Catching Up

    Hello lovelies, it's been a while. About that...my mind has been decidedly uninspired for a while now, so I'm just gonna give updates on life and who knows, you might learn something new. Just finished my sophomore year (time is moving crazy fast), and it's warm again. And humid. Bugs rule the land.
    My year so far has been interesting. You hear about how you're supposed to grow as a person, and sometimes you think it'll happen all at once in one grand revelation and life stops sucking from then on out, and other times it's not really something you think about until you reflect on the change in you. One thing I've definitely learnt a great deal of (prepare for the cliche) is putting things in perspective. Sometimes I tend to open myself too much to pain and chalk it up to being naturally sensitive (I'm an INFJ and a Piscean. Never stood a chance. Ironically, I can't swim). My moment of grand revelation came by way of some disappointing news of having something I'd wished and prayed for so much fall through. It wasn't pretty. In my moment of grief I uttered the words, "Lord, why me?" and it was like He answered by tipping an ice bucket over my head. In an instant a wave of shame swept over me, and...you know that episode in Friends right after Ross and Emily's wedding where Rachel confesses to Ross that she's still in love with him, then starts laughing, explaining that it was as if she floated out of her body, and looked down at herself? That's the only way I can describe that moment, when floating me could not believe what sniffles me was saying. I berated myself, and how quick I was to let this one instance outweigh all the amazing and wonderful things the Lord has done in my life. Then I pictured someone walking into my room at that moment, and I pictured the conversation we'd have as to why I was that upset, and I realized I was being silly, and I needed to calm my ass down. I've had a serener existence since. ('Serener' is a word, apparently).
    Hm, what else...I'm also learning to fight the impulse to respond to comments on Facebook. Pushing down sarcasm is hard, let me tell you. But then you just have to remember the Internet is filled with the most dangerous species known to man: bored people. Why anyone would say stupid things just to get a rise out of people is beyond me, but alas, there they are. Just today I took a Buzzfeed quiz about something like choosing from an array of pictures, which person is the vegan. I scrolled down to the comment section, looking to get a laugh from humorous comments. Well, laugh I did, at the staggering number of people who actually took offence to the post! (Ding ding ding! Found the vegans). I have a meme saved on my PC that reads:

'Good morning, America! What are we offended by today?'

No truer words have been spoken. Honestly, it's a gift. AFV trolls are my favorite. Like, no Linda, I will not feel bad for laughing at the baby who face-planted into a chocolate cake, or the toddler who got jumped by a cat! Pretty sure the cat and the tot were unharmed in the making of the video, and no, they're not terrible parents for filming it, they possess what I like to call a sense of humor.
    I took out my braids at the end of the semester, and went all out! I'm talking pre-pooing, overnight mind you, deep conditioning my hair for a good hour, and detangling my hair using just my fingers. I even went out and bought a spray bottle and ingredients for a moisturizing spritz. I salute women like Tabitha, a.k.a Craving Yellow, who do this religiously. A week into the whole thing, and I was determined to braid my own hair, just to save myself from the torment. I can't with this regimen. I tried, I really did. Frankly I'm doing the world a favor by braiding, because if anyone would've dared touch my mane after all that TLC, so help me God...Maybe I'll be more willing to let my hair down, literally, when it's longer. 4C hair may defy gravity, but it seems the winds of upstate New York will not be ignored.
    That's as much growing as this girl has done so far. You know that voice you sometimes argue with in your head? Mine's speaking in Swahili more and more. I also found myself watching YouTube videos of Safaricom's Niko Na ad. Someone misses Kenya.

...Is That A Gray Hair?

    I'll keep this short, just letting you know I'm still alive...and older. Honestly, I need someone to sit me down and talk to me about how exactly it is I should feel, because I can assure you, I, in no way, shape or form, feel like a 22-year old. I feel like there's an office in charge of handing out adult cards, and I should march down there and make my case. Or write an open letter to them. Kinda like this...

