I thought I would begin this post by stating that I want to be a DJ. This was a fact made even more prominent by attending my (FIRST EVER) New Jack night last week. The DJ did a tip top (ooooh, he’s the top, he’s the tip, he’s the championship/he’s the most tip top/Top Cat!) job (not one, not two, but THREE Sisqo tracks! I creamed.) It was awesome. I want to be a dj.

I also went to the doctor’s. This is what happens when you decide you are young enough to go around in dresses that have cleavage to your knees. What happens, you ask? You get a chest infection. FROM NOW ON, I will be the chick at the rave in a scarf and a damned poloneck (I already have the Chick Drinking Tea At The Rave base covered). Starting next month.

Few things annoy me because I am passive aggressive, but some things, in the words of Bikozulu, just get my goat. (he. He.) Unfortunately, my got is also rather passive aggressive, so the blog posts only happen a week or so later when I have stewed for week and done nothing except, well, blog. For example, my caretaker.

My instant heater has stopped working, and therefore I am using the kettle to take up-country-like baths. So I call the caretaker and he tells me I have to find AND PAY FOR the electrician to fix it. Now, I don’t know how things work in this Adulthood Oh-I-Pay-Rent world, but according to my logic, the landlord should pay for repairs. I am not the landlord. Why does he want me to pay? It is not like I somehow ripped electrical cables out of the wall, or had a wild drunken party that resulted in inexplicable activities (read ripped out-cables). Why is the CARETAKER, he who STILL has not fixed my bulb, telling me to do so in a rude, unseemly, disrespectful, and – I just got a distinct whiff of – misogyny? Yes. I did. OH NO HE DIDN’T.

He told me to call my brother so that my bro could explain to him how ‘things work around here’. So I did. My brother was not happy with Mr. Caretaker Man. I dare say he won’t be bothering me again, the little prick. The irony is that the Skiza tune on his phone is a gospel song. NKKKKKKT. Few things piss me off more than hypocrisy, specifically that special breed of religious hypocrisy.

Which reminds me. I went to the doctor’s, right? I figured while I was there getting healing and drugs (Drugs Are Your Friends), I may as well, you know, ask her, you know, something else that has been bothering me, you know, whispers down below. Because that shit is important. And when shit hits the fan…that shit CRAY. (Rolls on Floor Laughing)

She says to me “Oh, that’s nothing to worry about. It’s probably just technique.” I laugh, because, you know. It’s funny. Right?

Then she says, “But aren’t you too young for that?” My inner goat began to bleat a loud warning. The passive aggressive (other) goat shushed it because it was stunned. And when I and my goats are stunned, we tend to go into Automatic Pilot Mode, engaging in Politeness until something – either the incident or I – go away. So I squirmed and smiled.

AND THEN she says, “Maybe it’s a sign from God telling you to stop.”

THIS HEIFER!

I laughed, nodded, smiled. She said, “You don’t believe a word I am saying, do you.” You THINK, heifer? You THINK?

Sigh. It’s not that she had an opinion. It’s that she felt the need to share the opinion WITH me. When I had not asked for it. When it was completely uncalled for, not to mention unprofessional? And then to wrap that up in a pretty WWJD package? WTF? Yeah, maybe you are too young to…be lying. Or coveting your neighbour’s Benz. Or doling out your religious views outside your place of worship.

It didn’t get my goat, it got all my damn livestock. GTFOH.

tSN