I’m not a man, not yet a woman.

I’ve spent too many days lately pretending I’m a child to court affections. Allow yourself a weakness, she said, so they’ll be strong and have a reason to be there for you. Guys aren’t looking for a comedian, sweetheart. They’re looking for an audience. Sweet, coy, unassuming, demure, unintimidating, safe,

enough

 I’ve read so much psychological babble about love from the biological makeup of attachment, the evolutionary aspect of choosing a mate to the psedo-intellectual ramblings of a dating blog found in stray pieces online. Yes that’s sad. I’m sick of this. Sick sick sick of it, Kinsey and Freud.

Between being hypersensitive and oblivious, think I’ll stick with the latter from now on. If you like me, hit me with a frying pan.

I am pretty sure you can google any cure for any ailment. Ask Jeeves! He’s your modern day apothecary. But you can’t cure what ails me if what ails me isn’t a sickness really.

Oh forget it. I’m moving on. My baby diaspora is crying for attention. Our Agenda and Perspektif section is growing in unexpected ways with so many possible collabs in the future. Big names with big brains to boot, with very big boots too.

Dad: “The interview questions are good. So when does your exam end?”

Me: “You’re paying for the airfare?”

Dad: “and food and accomodation and clothes and fruit and vegetables. Hurry before the ministry starts doing actual work”

I’ve got thrills you can’t buy, baby. Bye bye.