Dear DMV for Adulting,
    There seems to have been some sort of mix up. Facebook, Google, and, allegedly, my birth certificate, all claim that I'm 22. You know what people in this country "my age" are doing right now? Getting married. Making babies. Buying houses. Holding 9-5 jobs. Would you care to know what I do with my time? I watch The Amazing World of Gumball, and laugh my ass off because I think it's bloody funny. As far as my progress in my journey down the aisle, I shall refer you to my blog post from 8 months ago. I randomly reminisce about playing kati (a game that consisted of making a ball out of socks and basically trying to hit people with it). Ask anyone who's spent more than 10 minutes with me, I make random sounds. I wish I could tell you why. I could go on, but I don't really think I need to.
    Also, I feel like I've been shortchanged. A little heads up would've been nice about how way less exciting birthdays are after the big 2-1. Now it just seems like people are entirely too gleeful about rubbing it in my face that I'm getting old. I mean, if you're gonna make me go through this, the least you could do is keep me away from the toddlers....I mean, teenagers, for that one day.
    OK, so it wasn't all that terrible. I got to jam to some T-Swift all day (and all year, just so you know). And I hang out with some pretty awesome people, so props for that. However, I am not so easily appeased. Just two things, no big deal. Can I, for the love of all that is good and pure, be cured of this incessant social awkwardness? Weighing a bit less would be nice, too, but prioritize.
    Me thinks y'all are in need of an overhaul, pronto, is all. Maybe a handbook?

Sincerely,
Disgruntled...*cringe*...adult

P.S. You can tell that I'm trying, because I had a golden opportunity to point out that my birthday was about a week agooo, but I have risen above that.

To Sum Up...

    Congratulations, you lived to see another year! The joys of the leap year are once again upon us, for which I am grateful, because now my birthday will be on a Thursday :). I can't complain much about 2015...to be honest the first half of it is such a blur. It wasn't the greatest year for America though, what with the sky rocketed incidents of racism, domestic terrorism, and the icing on the cake, Donald Trump. Although, pretty much everyone can get married now, and Trevor Noah is on the Daily Show, so there's hope for them yet. For Kenya, I'd say we've had worse. Westgate mall was reopened, props for that. A visit from the US president AND the Pope ain't too shabby. But then we reverted to thinking attempts at westernization is a good idea, and the horror show that is Nairobi Diaries was born. Seriously, if you haven't checked it out, please do. It's on YouTube and, yes, it's as awful as I'm making it sound, but even so, try as you might, you just can't look away.
    I turned 21, finally went clubbing (wasn't too bad after some liquid courage), and got to meet my so-ridiculously-adorable-it-should-be-illegal nephew. Went to school with braided hair for the first time and had to re-introduce myself to the entire campus. I no longer scoff at the idea of people not being able to tell that Clark Kent is Superman because of his glasses; apparently braids have the same effect. Also, and this was a monumental moment in my life, I finally got a pair of glasses I like, which, in almost-blind world, is basically up there with winning the lottery.
    I'd like to say I checked off all my 2015 resolutions, but I don't remember them, so let's just assume I did. This year, I intend to keep it simple. I'll be turning 22 (best believe that song will be my ear worm for the entire month of March) as my classmates are still sporting -teen in their ages, but I shall welcome it gracefully. This is my list (kindly disregard my earlier Facebook post claiming otherwise):

• Bake more (turns out I'm bloody good at it). I've actually made headway with this one, with a red velvet cake and brownies. Contain yourselves.
• Be more conscious of what foods I eat (sometimes naughty me stares good me down as she orders a large pizza from Papa John's).
• Curse less. (Not very optimistic about this one. Might actually get booted off).
• Revert to British English (saying 'elevator' just feels wrong).
• Keep my grades up (i.e. have no social life and stock up on chocolate and wine).
• Practice walking in heels. I have a pair of 4 inch whose outrageous purchase needs to be justified.

    That's pretty much it. I suppose it's too much of a stretch to hope that use of the word 'literally' will die with 2015. Along with the creation of new labels. Honestly, how often does the topic of one's sexuality come up that it warrants the bombardment of new labels popping up every other day? Latest one I heard was 'heteroflexible' which basically means "mostly straight". I just...can we not? Another one, and probably a pipe dream as well, is people making out racism as something black people made up. Frankly they annoy me more than the actual racists. While I'm at it, Donald Trump. It baffles me that there are actually people out there taking him seriously. PRAY THE CRAY AWAY.

