The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
19,000 people fit into the new Barclays Center to see Jay-Z perform. This blog was viewed about 82,000 times in 2012. If it were a concert at the Barclays Center, it would take about 4 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.
There are groups on Twitter, little pockets, that like nothing more than to belittle and tear down people. These groups, one in particular, operate like sheep. Usually one starts some drama and the others join the cause, harassing and tormenting people who might not even have offended them. Try talking to them about it, they will tell you that they’re just standing up for their friends. My question is, should you stand up for your “friend” even when the friend is wrong? More importantly, should you stand up for the friend when the friend is tearing down someone who is just like you, only bold enough to be their true self? Or is your self hatred so strong you feel the need to project it on others? Let’s address these groups. (more…)
“Do it right!”, the sound of his mother’s voice cut through the thick darkness; “do you know what they do to people like you!?”. Matthew tried to steady himself as he concentrated his mind on maintaining an erection, the erection he would use on her, on his mother. The sessions had become frequent now, she was determined to cure him. At first it was using random girls or women, but Matthew was just never interested. The last encounter ended badly. The girl had laughed. She mocked him. His mother became convinced she was the one who had to do it, she made a monster, she had to cure him. “That’s it, easy does it. Remember you love Mommy. Now, put it in….”
I’ve noted with increased annoyance the wave of insults being hurled at telecoms provider Digicel by various sections of the Jamaican society, particularly on social media. The unprecedented attack on the company highlights what I’ve always believed; we are an ungrateful and grossly unreasonable nation.
Telecommunications Company LIME announced yesterday that they will be cutting call rates for on net and international calls to a low of $2.99 per minute. This is being offered to customers under what LIME has dubbed TALK EZ. On the surface, the move seems legitimate but if one closely examines the proposal, we realize how incredibly naïve LIME is being and that this move is little more than a poorly veiled attempt to once again trapJamaica’s mobile users in their web of poor mobile service. I have several issues with this new undertaking and I wish to discuss them
Knowing his vacation was coming to an end, Matthew began preparing himself to go back to his calm, secluded life. The memory of his latest murder had already faded from his mind and he now felt like himself again, what he considered his true self. The one he was ordained to be before the misguided affections of his mother robbed him of so much. Standing before the bathroom mirror, he shaved the week old stubble that had grown. At 35 years old, he had managed to retain much of his youthfulness. His eyes seemed still, inviting even. Eyes you could trust. He smiled and washed the shaving cream away. A new man, he thought. Time to go home.
As the memory of that encounter with his mother faded, Matthew looked at the lifeless body of the young lady that now laid in his bed. Her throat slashed, blood as red as crimson soaked every inch of the mattress. He recoiled in horror, haunted by the realisation that he had killed again. As soon as the fear had come, it left, replaced by a cold and cruel purpose. With surgical precision he began the now familiar task of cleaning up his mess, his mother’s mess. His hands were steady as he dragged the body from the bed, the dead girl’s eyes stared into his own, without really seeing him. He stared back, without really seeing her. He briefly tried to remember her name, but he couldn’t.
He was always frightened when she called him this late. He took the familiar route to her room, his heart pounding in his chest. They had been meeting like this for well over a month now and he quietly wondered whether her husband had any idea what was going on when he was away. Most of the neighbours had been passing rumours between themselves that suggested she was having an affair, some even implied she was unwell mentally, but Matthew refused to believe it. He loved her, and she loved him. He had to do this for her. He pushed open the door and saw her standing there, bathed in the moonlight which streamed through the open window. She was naked. Her index finger invited him forward, her eyes burning with passion.
The election of officers for the Guild of Students of the University of the West Indies, Mona is once again upon us. As usual, students have a wide cross section of candidates to choose from and are being courted by said candidates in hopes of securing votes. Having thoroughly assessed the candidates, I wish to publicly endorse Miss Krystal A. Tomlinson for the post of President for the academic year 2012 – 2013.
It was with a sense of uncertainty that I travelled to the 2nd staging of the Jamaica Blog Awards, held last evening at The Jamaica Pegasus Hotel. Veritas, my experiment in writing, had been nominated for five (5) awards, Best Entertainment Blog, Best Current Affairs & News Blog, Best Jamaica Focused Blog, Best Writing on a Blog & Top Blog Post for 2011.
I’m thinking about a million things in a dark space, in a small space. This isn’t the way I thought it would be. When I conceived it so many years ago, I was supposed to be sure by now…but I’m not.
I’m watching it all as if from a distance and as I watch the fear that I’m a disappointment and a failure is slowly consuming me and I can feel my mind willing me to fight, but I can’t, I have no fight left in me.
