My Advice to Every College Ninja

I know of very many friends from undergrad who have gone back to school, others for postgrad diplomas and others for degrees. I have been under pressure from my folks to do the same and at last I have thrown in the towel, come Sept I will be a student again ninjas. This has brought lots of excitement reminiscent of undergraduate me. I know post graduate will be a whole different game, unlike the earlier, here I will have old men and women as classmates, lecturers will be my buddies, I will be setting my own timetable and re-scheduling it as much as I fucking want J For any Undergrad that sounds exciting but trust me this doesn’t thrill me at all. I want to relieve undergrad once more, to correct a couple of stuff I didn’t do. But if wishes were horses, baba would be the Chair of EAC.

So for those ninjas who are still in college, what are you doing right now? Lying in bed, kind of hangovered, watching Game of Thrones (heheh you know at some point I had to mention that), looking or worse fapping to Instagram photos of girls who aren’t interested in sleeping with you?

Yup. Sad. Let’s change that. Pull up Google and look up “animal rescue near Zetech (heheh that also had to come up somewhere somehow) or Kesses.” Then take a bong rip (because you were planning on doing that anyway), dandia a jav and pick out a puppy. Then bring it home.

I’m entirely serious. If I could redo college, there’s only one thing I would change. And it wouldn’t be partying more, drinking less or being in a relationship in my final year. It would be, the moment I left my freshman bedsitter, buying a three or four-month old dog.

I know what you’re thinking: A puppy is so much work. No, it’s not. You put it in a crate and it stays in the crate. Responsibility-wise, it’s the equivalent of owning a refrigerator, I know of bagas who used to own these stuff back in Campus. Yea, you occasionally have to go outside with it, but I know you go on a daily 5:20 blunt walk. Don’t act like you don’t. So take the dog along and your life has no longer been inconvenienced.

It’s going to shit and piss everywhere. So it’s no different than the friends you already have J. Take a whiff of your living room. What scents do you detect? Woody (burning incense), mainly, but also vomit and beer. You think some doggy poo is going to tip the scales? Make your place unlivable?

Won’t I have to train it? Buy treats and tell it to do things. Then use the Internet. Look, stop with the excuses about why you shouldn’t get a dog. You should. It will singlehandedly change your life.

Sunday morning, you woke up alone. I know you did. Because you couldn’t seal the deal, if you know what I mean ;). You were chatting with a girl and things were going well and you wanted to get out of there (with her), but didn’t know how to broach it. Well guess what? If you’ve listened to me, you will NEVER have that conversation ever again.

Let’s flash backwards to that Saturday. You’re having your conversation with a girl, and when you’re ready to ask her to go back home with you, you don’t even ask. You just say this: “Hey, I’m really sorry, but I have to go. I’ve got to let my puppy out.”

Watch her face drop. First off, you are the only man at this bar/party/your campus who owns a puppy (I looked it up). And women, ladies, bitches, whatever you want to call them, LOVE PUPPIES. Now there are only two more lines of dialogue before she leaves with you.

2. “Yea. You wanna come walk her*?”…;)

Congratulations. You never again need to awkwardly and uncomfortably invite a girl back to your place. You have gamed the system, both brilliantly and adorably.

* I forgot to mention this but the puppy needs to be female. I can’t explain this, but women are more attracted to girl dogs. And for some stupid reason, when a guy owns a female puppy, he immediately becomes more sensitive and caring. It’s like, look at you, you live with a girl. You must get them.

The Quarter-Life Crisis

I bet we’ve all heard of the dreaded mid-life crisis that those before us have experienced. The legends tell us of 50-year old men marrying second or third wives, others hitting the club scene like testosterone lazed teenagers and my favorite, those who start hunting for old ‘German made’ kettles, padlocks, ostrich eggs and whatnot, yes am talking about the treasure hunters. We hear of middle-aged women enrolling in pole dancing classes(read Zumba), others getting boob-jobs or in worst case scenarios those who enlist the services of toy-boys. But we don’t often hear of the crisis that happens before all the rest. This crisis is a combination of thoughts and fears that haunt us in our dreams and fill our minds during almost every waking moment.

It’s that dreaded quarter-life crisis.

Almost two years ago, I told those around me that I felt as if I was experiencing some sort of mid-life crisis. They brushed it off and told me I was crazy. After all, I was only 22. How could I possibly be experiencing an identity crisis at such a young age?

It’s easy. You see, this is around the time we clear or are about to clear College and unexpectedly we’re thrust into the real world, totally unprepared. Now, we find ourselves in this place where we are supposed to know what we want to do and we are supposed to know how to do it. We’re supposed to make important decisions and plan for years in advance. No one really knows what he or she is doing but we’re all scared to admit that.

