Whatever Lynn Truss is smoking, I want some.
Somewhere in Wina Classic’s new store in Garden City you will find a pair of shoes—sneakers—going for 350,000 shillings. Listen. If you must insult me, just call me a disgusting streak of residue staining the latrine wall of society to my freaking face. Don’t go around in circles of simanyi trying to sell me sneakers at 350,000shillings as if they have a 3.2megapixel camera and GPRS-Edge connectivity and dual sim-card capacity in them. Nttsssss.
They say every guy wishes he was Barney. A lot of guys think they are Barney. A few guys actually are.
I have writer’s block. Can you tell? I am convinced now that the reason I will never be one of those writers is that I can never just tell you what I think or how I feel about things. So there will never be that connection with me that you develop with those writers who express some emotion or some idea that you yourself have experienced right there in your own heart and mind. That sense of kinship, we will never share it. Because the most I can do is tell you a fragile lie, or a coy joke, or a completely meaningless gust of fairydust.