I have failed.
The funny thing is that everyone else thinks otherwise. I’m supposed to hold immense potential and I’m supposed to have great promise, I don’t though. You’re wrong.
You don’t see the inside of my happiness.
I’m slowly retreating into myself. Nothing matters anymore. The last thing that I had to hold on to is over. I debate, therefore I am. That’s what I’d tell myself. It’s over now, so there’s nothing from stopping the darkness.
A dark space, a small space.
An “ex” is a very curious thing to have. Personally, I never know what to do with them or how to relate to them. This is puzzling, considering months, or years before, I had shared a life, my body and my “love” with this person. For some of us, that estranged ex was once the centre of our world, some of us may have even forsaken friends and family for that person. Some of us may even have excessively sweet stories to tell. Stories of intrigue and romance. That first smile, first kiss, first time the penis was made to know the vagina (or whatever variation of that meeting you may engage in).
Some propose to know the mind of God, some propose to work alongside those charged with apprehending fugitives and stolen cars, there are those sent directly from the CEO of RIM and there are those which appeal to our humanity and then there are those which have little to no point. Yes, I am speaking of the infamous BBM Broadcast.
Last evening I was lying in bed, enjoying the rain and having some sexually charged thoughts, when suddenly I was alerted to the presence of a new message. Annoyed though I was that I was being called from the enticing thoughts, I decided to give in to the red light and check. I was greeted with :
“Does Jesus come first in your life? If so, stop what your doing & send it to all your contacts now. Watch what He does.”
I stared at the purple letters for a few seconds before responding, “He won’t do anything. He didn’t tell you He would, and you really shouldn’t make promises on His behalf, especially promises He won’t keep.” Added to my annoyance was the fact that I was in a sexually charged state and being forced to think about Jesus and what He means in my life. That was a very awkward moment.
Lately I’ve been suffering from a severe case of writer’s block and I find that my inspiration to write is now more often than not informed by Twitter and her trends. This tells me that those of you who think I should take up writing in some professional capacity are wrong. I’m really not that talented; I need to be on a “hottaz” JUTC A/C yellow bus (Yes, I know. I’m a hottaz) or logged in to Twitter for inspiration to flow. Well, generally anyway.
Anyhow, as I read the tweets which my learned followers offered as recipes for killing a relationship, I began wondering if we’re really that shallow or if it is indicative of a “new age” understanding of relationships, where sex and love are intertwined and any separation usually ruins the relationship. That is, can you be in a relationship without sex? And alternately, can you be in a relationship without love? Or do the two complement each other? And if one exists without the other, is the relationship less fulfilling?
The following post will speak about my morning erections and the difficulty they cause during pee’ing. If you’re homophobic, disgusted or otherwise threatened by hearing or reading about a penis and or pee’ing, close the tab.
According to The Urban Dictionary (yes, I’m quoting it), the term “morning wood” is a colloquialism which speaks to the phenomenon of penile erection following sleep, related to nocturnal penile tumescence. Calm down. I’m going to define “penile tumescence”.
Nocturnal penile tumescence (also known as “morning wood” or “morning glory”) is the spontaneous occurrence of an erection of the penis during sleep. All men without physiological erectile dysfunction experience this phenomenon, usually three to five times during the night. It typically happens during REM sleep.
So last August I decided I wanted to blog. I decided I’d make it a blog about Politics and Current Affairs and I expected a lot of excited young readers and I saw a future with rich commentary and feedback (it’s ok, you can laugh; it’s funny). Needless to say, that never happened.
If you visit the Archives to the right of your screen, you’ll see that I made 7 posts in the month of August and collectively they got the blog all of 137 views. (Again, you can laugh; it’s funny.) September rolled around the corner and I decided I’d make another post, that got all of 27 views and October, November and December were nothing to write home about.
By then I became disheartened. The blog was a flop. I should have just stuck to writing Facebook notes. At that time I had one consistent reader and he encouraged me to continue writing. He thought it would “pick up” (rolls eyes). Still, when the new year rolled around, I decided I’d try again, I’d broaden the scope of the blog. So I added Entertainment & Culture, Personal, Religion, Social Justice and kept Politics … and WHAM! .. the views shot off the ground !!
There are a few things that are considered necessary in order to live a comfortable life in the 21st century. We all need a cell phone, cable TV, a computer and…
Now before you get upset and close the tab, because you think I’ve wasted your time; consider how many times you’ve read or heard “Hi Haters!” or “Good Morning Bad mind, how are you doing today?” Yes, it would appear that “haters” have become essential to a comfortable life. They are now indispensable accessories, without which your life lacks meaning and worth.
