I like to tell people my favourite colour is black, but it’s really burgundy/maroon (I once googled the difference but that investigation left me even more confused). I love burgoon underwear, especially murgundy bras. There’s just something about that colour and the way it looks against my skin. Black is safe and everything, but marundy is just beautiful (I don’t want to say exotic, cos that might be overdoing it a bit). Correction — it makes me feel beautiful. Like that hot Fird, who’s really confident and totally fucks with herself more than anybody else. She’s probably real somewhere, just not here and not right now.
Is your favourite scent the one whose smell you like on its own? Or is it the one whose smell you like on your skin? (is “whose” the right word to use? should it be “which”? there has to be a better way to phrase this idea, and it’s not really coming to me right now) My absolute favourite body spray is some Dove Go Fresh Pomegranate & Lemon Verbena thing. It smells like wishful thinking and an amazing alternate universe. One where it’s mostly sunny and it’s always harmattan — the nice type of harmattan where my face is always dry and I can control the oiliness, and I have no pimples, and I feel the air as it goes into my nose, not in a painful way, but like a…haha…breath of fresh air way.
If you’d asked me what my favourite scent in the entire world was before today, I’d have definitely told you it was that Dove Go Fresh blah-di-blah. But now, I’m confused. I spent the weekend with my coworkers and forgot to pack body spray, so I had to use a different one yesterday morning. I remember thinking how it’d have to do, since I didn’t have a choice or whatever. Then this morning, I sniffed my armpit and I liked it. It’s been a while that happened. Now, Dove is great, but it didn’t smell like me. It smelled like wishful thinking and a me in a different universe — just not this one. So now, I’m suffering some sort of identity crisis because my scent is about to change and I don’t feel bad about. It’s just as well. Pomegranate blah-di-blah was difficult to find, anyway.
What’s the name of my new body spray? I have no idea. I recognised it by the can. Of course, my memory may have just fucked with me and I’ll have to live with the consequences of my actions for another month. Kashimawo.
I’m not that particular about smells, but I have my moments. One time, a partner of mine got a new smell. Was the first thing I noticed when we saw that day. I told him he smelled different, and he asked me if that was a bad thing. I said it was weird. I don’t like weird. Weird makes me uncomfortable. Anyway, it turned out one of his partners got him some toiletries — nice-smelling stuff, but it wasn’t him. Didn’t smell like him. I’d put my nose in his hair and not smell the nothingness I was used to. This new hair was fruity. Different makes me uncomfortable.
My elder sister is my absolute favourite person in the world. It’s funny how people reply, “Like you have a choice,” whenever I say this. I’m the person who starves herself because she just might cry if she has noodles one more fucking time — believe me, I have a choice. I can choose nothing. Sometimes, I think I’m too comforted by nothingness, but it’s quiet and stable. White noise. She (my sister) is such amazing people. You know, one of those people you cry and thank God for. I have no idea what I’d do without her…without the thought of her in my life (because sometimes, it’s not so much the person as it is the thought of them). Just thought about it for a minute. Probably the same. Haha! Okay, maybe I won’t be as cool as I am right now. She’s the real cool person, I’m just a copy. Like, my friends’d meet her and automatically prefer her. I don’t mind, though. I don’t even prefer me.
I recently found out my eldest sister is on Tinder. Most shocking discovery of my year, and this is the same year I found out Domhnall Gleeson is Brendan Gleeson’s son. I know they have the same surname, my shock was from my stupidity. I’d been saying their names without making the connection or realising anything. In my defence, they look NOTHING alike. I’m not saying Stellan and Alexander Skarsgård look alike, but please try to see my point here. I mean, Julia and Emma Roberts (kinda [it’s the smile or something]) look alike, and they’re not even mother and daughter! And she (my sister) didn’t drop it like an announcement. She just went, “I’m chatting with someone on Tinder” all casual-like. But I didn’t take it all casual-like. I’m sorry, you’s on Tinder? Isn’t that the land of grand hookups and serial killers? (okay, that last bit is mine. I know it’s not true. My ignorance just felt like saying hey. She’s quite the social one, my ignorance. We call her Iggy for short) My sister just lol’d. She calls me clown a lot. She’s the only person that calls me that without making me feel like smashing their head with a plank while kicking their groin emphasising each syllable in the words, “I’m a grown woman and I demand to be taken seriously.”
