Seeking Job for Aspirant Retiree

Welcome to BSc third year at Stellenbosch University where we have decided that for your enjoyment we will give you seven subjects all of which are based on a second year subject you happened to fail. But don’t worry because we’ve made it even easier for you by ensuring that four of those subjects are continuous assessment which means there are no second opportunity exams. And just in case that wasn’t scary enough, we have also decided to schedule two of your other subjects on the same day at the same time so you can’t have second opportunities for either of those. And just because you are such a valued customer, the second opp for the rewrite is the day after Biochemistry so you still get to enjoy your holiday.

So why am I bitching? Well mainly I’m bitching because I’m pretty sure that I’ve failed Genetics and I would really love to be able to blame something else for my stupidity. But I’m also on the war path because I’m terrified about the rest of my subjects! I have three exams left, all three of which I only have one opportunity to write and all three of which I really need to do well in because otherwise I will be redoing third year next year provided that I make enough credits for them to allow me back in.

Then there is the irony of me sulking about my hard life on my blog which takes time, time which should be spent on studying but this is the root of the problem. I am studying a BSc degree which is a bachelor’s degree in Science which is essentially useless unless you intend to do postgraduate studies. And seeing as this year is resulting in semi-suicidal Kat the thought of doing postgrad studies is enough to make me want to get my razorblades out. Also, there is the slight problem that I hate what I’m studying and don’t ever intend to use this degree but I’ve decided to finish it regardless.

But what would I rather be studying? Well, I actually have no clue. I’m a woman so I’m lucky enough to have a personality that not only changes its mind every five seconds but for one week of every month I become crazy and irritable and decide that I’m going to be an astronaut or something equally ridiculous like a stay at home mom, which wouldn’t be an entirely crazy idea provided I had a husband and a kid on the way but seeing as I can’t even find a boyfriend I may have to put those plans on hold. Besides I can just imagine my father rolling his eyes at that idea.

If I didn’t have so many damn ideas then it may actually be an easy task but when you wake up each morning with a new ‘perfect’ career path in mind then you know you’re in serious trouble. And actually all of these ideas result in one thing – I aspire to be a professional retiree! How difficult could that be, right? All I need is enough money to support my living habits and my various hobbies for the next 80 years (God forbid I should live that long). So basically I need to be an overnight millionaire!

Until such a time however, I should probably start studying.

It's All In The Eyes

I have finally found something that I am truly good at; a talent in which I truly excel. I am a pro at procrastinating. Not only that but I am really good at productively procrastinating. I somehow manage to complete an extraordinary amount of tasks that needed to be done but have been last on my list of things to do up until now where studying has become my life.

However, yesterday after spending the entire day being super productive (I cleaned the flat, mopped the floors, swept my room, washed the laundry and the linen and then even made my bed), I decided it was time to do something completely unproductive and found myself sitting at one of the local hangouts with one of my favourite girls drinking cocktails.

The great thing about friends is that you can talk for hours about virtually anything and after starting the conversation on my parents’ latest visit I suddenly found the two of us talking about blogging. She’s only recently started blogging and her excitement has inspired my latest exam induced blogging spree. Before I knew it we were sharing ideas and tips on how, where and what to write about.

This leads me to her latest article titled ‘Flirting’. This is the point in which I remembered my true skill; my actual talent. And I have decided to share it with all of you.

Now anyone who has ever been out with this friend of mine knows for a fact that she has even less than zero experience at flirting and to be honest, she’s kind of useless at it. Luckily she’s beautiful so she seems to cope regardless but I found myself giggling at the thought of her writing about a topic in which she is clearly useless.

Flirting is an art. It is something that we learn during our teenage years and it is probably the most useful weapon in a woman’s arsenal. It’s a tease, a dance, a prelude to a deeper need. It is a way of conveying your thoughts without words. It is a game and it is all in the eyes.

When I was younger and in hostel, I remember sitting on my bed one night during prep, I had finished my homework and was enjoying the peace and quiet of a busy hostel with a magazine. I can’t remember which one it was but it must have been one of the Cosmos making its way round the hostel at that time. There were various articles about sex toys and Karma Sutra positions but the page that intrigued me was the one that held tips for flirting.