If no one is hating on you, you’ve been doing something very wrong. So, what causes “haters? From whence do they come? And how do we gain them?
Pussy? Vagina? Cunt? Snatch? The Fruit? It goes by many names and titles and throughout the centuries, it has caused some of the greatest problem mankind has ever faced. Does anyone remember the Adam and Eve story? Why did Adam eat the apple? Vagina. Why did King Henry VIII break from The Catholic Church and form the Church of England? Vagina.
Yes! Such is the power of vagina.
So now that I’ve gotten your attention : PAUSE.
READ THE SERIOUS POSTS!
He waits patiently for his timeline to refresh.
He scans his timeline, anxiously trying to spot that name @_______.
Is it healthy for him to casually stroll across your timeline? Is it healthy for him to check what you tweeted while he slept?
He has a crush.
He has finally found the courage to tell you, “I have a huge crush on you…”
He makes his way across the dance floor, led by the music. His limbs are not his, but someone else’s. He needs to find a bed. And then he sees her. He doesn’t really see her. He remembers her smell. Blood rushes to his head in anticipation.
He closes his eyes. Pleasure engulfs his entire body. There is warmth. He bucks forward. Anxious. Expectant. The heat is rising. Sounds fill his ears. Shadows dance across her face. Passion. Pleasure. Pain. There is a scream. Darkness falls. Silence.
Sunlight creeps through his eyelids. Reluctantly, he let’s the rays in. His bed is empty. The room is quiet. He rolls over. The clock reads 11:11 AM.
The rains had come early this year. Sharon made her way across the deserted market place, trying to find a place of solace from the heavy downpour. She finally settled on an abandoned stall which offered some amount of shelter from the angry raindrops. The rain always brought back painful memories. Her home. Her husband. Her children. Her former life. She shook her head to clear the thoughts and surveyed her new home, worn out price lists, piles of decaying garbage and rats scurrying off with scraps to feed their families. Food. Yes, her next task would be to go looking for food.
“Looking for food”, she repeated the words aloud as if willing them to sound less severe. She smiled bitterly knowing that her situation was indeed severe and that there was very little chance of improvement. That’s what Michael had said. As memories of her husband came to her, tears stung her eyes and she roughly wiped them away on the sleeve of the tattered blouse she had been wearing for the past two weeks.
It had been two years since she had last seen Michael or her children. Her heart ached as she remembered her daughter Isabella’s plea “Mommy, please… stay…don’t leave us.”
Her then nine year old son David had clung to his father, eyes fixed on her in a silent plea to the mother he knew still existed in her, but she had left… How could she have stayed? Her addiction to cocaine was tearing her marriage apart and turning her into a monster. She didn’t want her children to come home anymore and see her sprawled out in the bathtub with a syringe clutched in her fist, unconscious and barely breathing. She didn’t want to keep emptying her husband’s accounts to buy cocaine and then lying that she had needed the money for food or for the children.
But Michael, who had been trying to help her deal with the addiction, had insisted that she leave when she had nearly “sold” Isabella to one of her suppliers. She had gone to collect ‘the goods’ but she did not have enough money to pay, the desire for the powder had consumed her by this point and she was desperate. Pleading with the dealer, she had promised anything. He peered outside and saw Isabella waiting in the car.
“How ‘bout your lil’ precious there?”
She had turned on the spot and walked back to the car where her innocent 12 year old daughter had been waiting.
“Honey… mom…Mommy wants you to do something for her”
Isabella had looked up at her with those big blue eyes full of willingness. “Sure Mom, what’s the matter? You look ill”
Before she had a chance to answer, he was at the car. He flung a small bag in her hands and proceeded to drag Isabella from the car.
“MOMMY!” Isabella screamed “Get him off me!’’
But Sharon was already on the ground bag clutched to her nose… sniffing.
The release was immediate. She felt all her problems leaving her and the colours before her eyes blurred. She lay down on the sidewalk and saw no more.
She opened her eyes and saw Michael pacing by her bedside. “Mikey” she said weakly trying to smile but as she saw the grave expression plastered across his face, her smile faltered and died; the horrific incidents that had transpired came crashing back to her. She shot up in bed, “Where is ‘Bella?”
Michael stood there silent.
“Michael, where is our daughter?!” she shouted.
After what seemed like minutes, he whispered “My daughter is fine…”
The implications of his words hit her like a fist to the stomach.
“What do you mean your…”
He cut her off in mid sentence, “I have signed you up for the rehabilitation clinic in Kingston with immediate effect.” It was not a question.
