You’ll Never Find the Answer to That Question

You’ll wake up one day and realise that you feel obsolete without him. You’ll grow tired of that, so you’ll wonder if his inconsistency was just in your imagination.

You will never find the answer to that question

but you’ll wake up the next day and realise that it doesn’t matter because he’s gone. You’ll wonder if you should call and tell him all the ways he changed your life. You will make that call because you’ll forget that you were not his first love.

You will not be his last.

You will not be his next,

because even though parts of him still live in your memory, he’s not there. You will try to erase him, but instead you’ll turn him into a fantasy no man will ever match. You’ll wonder if any of that dream was real.

You will never find the answer to that question.

You’ll wonder why he started growing distant from you the moment he told you he loved you.

You will never find the answer to that question, but you’ll wake up one morning and realise that you need to stop caring.

You won’t stop caring, but knowing the pointlessness of it all will make that easier to live with.

Succeeding at Heartbreak is Easy

Succeeding at heartbreak is easy. As easy as walking on Saturn’s rings. When he arrives home at 4 am smelling of Chanel Number Five, remember you still have as much value as last year’s expiration date.

Succeeding at heartbreak is easy. All you have to do is step on every bluebottle on the way to the ocean and then swim underwater from Ottawa to Cape Town without an oxygen tank. All you have to do is forget that he’s beautiful and remember what you were before you met him. Thousands have done it before you.

Succeeding at heartbreak is easy. One day you realise it’s 6 am and you haven’t thought of him yet today. That gives you hope; hope that you might reach noon without receiving a Dalai Lama quotation via text from the friend who let you sleep on her couch last night. When you reach that day, celebrate by opening your third bottle of wine after sunset instead of before.

Succeeding at heartbreak is easy. All you have to do is mark yourself as “cherished” without forgetting the email he wrote you just before he left—the one with the list of reasons you’ve become disposable that goes on for three pages.

It’s Why You Chose Her

You love her because she reserves her ‘I love yous’ for those she’d throw herself under a bus for. You love her because all her edges are soft, because she feels things, because she hasn’t become calloused. You love her because she behaves as though she’s never been hurt even though she’s been hurt far too often.

Women like that are misunderstood.

When she was betrayed, she had two choices: harden herself so that she didn’t suffer the same pain again, or stay brave and offer herself up for betrayal again. She chose the latter. It’s not an easy choice, but she made it because she’s a hero. She’s strong. That’s why you chose her, so don’t resent her grief now that you’re gone. You chose her for being powerful enough to feel that much.

You love her because she’s seen all the darkness in the world and keeps on giving everyone her light, even those as dark as you are. You love her because she’s your opposite so don’t resent her lack of cynicism. It’s why you chose her.

Don’t resent her because her soft edges make your rejection hurt more. It’s why you chose her. Don’t call her tears ‘weak’. It’s why you chose her. Don’t judge her for hurting the way only a hero can. It’s why you chose her.

You chose her because the kind of love she offers isn’t temporary, so don’t judge the depth of her grief. Now that you’re gone, you will be like a big planet that she’ll carry around with her wherever she goes. She will never stop remembering you. She’ll never let go of all the things she knows about you and how they’ve changed the way she sees the world. It was always you that she wanted. Always. She will treasure and guard the space she cleared for you even long after you’re gone. Don’t resent her for that. It’s why you chose her.

It’s the Way He Moves

My ideal man is Caucasian, Asian, and black. He’s Cantonese, Israeli, and South African. I’ve found perfection in every one of them. My perfect man came into the world to the riffs of Jimi Hendrix, or he skipped the Sixties and learned to walk in the disco era. He has flecks of silver in his hair or he has yet to develop a rash of crow’s feet. My perfect man is every man who moves as though his entire soul fits perfectly into his body because he feels no need to compensate for his shrivelled ego. He can’t be a specific race, age or height because men who are secure enough to be humble come in a million different colours.

My perfect man moves like a symphony. He is sex and bourbon. He is grit and understated masculinity. He isn’t built from muscles gained from hours at the gym. Biceps and washboard abs don’t impress me. It’s all about the way he moves.

I love a dominant man, and this comes through in subtle ways because he doesn’t need to throw weight into everything he does. He pulls my strings without having to make demands–why would he need to? My perfect man has power, but it comes from a quiet place. It doesn’t shout because it doesn’t need to. His potency comes through in the things he never needs to say, and when he moves, he’s fluid. He feels no need to overcompensate. One who has genuine force feels no need to profess it through the way he moves or the things he says.

My perfect man isn’t forceful and entitled. Such men demand respect, so they cannot earn it. My perfect man doesn’t try to push every ounce of testosterone through his pores. He doesn’t need to because he’s confident enough about his masculinity to let a smidgen of femininity through. Enough, at least, to make him a man instead of a person who constantly tries to assert his manhood.