    Parting shot: I found this gem sometime last year and almost peed laughing. Get yourself a corner and, for your own sake, don't drink anything as you read:

http://www.techeblog.com/index.php/tech-gadget/haribo-sugarless-gummy-bears-become-internet-sensation-for-unexpected-reason

    So, yeah, it's day 5, so 360 361 more to go. Don't screw this up!

Favorite meme of 2015

Perks of Being a Wallflower

    

    It's not often that I come across a phrase that gives words to the feelings. To be perfectly honest, I have a love-hate relationship with this reality. It's a side that I have grown to embrace and have come to accept as something that is an essential part of me, largely because nowadays I accredit all my "odd" quirks to my kind-of recent discovery of personality types, and the fact that I apparently fall under the INFJ bunch. A rare breed, we are. Anyway, I'm an introvert, did I mention? I somewhat feel it important to explain this tidbit to everyone I meet, especially those just meeting me for the first time. Maybe because I know there'll be many an awkward moment between us and perhaps if they're pre-warned then I can get away with it. And I'm such a cliche about it too: stuttering, variations of useless word vomit and saying few words as possible, eyes wandering as I look for the nearest exit when there's a lull in conversation, the works. Want to spot an introvert, watch out for the one everyone talks over.
    That last one is one of the not-so-perky perks. This happens so often it doesn't even phase me anymore. Honestly, the alternative is just not appealing, 'cause then I'd have to be louder than the loudest person (usually an extrovert) and that's just messing with the group dynamic. It's best not to tinker with the balance of nature. Sure, there's a danger to growing comfortable with this because sometimes you just end up slipping through the cracks. It's all peachy until I actually want to be heard and find myself with no audience.
    There really should be a how-to manual for people with introverted friends. We are, in some ways, a little high maintenance. See, it's like this: I want to be invited to that party, but I don't want to go. In the words of Audrey Hepburn, "I don't want to be alone, I want to be left alone". I'll come to you when I'm ready for human interaction. Much like a cat, if you will. You may also want to note, quiet does not equal sad. I am generally a quiet person, and that will likely be the first thing you notice about me. Please recognize the significance of me seeking you out to talk.
    Oftentimes I feel like extroverts have it made. It's nice to think that people will recognize this inner amazing being hiding behind all that awkward mess and take the time to get to know you and find out the gem you really are, or whatever. As magical as that sounds, first impression is everything, and I'm an odd cookie from the get-go. (Doesn't stop me from holding on to the dream of that guy who, for whatever reason, finds my awkwardness insanely adorable).
    This is the struggle: there've been times when I felt like I was using the whole personality thing to conclude that I'm simply not wired to be around people so I won't even try. Then I get the crazy idea to actually put myself out there, and It. Is. Draining. Small talk grates on my nerves. If I don't have anything to say, I say nothing. And, I kid you not, when I'm doing all that I can to come up with things to talk about, one of two things happens: a)totally useless trivia slips out of my mouth, usually followed by crickets, or b)I talk so much while smiling maniacally that my cheeks physically hurt. Don't knock it til you try it? Yeah, tried it, knocking the hell out of it, next?
    What do I do with all the time freed up by avoiding humankind? I read novels. Tons of them. (Side note: anytime someone asks me what I do for fun, and specifies that I not say reading, I kind of want to sock them. It's a legitimate enjoyable activity, dammit!) I spend an insane amount of time daydreaming. Believe me, it's quite entertaining in my head (I know that sounds a lot like something a crazy person would say, and I lack proof showing otherwise, but you'll just have to trust me on this one). I'm busy worrying myself over problems, some of which aren't even my own. I have my handful of friends I genuinely enjoy spending time with and talking to, who get and, dare I say, enjoy my special brand of humor. Who appreciate that I'm not broken; I don't need to be fixed. With whom conversations just flow.
Not forced. Not coerced.
Just present.