My eldest sister also goes to clubs, apparently to buy people drinks (when you have money, you have money). I found this one out this year too. I told her I went to a club with my coworkers (yes, this is big news) and she went, “Oh, yeah, me too.” Who are you, and what have you done to my eldest sister? I haven’t seen her in more than 3 years. Of course, she’s a different person now.
I used to be on Tinder. That was last year when I was looking for something. I still am now…it’s just a different year. I hated that I had to use my Facebook to log in, so I asked one of my (elder) sisters’ friends for the details to one of his FB accounts (he was a girl in that one). Obviously, that didn’t work out for me. I was Michelle, 28, and I had a catvatar. Haha. I’m the stupidest. I met a guy there, but it didn’t go anywhere, obviously. I went on to meet someone else I called August, for obvious reasons. We had a good run…better than most. I mean, there was that thing with Jawbreaker which was generally unhealthy and all-round uncomfortable, and that thing with Treadmill which was very stupid and sickening. I called him Treadmill cos the entire thing was a mindless exercise in something I’m not sure was necessary. I don’t like referring to my partners by their names. It makes them real to me, and if that’s my reality, it’s sad and pathetic. It helps me live with myself better. Not that it helps that much…sometimes, I still lie in bed and cry at the stupidity of it all. I will not call you by your name, because you are temporary and not real.
I didn’t call my father today. We’re supposed to talk every Sunday, but sometimes, I don’t feel like it. I missed his call at 19:54. ’Twas probably when I went out to get food. I had the most meh amala and ewedu ever, but the fuku made everything better. I probably eat at that restaurant just because of the fuku. They always have fuku, and it’s a healthy portion too — looking like a map and shit. I tell people my ass is soft because I eat fuku. Stupidest shit, I know, but it’s no different from how evil (yes, evil) people tell you they have good hair because they use shea butter or some shit. Bitch, it’s genes. If you were going to have it, you would’ve had it.
I’m sat here wearing the tshirt the boy I love gave me before he left, listening to Hardluck Stories, which is basically how I feel about the whole thing. I actually picked the song before we ended things. I always pick my breakup songs before they happen. It’s a white tshirt with black skeletons. I did nothing but smell it the first week I got it. Still had his smell and it comforted me. Oh, have I romanticised this boy so much, even he found it uncomfortable. But then, he kinda did the same with me, so I guess we were even.
I wear waistbeads now, I don’t know why. Believe it or not, I’ve been on autopilot for most of the year (“they had a broke keyboard, I brought a broken keyboard”). I bought the beads at Oyingbo market. Wearing waistbeads was something I played with at the back of my mind (kinda like how you play with your pubes with no real plans of masturbating), but I got to the market and saw this old woman selling them, so I got to ̶m̶a̶s̶t̶u̶r̶b̶a̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ buying (I’m sorry, can we take a few moments to talk about how Medium does not support strikethrough text? I like to have options even if my chances of using them are one in a thousand. I mean, I just used my one in a thousand right there, and Medium wasn’t there for me. aside: there be sites to help you do shit like that. the internet is fantastic). I got two (sets of) waistbeads — one golden one, and a dark blue one. The blue one was supposed to be the backup…you know, just in case someone else wanted one and I didn’t want to part with the main one. Ended up giving my roomie the golden beads because I didn’t like how they looked on my skin. Then my other flatmate wanted one too (honestly, I don’t think he really wanted them. He just wanted to want them) so we gave him one string out of the golden ones.
See, the thing is, I fell in love with those stupid beads. The dark blue ones are nice, but I didn’t love them. And then my flatmate wasn’t treating my golden girls right, so I stole them back. Now they’re on my right wrist. I don’t know what I’d do if he asked for them back. Probably cry and talk about the sacredness of beauty. I think I should buy another set for him. I don’t think that’ll work out. Kashimawo.
I spent quite some time finding an acceptable image to go with this post. I hate looking for images; it’s so difficult finding the perfect one. Anyhoo, that one says, “I thought I had my thread, but I lost it.”
I’m on newsletter duty tomorrow.
