeling rambunctiously playful and decided to see how much tomfoolery I could coax from one person’s mouth at a time. It turns out, that’s a lot.

“No, but close!”

“Oh really? Where are you from, then?”

“I’m Jamaican.”

She was sort of close…?

I thought at this point she’d stop talking to me. I figured once I pointed out that the geographical area she guessed I was from was highly unlikely (you know, because of all the white folk that possess enough wealth to travel outside of South Africa), that she’d leave me the fuck alone… I need to stop assuming people will leave me the fuck alone.

“Wow! Neat! Well, I was wondering if you’d like to see a Bollywood film with me some evening. Do you know [insert Hindi here]? I don’t really have a lot to do in the evenings and it would be good if you’d like to go, too.”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe that could happen.”

Why did I say that? Did I just agree to a date with this female? Did I agree to go anywhere with this human being?! I will do no such thing. Hell to the fucking no. She thought I was from an African country where white people live. Honestly, you can’t really get any worse than that. I’m not saying I’m a geography wiz… I’m just not Christopher Columbus trying to pass off America for India.

Which brings me to my next point.

If she thought I was African, why did she think I was an expert on Indian/Pakistani/Desi culture? In fact, this girl  was of  South Asian background herself so I didn’t understand her angle at all. The situation was making less and less sense to me, and my brain was starting to shut off. I allowed my mind to wander, hoping that Zeus would strike me down with a lightening bolt, for a few moments when I heard:

“Great! When you’re done here, I’ll get your number!”

You know my ass was out of there faster than this guy’s.

Note: I know that this post is two days late. I’m really sorry. I’m preparing to go to camp. It’s a strenuous ordeal; so much bug spray! Friday will be my last post until September when I return.

My Hair

Now that I finally have enough hair to be rocking a Macy Gray afro, I feel like I can finally talk about it.

I’m not sure what it is with people, but they have no fucking manners. Not even one drop. I mean I understand that my vivacious, curly locks are irresistible to even those with the most self-control, but goddamn. When a girl says she does not want your ripe-ass, sticky fingers in her hair, she means it.

How impressed I am when I realise my peers cannot follow instructions and/or are deaf

I know what you’re thinking. “Oh, man. You’re one of those black women who gets all uppity about their hair, aren’t you?”

False.

I’m one of those people who doesn’t appreciate their personal space being violated without any fucking permission. I know. Difficult to understand. I mean, instead of asking if you can jam your hands (and I have no idea where those have been) in my afro, braids, or twists.

My favourite comment whilst someone I don’t want touching my hair is touching my hair goes something like this:

“Wow, it doesn’t even feel like a person’s hair. It feels like an animal!”

No. No it fucking does not. An animal that does not want you touch them does not feel docile. An animal that does not want you to touch them feels like it’s hauling your ass into a world of pain via attacking your face with its teeth. Possibly with a side of rabies.

Somehow I feel like this and my hair are not comparable

I didn’t ever think that I would have to do this but obviously I do:

How to ask a black woman permission to enter their bloody personal bubble and not have them kick you upside your fool-ass head

1. Approach the woman and stop several metres away from them. Caution: black women are wild creatures and may attack at any moment. It is important that you respect the space so that, if need be, you can run. If you do not understand this instruction, please refer to the second image in this post for your fate.

2. Smile. And don’t be creepy. She will kill you.

3. Ask if you may touch her hair. Read this part real carefully because it’s here where most of you fuck up. Wait until she responds with a yes or a no. Do not be already moving your hand towards her rocking do as you ask. WAIT. She will kill you.

4. Once she has said yes, and only yes, may you step closer to her and GENTLY touch her hair. Do not grab. Do not squeeze. Do not ruffle. She will kill you.

5. If, for some reason, she becomes angry with you, it means that you have not properly followed the instructions. I don’t feel sorry for your idiot self because you obviously can’t read along with not being able to hear. And those who cannot hear must feel.