Blurry

    I feel like my move to the States has opened a huge can of mind-boggling worms. As someone who has spent their entire life in Africa with most of the population being black, there are just some things I have never had to deal with, things I never even knew were issues. For those of you at home still scratching their heads (stop it by the way, you're ruining your hair), 'tis racism that I speak of. And everything that comes with it.
    So, there are all these topics like cultural appropriation, which I'm still not totally crystal clear on, and of course the deaths of the African Americans at the hands of the police. Sometimes I feel like it is not in my place to speak out about these topics because I feel so out of my depth and it's not something neither I nor my family grew up experiencing. Most of the time I just fall silent because of some of the comments I read and I feel sad because some people seem incapable of empathy.
    What spurred this on was an argument I got drawn into about two weeks ago after the concurrent deaths of Cecil the lion and Sam Dubose. Now, for those of you who don't know about the latter, because I'm pretty sure everyone in the world heard about the lion, Sam Dubose is an African American man who was pulled over by a Caucasian policeman (political correctness is exhausting) and ended up being shot in the head by said cop, without sufficient provocation to illicit such a reaction. If you're interested, here's the story:

http://edition.cnn.com/videos/us/2015/07/29/university-of-cincinnati-police-officer-body-cam-shooting-vo.cnn

So, anyway, it was a Buzzfeed article about Cecil the lion, and I posted a comment along the lines of 'I wish people would cause as much of an uproar about the death of a human being'. Some guy then proceeded to begin a looooong argument about how I don't care about the life of the lion, and went on to explain to me that, in fact, the death of Sandra Bland was televised for weeks. Long story short, the guy hadn't even heard about Sam Dubose, thus proving my point. I actually had to convince him to watch the video for himself because already he had assumed that 'well, he must've done something wrong'. I cannot tell you how immensely sad that made me, that this man was tried and sentenced, without his story even being heard ,because let's face it, this is the version we often hear from the media. I'm assuming that it was an effort to save face or something, but he proceeded to try and prove that this was not indeed an act of racism, and was simply people of color pulling the "race card". After all (get this) he totally knows and understands the hardships black people face. I mean, as he put it, he is one of the few people in his family who is white.

Yes, make way for the authority on all things race. I'm still trying to grasp the full meaning of the phrase "pulling the race card". What exactly makes the cut for being a legitimate act of racism? It must be said, there's those weird ones that treat these incidents like a contest, as if we're keeping score. The "what about us?" variety. I mean, hey, if you'd like the monopoly on hate crimes against your race, be my guest.
    I also happened to hear about the whole Kylie Jenner-cornrow fiasco and Amandla Stenberg (click on her name for her video on cultural appropriation) calling her out on being culturally (in)appropriate(?), while others claimed people were just being, pardon my French, 'butt-hurt' about nothing. There was a whole Buzzfeed article about times the Kardashians have been called out on cultural appropriation, and I start to wonder where to draw the line. Does it apply when we buy Maasai blankets and wear their headdresses? I feel like I need to take a whole course on this!
    A William Wilberforce once said:

"Let it not be said that I was silent when they needed me."

I still struggle with making a call on when to speak up about something, and when to let it slide because some people simply get their kicks from getting a rise out of others, even when the argument is pointless (I loathe those people). There's something I read one day, and I kick myself every day for not saving it or writing it down somewhere, whose basic gist was, if everyone decided to fall silent about issues simply because they "didn't affect/apply to them", and everyone is left to fight their own battle, no one will be left to help you fight yours. Granted, the original sounded a whole lot more articulate and wise. But. yeah, basically. I know, ever so eloquent. Just something to think about.

eDating for the Socially Awkward

    I can see how the title can mislead one into thinking that 1) I actually have advice for the socially awkward and 2) I am an experienced dater. Do not be fooled, neither of the above is true. I have not been on a date in 3 years, and in the words of Chandler Bing, I'm hopeless and awkward and desperate for love. Well, sorta... In any case, the following post contains accounts of my botched up attempts at dating, and is not in fact anything you should emulate. This is solely for your entertainment, capisce?
    So one of the joys of being a 21 year old freshman, and by joys I mean whyyy, is that everyone in my class is fresh out of high school and is my age...three years ago. Big deal, right? Well, it is. It's just a thing I have, I can't bring myself to date anyone younger than me. I feel like a cradle robber! Solution: hang with seniors, who are actually, for the most part my age. Easy. If the title of this post was in fact, eDating for the Social Butterfly. I am, for all intents and purposes, a 12 year old stuck in a 21 year old's body. To illustrate,



