Do You Know Who I Am?
I am that dude on facebook. Yeah. The one who keeps updating my page with boring status messages while checking back every three minutes for any comments. None? Then I’ll change my relationship status to “in a relationship”. Yeah, that should get me a few comments. None still? I thought these guys were my friends. Okay, I’ll become a serial commenter and, where it fails, a serial liker. Where are the fucking comments?
You still don’t know who I am? I am the chic who really likes my boyfriend and the other guy. Oh, the other guy. He’ll always comment on my boring status messages, he’ll always be there when I don’t need him; shoot, he’ll even respect that I don’t want to fuck because I’ll always be in my periods every month. I’ll introduce him to my pals as my cousin and later, when we are lying next to each other not fucking, we’ll laugh about it. Then he’ll happily give me that 50.000/- for my transport to my other cousin’s place to spend the night coz he’s sick. He has horn, the poor dude.
Surely you must know me. Remember when I last had a decent conversation with a deodorant? Coz I don’t. I remember the medieval days when we used to take showers. Yeah, I was there. Can you believe it? People actually showered and changed underpants. Gasp. I put on the same underpants day in, day out and make sure I sag my jeans so that people notice the admirable transition from white to brown to dark black to invisible. I don’t wash. Hell no! I can’t be that cruel to my clothes.
You honestly don’t recognize me? Now you are just pretending. You don’t remember me inviting you to Fat Boyz and then asking you to buy me a few beers coz I didn’t have any dimes on me? Why did I go out yet I was broke? Buy me another beer and I’ll tell you why. Is it just me or am I starving? Do they sell chicken in that joint? Do you get the point of me asking those questions without directly asking you to buy me some chicken? No? Okay, buy me another beer and I’ll explain.
I swear you ki-guy you be when your knowing me. Stop feeling feeling even you. Shya! I talk English like this and I dont wanna want to punctuate my things properly coz am a chic and the guys they will not care and when I talk or rite it badly I will crack a joke just and they will think I intended it. I put put in some American accent and ayayayayaya people they will think am posh. I request for many friends on facebook so that people they think am hot and famous.
I am a complex dude; the corporate kind that chills in suits and says suity things coz I work for a big company yet earn very little. Sometimes I pretend to be so swearing intelligent by constamagulating on the explicate obstitaries of yonder and sundry. I deliberately stamaquilangate the opportaine promangecies that I get lost in thine own faquilliagarendespendensies. And just to drive the point home, I floss in borrowed Corsas, press the phone to my ear and pretend to be lost in a dangerously deep and fatally intellectual discussion with the quiet on the other end. Oops! The phone rang. Who could it be?
It’s me again. The chic who is so desperate for just one freakin’ guy to like me but I’ll pretend I don’t give a fuck. I’ll arrive at Rouge on a bike (you fake people call them bodas. Hmm!), get one very expensive drink and expensively walk to the expensive table in that expensive corner to sit and wait expensively. When they approach, I’ll play very very very hard to get, they’ll back off very very very much and I will stay very very very lonely. Then I’ll hide my face under a lonely pillow and cry “why God! Very very very why?”
I am Ugandan.