We see others enrolling in grad schools and witness others being admitted to the bar (oops those bagas are still in KSL), others getting awesome job offers, others just continue playing video games and then the winners, those who jump into the baby-making industry. They all make it look so easy. But when we look inward, we become panicked because we have no idea. We feel stuck. We see several different paths and even as we choose one of them we look backwards at the others…positive that we’re making a mistake.

Don’t believe me when I say I know. I am clueless as fuck. I have no idea of what I really want to do or even want. Each decision I make is a gamble. No one truly knows what the future holds. Like most of you, I focus so much on the future to escape the present.

But there’s no set path for us. There’s no road for us to follow. There’s no way of knowing what’s right and wrong. We just have to try.

We just have to take chances. We have to follow our dreams and listen to our hearts even when everyone is advising us against it.

We have to believe in ourselves. And above all, we have to believe that we can have it all. We can have that life we love while making a living.

We can’t always wait for the perfect time. Sometimes, you just have to jump. So if you are about to clear college, prepare yourself. If you are already in grad school, kudos. If you are still hustling like everyone else, don’t lose hope. If you are still playing video games, well…go grab yourself a copy of ‘Imagine Earth’ I hear it’s out. And if you are churning out babies, when is the next one popping out? 😉


Work Vs. Lungula

PG: This is purely a work of fiction; it doesn’t necessarily reflect the author’s view of life.

I make a living as a writer, a corporate writer, and also as a freelance designer. So every day presents a wide-open choice to either work or seek pleasure. At this moment while I type these words, I’d rather have myself planted deep inside some momo, knocking her skull against the headboard with my hip thrusts. But it’s difficult to put food on the table that way.

At times, it seems as if my entire life can be distilled into a simple decision between having fun or getting things done. My life’s course has been a long, undulating loop of either hard work or a hard d**k, but never both at once.

This has been a constant since my childhood, when I was either getting the highest grades in class or the most D’s. I was either getting into trouble or getting straight A’s. I was either a bookworm or a bigger than life bully. I was either hanging out with the smart, boring kids or the dumb, fun ones.

Adulthood has only brought more of the same. I find it nigh impossible to work hard and play hard simultaneously during any given phase in my life. I’ve gone a year straight without working and a solid year without f****g. Depending on when you catch up with me, I’m fixated on either one or the other: mind or body. Superego or id. Angel or devil. Gallant or Goofus. Mature or infantile. Ascetic or hedonist. Long-term fulfillment or short-term satisfaction.

And then, after endless months of dull, colorless work, my pleasure-starved brain sends me diving into the deep, filthy pond of fun. I’ll keep my nose to the grindstone until I nearly die from unhappiness, then emerges Mr. Pleasure, who becomes so reckless that I eventually revert back to a monastic existence.

I feel happier – but emptier – during the sexy phases. If there’s anything that feels better than a tight pussy, I haven’t found it. Nature, cunt that it is, designed the orgasm to feel better than anything. I’ll shoot gallons of cum and wind up without a single bob in my pocket. I’ll chase after pleasure only to discover yet again that it’s not very pleasurable to be broke and nearly homeless.

My inner Civil War between sex and work has a Regional corollary. There are Counties in Kenya, and I don’t want to point fingers, where people have lots of sex and babies but never really invent or do anything constructive. The steamy cultures where lovers lazily toss coconuts as their glistening genitals are tickled by warm breezes have traditionally not fared very well against the cold-climate sourpusses who focus on labor and invention.

Ultimately, successful societies might frown on sex for reasons which have less to do with religion and repression than the fact that we’d never build anything if our libidos were permitted to run wild. Civilizations who fuck at the expense of work don’t thrive for very long. Animals can fuck, too, and they do it much better than we do.

But working and creating are what raise us above mere animals. Work, not sex, is the main reason we ascended above the apes. Mosquitos can fuck with the best of ’em, but they can’t draw blueprints or master calculus or debate ethics.

The trick, obviously, is to integrate the id and superego into a manageable ego, but so far I’ve failed. There seems no way to reconcile these natural enemies. The people I admire the most are the workers and creators, not the guys who shoot their wads the furthest. But generally, I’d rather be licking some chick’s armpits than learning some new software program.

I asked some friends if they had any suggestions to lift me from this quagmire. One of them said this:

Engage in an occupation which incorporates sex…porn star, gigolo, male prostitute….It’s a win/win sitchy-ation.

Another said this:

Get a woman that is so high-maintenance that the sex actually seems like work. Bingo, life in balance.

Um, I think I’ll choose ……hehehe!!