So smooth. Heaven forbid he smiles. At which point I revert to default mode: resting bitch face with a sudden and morbid fascination with the ground. Why? Well, if I knew the answer to that I'd quit doing it, now wouldn't I? I mean, ugh, I'm one step away from drawing maps with my toe and giggling!
    You can't accuse me of not trying. A while back, I joined an online dating site. Don't judge me. You've read everything preceding this, I have problems! One thing to note, I may be a wreck in the one-on-one social skills department, but I am an absolute hoot on paper, e- or otherwise (as evidenced by this blog, if I do say so myself). Another thing to note, I have recently discovered, I can be a little picky if so inclined. I can't help it if I enjoy intelligent conversations with interesting, and dare I say, funny people. The guy can be sporting a twelve pack with the face of Jason Momoa, and shut it all down if he can't so much as distinguish between 'your' and 'you're'. It also seems that everyone is, to quote, um, a lot of them, "a laid back, easy going, sensitive guy". Can I just clarify that, and allow me to speak for all women, at no point will I read that and think, 'Well, it's on his profile so it must be true'. Then there are the over-sharers. If in the first 5 seconds of reading your profile, I know about your ex-wife and your terrible divorce and your reservations about love because she broke your heart, maaaybe dial it back a notch.
    Not to say there aren't some, seemingly, decent guys out there. Who, because I'm so gosh darn lucky, also happen to have a child from a previous marriage (call me crazy, but that's a lot going on at age 24). and/or are a good 10+ years older than me. Or 5'4". Yes, I'm superficial, sue me. Also, it has been mentioned that I'm old-fashioned in some ways, and I personally don't think it's asking for a lot to want the guy to make the first move. I'm on one of those sites that require membership, thus a monthly fee, in order to see who likes your profile. Nope. So, according to the site, 148 people have clicked 'Like'. Funny that, seeing as tumbleweed is rolling across my inbox. The ones who do message me turn out to be guys with some sort of 'swirl' fetish. Pass.
    My love life, ladies and gents. Thanks for reading.

Saddling The Horse

    I feel like, if I write it, I have to commit to it. So, old news, weight loss journey and all that jazz continues still. It doesn't really ever end. Definitely not for people like me. I'm one of those unfortunate souls who break their backs losing weight, but so much as smell a slice of bread and gain it all back. Ain't life grand.
    So, this is somewhat part 2 of the journey, because, honestly, I haven't worked out all that much post-boot camp (can't believe that was a year ago!), and I have 2 kg to prove it. Ugh. But, twas not all in vain. Since part 1 of my journey, I am definitely more conscious about what I put on my plate. I have been exposed to a world where no thigh gap be damned, girls break out them short shorts and crop tops (there are some courageous souls out there, people!) and while my very African upbringing is embedded deep within me, I'd like the option should I succumb to a particularly fabulous pair of shorts.
    I won't lie, exercise is not exactly up there with my list of favorite things to do. If I'm running, let it be clear to everyone that there is imminent danger and it is coming fast. There's a stack of things against me, one of them being my introvert tendencies, coupled with my love of books = sweet treats cozied up in bed getting lost in some fantasyland. At least, this had been me for the longest time, til a little channel called TLC came along and terrified me to my very soul. How, you ask? Where to begin... 'My 600-lb life', 'Weighing up the enemy', 'My weight is killing me'... you get the gist. Now, I am an extremely far cry from 600 pounds (that's ~272 kg FYI), but it's been enough to instill the fear of God in me.
    It's a hard concept to grasp if it hasn't been a personal experience, but there's a period in a big girl's life when she goes from looking at herself in the mirror and mercilessly picking herself apart, to feeling sorry for herself because she's so unhappy, to simply being sick and tired of feeling sorry for herself, and having a pile of clothes in her closet that will be revisited 'when she's smaller'. That, friends, is the point of no return. No thought is more terrifying than the possibility of reverting back to that girl, after mastering up the courage to drag herself from there.
    So, as always, bitch I shall about every burpee, every sit-up, every bloody lunge I do begrudgingly, and I'll day dream about that delicious chocolate chip chocolate cake with chocolate fudge and be content with the idea of it (and of course get me some of that once in a while. I'm no masochist) but I'll suck it up and do it...I owe it to that girl.