I spent hours reading over that article; remembering every look, facial expression and line. I was mesmerized by the power that it gave me and wanted to know everything about it. After learning the pages by heart I went on to find other articles as well as trying out a few of my own tricks. I created a monster and I was really proud of it. I had help along the way from various friends and ‘experts’. This was a game and I loved playing it.

I therefore found it very amusing to be sitting opposite my friend watching her glance at the two boys who had just entered the restaurant and were sitting at the table behind us. I watched in horror as she made eye contact but quickly dropped her eyes and looked down, only slightly embarrassed. I carried on talking as if I hadn’t noticed but the little devil that lives in my head was rolling around, laughing.

I have therefore taken it upon myself to teach her the ways of the dating world. Lessons will start soon and I promise to keep you all up to date but until such a time I suggest that all the girls reading this take into account one vital tip. EYE CONTACT! That’s all it takes. J

Ugly Little Fishy

I’m standing in front of this mirror again. I look up and see my hollow eyes staring right back into mine. I see the long lines that have formed under my eyes, seemingly highlighted by the dark rings which circle them. I see the slightly overgrown eyebrows which cause havoc in thick black on the bridge of my face. And when I look closely I see the slowly forming frown lines on my forehead. My eyes roam further down, looking for some sort of saving grace only to find my nose which sits disproportionately on the front of my face masking the scars that tear through my lips.

I feel it then, the slowly rising burn of bile as my stomach clenches in pain. That sweetly sour taste in my mouth as I dry heave into the toilet bowl.

I collapse onto the cold tiles, my feet no longer managing to hold me up…

I don’t know how long I stay there but finally I find the strength to pull myself up, relying heavily on the towel rail for support. I make it to my feet and return to the mirror.

This time my eyes catch the bruise; that dark blue blotch on my hip surrounded by a sickly, yellow tinge. I think back to how I hit myself, moulding myself into the better me; the ‘me’ that I could be if I wasn’t so ugly. I remember the blood and the pain as my eyes linger on the now healing cuts just where my right leg meets my torso. It had to be there so that no one would see it. Not that anyone looks at my hideous body.

My growling stomach is the only thing indicating that I have been on a starvation diet for five days now. I haven’t even had the decency to lose the fat which has stretched and distorted my skin to the point of scaring. I am just as hideous as I was yesterday, and the day before. And the diet pills I stole from mom’s cabinet aren’t helping much either.

I dry heave again. The acid lining my oesophagus burns through the various layers of flesh that surround it. There’s blood in my mouth. I’m not sure where it came from but I can taste the iron thickly on my tongue. I spit it out only to find that it has been replaced. Something is bleeding but I couldn’t be bothered to find out what. My blood is the first thing I have tasted since I last vomited and it tastes better than the bitter bile of my stomach.

I sit down. My naked skin burning as it touches the cold white floor. I see myself in the mirror once more and wonder why I could never be beautiful.

If only I was as beautiful as she. If only my legs were as long or my waist was as small. If only my eyes could light up the night. If only you would choose to take me home tonight…

I must have passed out then. I woke up on the icy, white tiles, my blood spattered against the wall, dripping down to the floor. I look down at my hands which clutch desperately to a picture. It’s a picture of you. You will be the last face I see.

The pitch black of my nightmares surround me and your face loses focus. It’s fading quickly now.

Mom found me two days later, when she came back from her latest Paris trip. Dad hadn’t even noticed I was missing. The paramedic pronounced me dead on my bathroom floor still clutching desperately to your photo. Broken, but you couldn’t care.

No News is Good News

I have looked back on my life many times, and when I do I see a roller-coaster of strong emotions combined with the faded memories of a long life; rain, anger, a small doll, family, happiness, care-free, love, broken glass, cloudless skies, sadness, a painting, a smile and laughter. I lived a full life.