“I have also tendered your resignation from the position of Chairman of the Bank”
“You didn’t tell them –“
He cut her again in mid sentence. “You are no longer allowed within 100m of this house or the children”
But he refused to meet her eyes as he turned to the door “Your things are in the living room and the cab is waiting”. With that he left the room, closing the door behind him.
She sat there in silence for what seemed like an eternity. He was casting her out but it was not for selfish reasons, it was to protect the children, to protect her. He had tried to help her by not committing her sooner and she had betrayed him.
She had almost hurt Isabella.
She slowly rose and got dressed, steeling herself mentally for the anguish that she was about to walk into when she entered the living room. She was about to walk away from the only thing that mattered more to her than cocaine, her family. But it must be done. With that she opened the bedroom door and stepped into the living area.
Isabella sat on the couch her head buried in her hands, crying. Michael held David by his side but clearly it was taking some amount of effort as the boy seemed determined to run to her. As if sensing her presence, Isabella looked up; her face stained with tears “Mommy, please… stay…don’t leave us”. David kept his eyes fixed on her.
Sharon willed her legs to move her forward and she grabbed the bag that lay waiting for her by the door, she turned “I want you to know that I never meant to hurt any of you…” Words began to fail her and she felt the tears rising to the brim of her eyes. She looked at the children and spoke directly to them “I promise I will get well and return to you soon…” She looked up at Michael and said more forcefully, “I promise…”
That had been two years ago and here she was rummaging through the trash for food, she had not kept her promise. She had run away from the clinic a month after she arrived and had not returned since. Lately she did whatever she had to obtain the drug. She had been raped, beaten, shot at and even arrested, just for a moment’s release. These days she was barely coherent enough to feed her urges and at times she thought it would drive her out of her mind.
As she dug through the scraps in the garbage, she saw it. A calendar, the date: July 25th. Her heart pounded in her chest, David’s birthday. Within that moment she knew what she had to do, she would call. But how? She had no money for a phone and had no cell phone. A surge of annoyance shot through her and then she made another decision, she would steal one.
The rain continued to pour in torrents and she could see no possible way of getting to a cell phone. The clock tower struck 4pm and as if an answer to her prayer, a gentleman dressed in a grey raincoat stepped from a building across the street from where she stood, a cell phone clutched to his ear. As Sharon stepped from the curb, he hung up and stowed the phone within his coat. No matter she thought, she would still have that phone.
She headed directly towards him and bumped into him, easing her hand beneath his coat and relieving him of the phone in one fluid motion. “Shit!” he exclaimed “Watch where you’re going filthy bitch!”
“Sorry” she muttered, head bowed and she continued walking in the opposite direction. “The filth that this government allows to walk the streets” she heard him say as he continued walking.
When she had put enough distance between herself and her unknowing benefactor, she stopped under a bus shed and took the phone from her bosom. With trembling fingers she dialled the only number she had kept etched in her memory these last two years. The phone rang. Once… Twice… Three times… She was about to hang up when a voice picked up, a teenage voice, a male voice. “Hello?”
“Dav- David?” she whispered. There was silence for a few moments and then, “Mom?”
“Yes, honey… its Mommy…”
A voice in the background shouted “David lets go!! Dad says to tell them to call back, come on!” It was Isabella. Sharon’s heart ached. Her voice sounded so much like her’s.
“Mommy… where are you?” David asked, “We miss you”
“David!!” Isabella shouted “let’s go!!” she sounded closer as if she had entered the room.
“Bella, it’s Mommy, here on the phone!!”
“That’s not funny David, stop it”
“Honest Bella, here see for your self” he replied.
Isabella reluctantly took the phone from her brother’s hand, “Hello?” she whispered.
“Hi Bella, how are you baby?”
At that moment the operator came on the line “You have one minute remaining on this call”
“Bella, I don’t have much time, I want you and your brother to know I love you both”
“No you don’t!!” Isabella shouted, “you left us!!’
“I believe you do Mommy” It was David.
“Thank you baby, Happy Birthday. I love you” she breathed. “I’ll be home soon…I promise… And with that the line went dead.
At that moment all the emotions she had held in for the past two years overtook her and threatened to consume her. She fell to her knees on the cold, hard, wet pavement and sobbed uncontrollably. She cried until she felt her eyes going dry.
She had to get help; she knew it, for her children, for herself. With that realization she got up and made her way towards a clinic.
Minutes later she stood before the doors, she read St. Joseph’s Rehabilitation Centre.
She took a deep breath and stepped across the threshold; she took one last look behind her and saw that the downpour had subsided. She smiled, it was going to be ok she told herself