My Jennifer

“I know of one God, and even she exists within me. The rest of you people are going to hell.”

My Jennifer:

MJ (like the Elizabethan – Mary) (and yes, cuffed, in a way.) : Hey Marv?
Me: Hey Life.
It: This guy sucks, throw him herpes.
Herpes: Again?!
You: Prick!
Rosa: *Status unchecked (She’ll, be here soon).
This other guy: Aah, I get it now. I can see past the photo.
Pun: *Infuriated! (but intended, nonetheless)
Disclaimer: There is none, but a phenomenal shout out to anyone that won’t get this.
Interviewer: Besides this, what’s the next bravest thing you have ever done?
Me: Besides this, the bravest thing I’ve ever done was show up for a dance in October 2014.
Eve: Honey, you need to move on.
Bystander: Wow! And this is like, his first publication?
Some other guy: Who cares?!
Me: @Bystander – my lotsth (…it was the 3rd. It was tho).
Me again: Of course I remember that day – the bloody 3rd, or so it would become. Coincidentally, it also happens to be the stupidest thing I’ll ever do, next to walking in on my other shadow masturbating in Kikuyu. *Turns gaze to the reporter and when frighteningly close, whispers warm Guinness down her now, oddly lit breast-canal, straight down to her belly and some resting soaked on her woolen – blue scarf (which I now own) (a social insecurity scam) and walked her past Seth McFarlane on my way to the washrooms. Oh and, check that guy out.

Now, The reference itself stems from the famous saying about a certain Mary … bloody hell! Her name’s bloodied my all. People should ask me; Marv, why do you have a bomb strapped to your conscience? Well; before I stray any further, I’d like to point out that this is dedicated to that one person, that one angel, my other self, and also my sister (haha) – Moshel. Yes, to her too.

Lisa, that was her name. God – that wet dress, nipples sticking out of it like she intended them … breasts, the size of Bukoto, or as Bitalanga dares not say; exposed over a plane traced directly from that former, female Chelsea team doc’s own … or of other pretty women. Boy; I was such a mess! I actually wrote this last night at Tracy’s shed, while having beer (and also other decadents) with her dog, Bobby. Hm. She’d kill me if she read this. But I highly doubt her ever doing so. Although I did hop on a bodaboda earlier on so I could meet her emergency, (and not in an actual matatu as I let you believe) when I found her sleeping on an actual fashion magazine – The Virtue, so it was. That should also explain half of the confusion hence forth.

“I’m not the bravest thing to ever be undone.” Cry not, for I was brave enough to want this autobiographical squalor inscribed on my tombstone (in Africa – yes, Uganda) (Shudder). I also wanted to be cremated and my ashes thrown off the top of Lisa’s tower in Islamabad … so I guess you see how that’s a problem. There is no Lisa’s tower (or Lisa) in Islamabad, and even if there was; I’d’ve already hit the trifecta with that introduction so that still makes me what? Annoying. I don’t care, I’m not being driven around in Italy. Also, while there; I’d’ve told this same joke in italics and still gotten following (pun intended). Now if you don’t mind; I’d like to have face time with Lillian, Mbabazi, and any other funny talking comedians. SIT DOWN anne kansiime! The capilazation in your name too … And all male feminists for that matter. Bet you thought no one would play the bully at 22, (hours too, in EAT) with just a bad apple (iPod touch – Version 4.2.1 (8C148) Model MB528BT, or as Mac Miller puts it, an expired Macintosh, if you can get the joke. Long story short; I need an upgrade … that is one of my goals. Plus, I defenestrate all day, this will only last a while until; ‘About hearts’ derails my focus – an entirely different issue altogether – for all the strong women out there, hearts blemished but still soldiering on with talent. Stuff Keko used to sing about. Not that I actually care … also coming soon. And for all the gents out there who make updates in public toilets. I hope you had a nice read too. Now scram! It’s almost mid-mood where I’m currently broadcasting from.

14 minutes (of psychological hurt incited by self, upon 3 days of mastered up patience, trying to decide whether I should start a blog or not) now elapsed, and here we are. But I guess any good story is worth the habit. And besides, most bad behavior is masked by exquisite cologne. If I experience this right, I might stay well awake for the next Muslim chant due east of my current location. Annoying thing! That being said, I’ll personally escort any hot females, aged right and weighted enough, out of Islamabad same time next week, if any. Also, reading this might leave you vulnerable to offense. Like girls who don’t commit to their age or their previous adulterations. If you’re a freak, freak out. ICHGAF. Also, if you’re something you’re not, kindly disengage. Act grown if you’re, and if you’re tired, stay frowned. I’m yet to conclude. I’ve gone 31 hours straight, awakened (not willingly) from that shit Wahabi gave me just an hour ago. You don’t know Wahabi. Also, that math won’t add up, I realize that now. Call it 21st centurionite hubris, actuated by the likes of Leonardo, Machiavelli, Keroauk and/or any other famous Teslanian being situated in London, that era, for that matter. Oh yeah, that too somehow manifests in my vocabulary now. Big deal to most people. Especially those who look hence with and, or forth, read about Jacob, are buffs of HBO movies, and also prick about any disinteresting Arsenal game – for enchantment … only until that shit isn’t funny any longer. I’ve turned into that guy; …coming soon … Or better yet, coming now.

I’ve turned into that guy – The Defenestrator … Coming to you live from this other matatu – the card game. Ooh, the kenyans were rooting for that other thing – the Jenkins show? Hilarious! Which is extravagantly ironic, considering that’s the same vague autocorrected dumb fuck that failed me a grade in all that textin junk, and Whatsapp, (and of all things) distaff thrillers (not drama), etc, etc … of the Utopian age (or so we call it). Which is ironic, because ‘Kenyans’ too, is in the fucking dictionary (the keyboard’s dictionary. I do not own a physical dictionary. I prefer words simple enough to match my expectations). And WTH is a Jenkins anyway? Or rather vaguely, why does it prioritize; Kenyans … Correction, just the three I know, also via Facebook (Hola BTW? (in Swahili)) (And for all other whites out there; not all East-Africans know Swahili, mwahurira?). As for publications’ sake, Kenya has a US president. That, and a lot of drones (not kidding) the kind that sort sugar and other stuff… and also, a consorted, radioactive ego that can level any sugarcane plantation for over a thousand bum aches, with, and ouches (equally a thousand) but from different admirers, all Japanese. I’ll let that sink in.

Still playing: Rest Of The Night – Jimmy Prime

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