I think back on the memories that haven’t yet faded as I sit in this dreary room. The horribly soft mattress below reminds me constantly that I have been here for a week now and that stench of chemicals that always seem to be masking the under-current of death, urine and faeces no longer bothers me. The shrill intermitted beeps crying from all the machines that surround me ensure that the bags under my eyes grow deeper and darker whilst my mind tries desperately to shut down. I do not want to die in this hospital.

The nurses have been friendly enough although there is one who is particularly rude to me. I must have done something to insult her at some point but my drug addled brain cannot remember such an occurrence. I never seem to actually see my doctor though. It seems to me that the nurses treat me and that he gets paid to look good and do surgeries…

This reminds me why I am here. I am to go into theatre tonight to have more tumours removed. You see this disease has slowly been eating away at my body for the last four years. It has caused pain and misery and heartfelt dread. It has taken away my pride, disfigured my beauty and aged me beyond what I care to mention. This is the life of a woman living with cancer. A woman who has watched her hair fall out in great big clumps, a woman who has sat and watched doctors pump her full of a poison that may or may not help, a woman whose life has been destroyed by a simple mutation.

And as this disease consumes me, it comes to define my life. I plan my life around chemo sessions and choose my place of residence based on how close it is to the nearest hospital. There is always ginger beer in the fridge, the dagga cookies await my return home and there is a bucket next to my bed. My life is not a life; it is a compilation of feeling alternately sick and poisoned, it is an up and down emotional fuck up and it is lonely. Oh so lonely.

I’m starting to get anxious. My operation was supposed to start about an hour ago and this horrible gown is so scratchy. Where is my doctor?

He’s told me this operation will help. He’s said that it will lessen the pain and help return my life to some form of normality. As if normal was an option for me but his concern is admirable. He’s actually not too bad as far as doctors go. He’s been friendly and gentle when on rare occasions he has graced me with his presence. Where is he?

One of the nurses is walking towards us. Why is she frowning like that? This doesn’t look good.

“Your operation has been cancelled. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

When the doctor finally did come to talk to me all I heard was a slurred mumbo-jumbo of words that made no sense to me and slowly faded into the background. He didn’t need to tell me, I already knew. We had reached the end of the line, run out of options. This was to be the end of my fight. This was what my life had amounted to. These were to be my final couple moments on this earth.

Lady Kat Needs New Friends

I have come to the conclusion that I need new friends. DESPERATELY!

Well, not that desperately because no one has time for friends during exams, but you get the gist of it.

The other night I was chatting to one of my soon-to-be-replaced friends, when we came to the conclusion that Lady Gaga and I actually have a lot in common and I should therefore structure my entire life on a template of her design. However when I asked this friend to call me Lady Kat he was shocked.

A couple weeks ago, one of my sister’s friends called me Miss Kat. As if the grey hairs screeching back at me from the reflection in my mirror weren’t enough to constantly remind me that I am getting older. That bitch (she’s actually pretty awesome, but for the sake of my story let’s pretend that she’s not) called me MISS! I think I may have aged about ten years on the spot. She then gave me the option of Miss Kat or Kat Lady. As if the first option wasn’t insulting enough.

On a side note, to all future potential suitors who may be stalking me while they wait for my credit check to come through, I am not actually a cat lady. Also if you manage to find anything in my bank accounts please notify me immediately so that I can rectify the situation.

But I digress. Anyways, we eventually decided that Lady Kat was a good middle point (not that it stuck but one can try I suppose).

Then when I was chatting to this super sexy, stud of a man named Thala (well technically that’s not his name but seeing as he’s from the Eastern Cape, he has some ridiculous Xhosa name that I can’t even pronounce let alone try an spell) the other night and we were comparing some of my better traits to those of Lady Gaga, I remembered Lady Kat.

For the sake of those of you who don’t know me and are struggling to draw the parallels between Lady Gaga and myself, let me enlighten you. It all began with me describing a particularly evil bout of the flu that I incurred from the devil himself. My description sounded like something out of a Lady Gaga lyric. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, there are the similarities in our singing styles. My on-stage screaming for a Maties Drama production last year so closely resembles her singing style that it is actually uncanny. Also, apparently we’re both completely psycho but this is according to Thala who happens to be a Maritzburg College boy so I think that pot may be calling this kettle black.

