In high school, I was a day dreamer. I used to fantasize about many a thing; breasts and cars were my primary objects of fascination. I had some self-esteem issues because I was a late bloomer. I was a head shorter than most people my age and in an all-boys school size does matter. These were private struggles that in retrospect were petty given that some of my peers were dealing with real issues like acne or their parents’ divorce. In my case I had little emotional or physical scars to show for my turbulent teen years. I remember I hated chemistry; so much so that I finished Mario Puzo’s book The Godfather during an organic chemistry class. In the end, one thing that stayed with me was the PH scale that was useful in the determination of the acidity or basicity of a substance. The knowledge was however, never was useful except in a chemistry class anyway.

At 19 came college, and girls and the so very coveted boobs. I fell in love and realised that every woman had something of beauty about them. Loving made me look, and inhale, and look again. You notice the texture of a hand, the turn of a head, the way of a walk. When you first love, you love blindly and you see the woman all as the glorious, beloved whole, or a beautiful sum of beautiful parts. But when you see the one you love as pieces, as why dos and why nots, you learn to love those parts too, and it’s a love at once more complicated than complete. This where I noticed a great big injustice women subject themselves.

Girls hardly know what they are packing in the looks department. Most of them base their acidity or basicity on the opinion of a boy they fancy. They sit back and adopt trends that may not even favour them in the hope to draw attention. I suffered a similar predicament, but I dealt with mine by asking a female friend. She was very objective and since then I never sought anyone for a different opinion. Each morning before I left the hostel, I would look at my face in the mirror and repeat these words to myself “I am a smart, good-looking, sonovabitch…”

Women need to stand in front of a mirror every once in a while. Naked as the day you were born preferably after a shower. In the morning of course, before the lover boys taint your mind with patronizing compliments. Identify your strong points, your flaws and ways to accentuate your body. The goal here is to be objective, really look at yourself and arrive at a solid number that is authentic and you believe in. That way there is not going to be a man that can successfully build you up or tear you down. Be a stable element, an acid or a base. Being a woman is powerful business but only when done correctly. Yes, I know I give good advice, you can thank me later.



Happiness is like…


I was born in the year that communism died; on the same day that MC Hammer turned 27.Thus I think the stars had inadvertently aligned perfectly on that Wednesday night to create the perfect little boy. I like t think that communism paved way for my birth (ha ha). In that year Poland became free and its citizens were then free again to walk the streets at night, make love and eat chocolates along with other privileges that come with freedom. Every year as I turn older I am plagued with the feeling of inadequacy, primarily because I have everything I would need, yet none of the things I want.

Let me explain, I have an Xbox console that I should be steady putting mileage on, but nobody to play it with. Thus it sits in its box as it was when I bought it as I mull over who should have the second controller. I am dating the woman of my dreams, and she is exactly as I had fantasized she would be, but I cannot afford to buy her Mink or the proper diamond jewellery I think she rightly deserves.

Each day for the past decade I look at the mirror in the morning and feel that I look the best that I probably ever will. As morbid a thought as that may be, truth is most people are best looking in their twenties, and I like to think I am not an exception. As birthdays hold less significance the older I grow, and I wonder whether I am becoming a spoilt and entitled prick or it’s a factor of aging. This is because barely two months ago I met twin brothers who had three legs, fifteen toes,  three hands and 12 fingers between them. These kids were in such great spirits seemingly oblivious to the injustice that had robbed them of their limbs in the armed conflict that plagues DRC Congo. The only thing that did not sit right with me was that they lost their limbs on my birthday 2016; around that time I was high on Russian vodka moping about not having a car…

I am a vain man, so vain in fact that the only abilities I inherently possess is the mind for money and a body for sin. I am however, grateful for a lot of things especially that reader who visits this blog regularly from Norway. I have no idea who you are but in the event you are a woman, may The Creator send you truckloads of love. If you are a man and a cynic such as myself, may God send you people who understand to neither fuck with your money nor your time. It has been a good two years now since I began undressing my mind on this platform and thus far the feedback has been overwhelming. It is a far cry from the expectations I had when I began this. No Russian Vodka for me this year, because I cashed in my liver for an extra heart, now I’ll drink less and care more.