Here’s to the Older Man

Here’s to the older man. The original. The nonconformist. The peacemaker. The round peg that makes square holes seem inferior. The one whose years have chiselled his features like a barrel-aged bourbon. The one who life has taught to see things realistically. He makes his own rules, and he has no need for status quo. You can quote him, disrespect him, admire or insult him. The only thing you can’t do is be unaffected by him because he’s found his authenticity. His character has been distilled by time. He challenges us to move forward, and while some may see him as nothing more than aged, I see experience because men who are old enough to lose their delusions are the ones who make me see life more accurately.

Here’s to the older man, not purely because he’s lost his immaturity, but because I am capable of sheer shallowness. There is a part of me that wants to look, to objectify, to consume. A man without age lacks charisma. His presence doesn’t scream ‘confidence’—not the kind that comes from humility. He can hold my gaze without flinching even at times when others find me intimidating. Here’s to the man whose features have been sculpted by time, because I’m not all profundity. I want to be attracted to a face that is affected by a lifetime of smiles and sadness. I want a spatter of grey, a few crow’s feet. I want someone who is all man.

Things I Tell Myself to Stay Happy

Tomato sauce is a vegetable. Chilli sauce is protein. Chips contain 0% fat, and Nutella is a fruit. <adjusts halo>

I will definitely get laid in one minute’s time.

That basil that was stuck in my front tooth all night looked totally hawt because green top.

Walking upstairs at night and downstairs in the morning is a completely legitimate form of exercise.

Sucking in your stomach every time you look in the mirror changes the way your abs look at all other times.

Fuck you. I do not open my mouth when putting on mascara.

There is no such thing as ‘denial’.

Letter from your Humble Bank Manager

It’s come to our attention that you might not be a real person. You’ve been using our bank for 20 years, and yesterday the thought struck us, “Hey, what if this person is actually a shrew?” We thought we’d better make sure, so please come in today to show us the ID book you showed us four years ago again. We’ve kinda forgotten what it looked like, and we figure you might have lost it. We need to make sure you are, indeed, in possession of said ID. The fact that we also want to mock your ugly-as-hell ID photograph might have something to do with it. I’m sure today’s rain and the bad hair day it causes will be satisfyingly humiliating for you as well.

We’re aware that, four years back, you proved to us that you were a person, not a koala bear, but how do you expect us to be sure you haven’t turned into one in the last few years? We know koalas are cute and all, but we don’t let them bank with us. What’s that? You’re drawing your salary into your account so you must be a person? Well, no. Koala bears have been known to get payment for doing stuff like professional ballet and modelling for Cosmopolitan magazine, so we can’t be all that sure of your personhood, now can we?

How to Mansplain

There are two reasons people mansplain:

-1) They’re embarrassed about the size of their dicks.

-2) They were raised by gorillas.

These two problems can be resolved by driving a huge mo’fo of a 4×4 on urban streets while holding a giant, booming subwoofer outside your car window, or mansplaining. Mansplaining can be done when you aren’t driving, so obviously it’s the better option, but don’t be afraid of doing both, even at the same time. If you’re a woman, don’t feel left out because you, too, can learn how to mansplain.

Mansplaining is awesome for these eight reasons…

-1) Women will learn their place on the totem pole that is gender inequality.

-2) Reasons

-3) Everyone will think you’re smart as fuck.

-4) Reasons

-5) People will instantly know that your penis is nine inches long without even checking.

-6) Reasons.

-7) More reasons.

-8) Even more reasons.

Step One

There are two ways to talk to people:

• Talk to them
• Talk at them

Talking to them is polite, but talking at them is fun, so which are you going to choose? To successfully talk at someone, do not, I repeat, do not stop your monologue no matter what. If your woman tries to answer your questions or disagree with you, just keep on talking. Talk louder if necessary because women like to interrupt, which is a sign that they’re full of shit, so show them their place.

Nobody ever made a law about how long a monologue can last. You’re only limited by your own self-respect. Reign that baby in, and you can safely monologue for an hour or two. If you begin to feel humiliated by your own cuntishness, simply conjure an image of your shrunken ego, and you should be just fine.

African Lives Don’t Matter

I remember as a seven-year-old trying to see the top of the twin towers from a yellow cab. Even as a tiny girl with my head all the way down on the seat, they stood too high to fit into my field of vision.

Every September 11, I think of the World Trade Centre, all the way from my South African corner of the globe. Like most people, I remember where I was when the first plane hit. It was morning when I saw the CNN report.

It’s a hoax.

Of course it’s a hoax.

I needed the repetitive footage to convince me that it had happened. I was stunned. I was terrified—a close friend was in her New York apartment at the time, and I didn’t hear from her for four days after the attacks. But that wasn’t the only reason for my dread. The event carried a kind of symbolism that was designed to shock. It was a horror story of epic proportions.

South African papers were flooded with reports about that day for over a month. For more than 30 days we forgot about the 30 000 murders a year that happened in our country. We forgot about the 4 000 rapes committed here daily. We forgot that more people die as crime victims here than in almost every other country in the world because African lives were expendable to us.