So despite the urge I get to shove knives into my eardrums every time she opens her mouth I have come to the conclusion that the similarities are to prevalent to ignore. I am therefore going to Lady-Gaga-rise myself. All it takes is a trip to the butcher’s shop and punching a rainbow in the stomach in the hopes of getting the rainbow to vomit all over my granny’s wardrobe and I’ll be sorted. But first I needed to get my friends to start calling me Lady Kat.

Well, to be perfectly honest I didn’t try very hard but I couldn’t even convince Thala to call me Lady Kat and it was partly his idea. And after already having failed to convince my friends to rub Vicks on my back this week I decided it was to intimidating to try convincing them that I should be called Lady Kat. I have therefore decided I need new friends and interviews will begin after exams.

Please feel free to send me your CVs and take note that laughing at my jokes, calling me Lady Kat and rubbing Vicks into my back are all compulsory perks to being my friend. You should also take into account that I am open to bribery of various forms such as chocolate, wine and back massages.

Happy Ever Never

Anyone who has ever been on the receiving end of a break up will agree with me when I say it is absolutely horrible and it doesn’t actually matter when or where or how it happens; it is horrible. That said, it is not always that much easier to be on the other end of the break up either…

When I was in grade six, I did my first ever break up. Being so young meant that my entire relationship consisted of smiling at one another across the class, sitting together during evening prep if you were really brave and maybe, just maybe, sharing a slow dance, arms outstretched, at a school ‘disco’. Needless to say, I was not in love, nor did I even think that I was, so breaking up with him was really easy and I actually felt relieved afterwards. I had the world of boys at my feet and I was convinced that I would rule forever.

A couple years later I was sitting on the opposite end of a break up for the first time ever. Not only was it the first time that I was being ditched but I was fortunate enough (please note the sarcasm) to receive the news via text message. I was devastated to say the least. But I eventually got over it and once again thought to myself that no guy would ever break me.

Since then I’ve been through a couple (hundred) break ups. I’m not sure which side of the break up is easier to be on because it sucks either way and it just doesn’t get any easier with practice, so I have decided to concoct a plan in which I never have to face another break up.

Option 1:             Kiss frogs until one of them turns into a prince

Option 2:             Give up on the concept entirely

Option 3:             Kill myself

Option 4:             Somehow actually manage to find the guy I plan to spend my life with (As a side note it may be a good idea to insure that he feels the same way).

All four options bare certain advantages and disadvantages. Option one for example pretty much guarantees that I won’t get into any relationships in the mean time because, let’s be honest, no one wants to hook up with a girl who kisses frogs. Then there’s option 3 which, for obvious reasons, would make dating a little tricky. Option 2 then? It seems fairly reasonable. I’ll just give up on the fairy-tale wedding that I’ve been dreaming of my entire life and the family I’ve always wanted. No biggy, right? Hmmmmmmm… I think not.

Then there’s option four. Sounds like a good option right? We’ve been brainwashed by Hollywood to believe that falling in love with the perfect guy is easy and happens all the time. The only problem with it is that it’s damn near impossible to find the right guy and then as if that was difficult enough someone decided that not only did you need the perfect guy but you needed the perfect timing as well. That’s just mean.

This is the very thing that makes true love so special though. This is the very reason why everyone is looking for that one special person. Once you’ve got it, everything else will be worth it.

Well that’s what I’m going to tell myself anyway.

Turning Over the Wrong Leaf

After some gruesome dreams last night in which I failed all of my subjects and became the kind of low life bum that would make my father role in his grave (quite a feat considering he was cremated) I decided that today was the day to start studying for exams. And by studying for exams I don’t mean sitting in the SS (Studie Sentrum), staring at the ceiling whilst thinking about everything from the meaning of life to what I should make for dinner. I mean real productive studying in which you actually learn something.

This was why, at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, I was out of bed, showered and on my way to Narga (the computer centre) to print my notes for genetics. I even managed to pack away my external hard drive. I was on a mission and not even YouTube was going to stand in my way. Half an hour, and about 60 000 printing credits later I was on my way back home so that I could initiate project ‘Work my Face Off’.

And then the inevitable happened. After half an hour of being fully productive I faced temptation in the form of a proper breakfast with my step dad and sister. Needless to say my step dad didn’t even have to ask twice! The whole way through breakfast I sat there convincing myself that once I got back home I would have the energy to study because of my proper breakfast and I would therefore be a lot more productive. Hell I even managed to convince myself that breakfast was a much needed study break; we all know how mentally exhausting it is to press the print button.

But to my absolute horror, when I got home my brain suddenly decided to be super productive, at EVERYTHING BUT STUDYING. I cleaned my room, organized my notes and made myself some tea telling myself that it’s impossible to study in the mess. While I was cleaning my room I suddenly thought of an old friend who I haven’t spoken to in ages and decided that it was absolutely vital that I message her immediately.

Finally I was out of ideas and sat down to study. I made it through one and a half scientific papers before my friend replied and to my utmost joy I realized that her reply would take at least half an hour to reply to by which time it was lunch. And you can’t skip a meal when studying, everyone knows that…

Well, lunch is now over and here I am, procrastinating some more by telling you about my useless waste of time, while sitting in my now spotless room (yes mom, I made my bed) and I can’t help but think that maybe I turned over the wrong new leaf.

Then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I found myself trying to convince myself that I had left it till too late and should just give up because there was no hope for me anyway. And by convincing myself I literally mean speaking to myself in the mirror in which I had just completed tweezing my eyebrows. Yes this was procrastination at its worst and something needed to be done.

I have therefore decided that tomorrow is another day. It can be done, it will be done, it shall be done… tomorrow.

Final Goodbyes

Over the last week or so I’ve tried to find the perfect words, the words to say goodbye, the words that will do the moment justice. And all I’ve managed to do is waste paper. I’ve realized there are no perfect words so I’m just going to talk.

I remember the first time I met you. Well, I was young so I don’t know whether it is a memory or a figment of my imagination. I was staying with my mom on the farm. I hadn’t seen my dad in ages and I was so excited. When he arrived I ran out o the car to greet him only to see you, sitting in the passenger seat.

I was terrified. You were tall and beautiful with a hair so big you could put Jonny Bravo to shame (I suppose that was all the fashion back then). You got out of the car and I could feel myself quiver in fear. You were about double my height, you were elegant and graceful (not an easy feat when climbing out of a bakkie), and you were wearing high heels. I ran and hid under my bed, terrified and sad that my weekend with my dad had been ruined. You were the ultimate step monster.

I was wrong. Hell, you’ve been proving me wrong ever since.

Over the years you have taught me so much and shaped me into the type of woman I want to be. You dispensed your advice, and I took from it what I wanted. I look at the woman you were in all the time that I knew you and can’t help hoping that one day I will be like you too.

In my matric year we went on holiday to Port Edward. I remember you and dad sitting us down and telling us what the doctors had said. The cancer had spread, taking over; we didn’t think you’d make it to Christmas. I think you thought so too for a stage. I remember walking down the beach, my sister and I with our arms linked. You two were just ahead of us and there were a couple rocks we’d have to climb over. I watched as my dad grabbed your hand and helped you up and over. I saw it then. You were the love of his life and he was going to support you through every step of this fight. This would not be the end.

I was right. A year later I was home for the holidays and you were still fighting, still standing. I was so proud of you and I admired everything about you. I know that dad dying was a huge blow, and saying goodbye to Ollie (Oliver Barnes McGinn, our dog) just after that didn’t help. I thought the for sure that you’d give up but you continued fighting for as long as you could. You amazed me.

I know it is selfish to wish that you were still here but I guess I just miss you. But it has come time to say goodbye. Thank you for all the lessons learnt, for all the lessons taught, for the life you led and the memories we shared. Thank you for taking us in and looking after us as your own. Thank you for being the best Step Monster I could ever have asked for.