Funemployment To A Degree

I graduated with a bachelor of commerce in 2011. It's called a BCom general majoring in finance. I tell you this, not because I want to gloat about my academic under-achievements, but to give you an idea of where I'm coming from.

A large majority of people are under the belief that education breeds success. This notion, though not far from the truth, does have its anomalies however. Some of the most successful people in the world never got a whiff of tertiary education. Granted, the people I speak of were too incredible, and passionate in their fields to be bogged down by the constraints of higher learning. Bill Gates and Richard Branson both dropped out of Harvard and high school, respectively. These are two highly successful and respected individuals, and various Forbes lists will re-iterate this.

Acquiring a degree shows cognitive ability and the ability to finish what you start. It shows a desire to gain technical or theoretical  knowledge in a field you are interested in, or not interested in. A degree also comes at a price; monetary and otherwise. Fresh out of high school, time is one of your greatest assets, as you have  so much of it left on this precious earth, God willing. Yet we are inclined to spend 3 to 7 in an educational institution. It almost sounds like a jail sentence. After which, you start at an entry level job in a company you only have the desire of owning. You might not even find a job in the field you studied in. During your studies, you might have changed your mind about what you want to do for the rest of your life. Before you know it, you're getting capped in front of your parents and it's all a very joyous occasion. The crippling reality is that you're not the only graduate in this world. Your matric friends that went straight to work after high school have a lot more of this valuable work experience that everyone wants. They might have even started their own companies. Maybe that degree, with your name on it, helps you sleep at night, but before NSFAS wakes you up demanding a loan repayment ask yourself this: Is this what I really want?

I completely understand if you studied what you loved, with a bursary even, and still enjoying it. You are one in a few and are very blessed. Most of us are not afforded that luxury. It's just that times change, and time is precious enough as it is. I feel as though we should be creating our own jobs instead of competing with others for the same ones. Even the satisfaction of creating your own title is greater than getting a promotion at Whatwhat & Sons. As far as I know, we are still under economic turmoil. This doesn't mean there are a lack of resources. You need to take charge of your situation and take advantage of the world's situation. Create something that was never there. Or you can just chill, it's up to you. Who knew twerk teams could be so lucrative? I have seriously considered starting a Home Wrecker's agency where I employ beautiful and charming people most likely to end marriages. Our clients will be those seeking easy divorce through adultery on their spouse's part. Payment will be a proportion of the consideration from the divorce settlement. Not sure it's legal though.

At the time of writing, I still want to pursue an honours degree in finance or travel overseas to teach foreign children English. I just don't know if I want another feather in my cap or an experience worth having.

Not Your Average Tweeter

There are many different types of people on twitter. Although their cyber presence may not be a true reflection of their lives, it doesn’t necessarily mean that I don’t find it entertaining. There are some tweets out there that make me sad, happy, excited, depressed and all in a matter of a late morning. Twitter is far more stressful than Facebook because it operates at breakneck speed. It’s a haven for those with ADD. Don’t get me wrong, there are some amazing and profound tweeters in the Twitterverse. I’m not criticising anyone or the way they tweet. I, myself, fall into a couple of the categories listed below.

I’m only going to concentrate on Twouth, I mean South Africa, black twitter in particular. I just find any other type of twitter too obsequious. These are the types of tweeters I have experienced.

Beginners:

Usually starts off their account without uploading an avatar and therefore being displayed as an egg, accompanied by a tweet along the lines of “This is my first tweet! I’m twittering! What’s #FF?” This encourages ridicule from anyone you try to engage with. You’re an egg, your existence has not yet been realised.

A few 100 tweets and a shady avatar later, you’re in everyone’s mentions, trying to get a rise out of them. And by a rise I mean, an RT of acknowledgement that you boosted their ego, or more eloquently known as ‘dickriding’. Or, you could go for the jugular and tweet some gassed up attention-seeking bile a few times and see if anyone bites. Be careful with this one because you have to back your, in this case bile, up until the very end otherwise you’ll fail to make an impact. This task is better accustomed to the “A Mention Seeker”, which is explained later in greater detail.

Failing all this, you can resort to tagging everyone in alphabetical order followed by a #PFB (please follow back). Don’t forget to add a smiley face to make it look more personal :) 

Avatarists:

Only for self-obsessed beautiful people (girls, preferably), or those with an incredible perception of camera angles. Your favourite filter is black & white with a generous display of leg and/or cleavage from a bird’s eye-view.

You begin your day with a “Good morning J” tweet and see if your latest revealing hipster avatar will source any thirst. You then carry on your day complaining about how your beauty makes people treat you differently and dropping more tweets of a tortured soul that usually end in #FML. Avatar changes that are followed by tweets announcing them are recommended.

You can add a few easy followers by aligning yourself to #TeamScreenMunchThatNigga. Their mission statement reads as follows: “Any thirsty DM, or even BBM, must be attended to with the swiftest bat (rejection) then carefully screenmunched for the world to see how unapproachable you are.”

McFollow Burger:

These are the people that retweet anything that contains the word ‘follow’ and are never afraid to celebrate an achievement of a milestone fellowship. Tell us how many followers you need to reach 700 and I’m sure everyone will be queuing at the ‘follow’ button trying to get you there.

You have evolved from #TeamFollowBack and have adopted an unhealthy sense of what is best to hashtag, everything. You can occasionally drop a pearl of wisdom, which will surprise most of your subscribers into RTing you. But wait, there’s more; you can RT every single time someone RTs you and inception everyone into thinking you’re not too bad.

The Police:

This is for the righteous and all-important. Twitter is a place designed for you to govern what others should tweet about, when they should go to sleep or when a certain topic is dead.

Clearly your life has given indication that you can’t control everyone so you decided to question people’s eating habits on twitter instead. How adorable. As wonderful as that sounds, you have your work cut out for you. Your selection of followers has to be impeccable so as to get to the breaking news as soon as possible. It’s sometimes best to call back up, so tag your twitter mates and let them know you’re at the scene of the crime. While discussing the offence, a lot of bystanders will get involved to give their statement and testimony and presto, you have a trending topic.

You specialised in relationship advice, and since you’re here to serve and protect, your unsolicited counsel is most welcome.

Dear Diary:

This is no different to using twitter as a diary and/or food log. Tweeting that you’re going to the gym doesn’t add value to anyone’s life except your own, so you have to tell us.

In actual fact, you’re most likely to decrease the value of life by tweeting about a fatal accident before calling the police (I am not referring to the category of people above). Ironically, you will be the first person to tweet “RIP” if anyone passes away, whether you knew the person or not. You’re great at seeming positive, so you’ll also be the first to wish a happy birthday and the first ‘Halala!’ at any personal achievement.

To add to your experience, you can take photographs of your filtered food and cautiously placed cutlery.

A Mention Seeker:

You will do anything to get a mention, or attention. This can be done in many different ways. You can be vulgar, immoral, anti-establishment, a troll and a general discomfort in the rear end.

The more insanely ludicrous your tweets are, the better. You can spend hours just trolling celebrities or you could make a statement by dehumanising rape, it’s up to you. Your tweets can have quite an impact if they get through the right channels, so keep trying.

However, you do run the risk of being roasted by a stronger, more powerful tweeter. This might force you to go in hiding and change your handle, or God forbid, deactivate your account just from the sheer embarrassment of it all.

The Over-Tweeter:

You tweet all day and all night at an average of over 100 tweets every 24 hours. You tweet so much your presence on people’s timelines becomes the background.

Your tweets become numbing to most but you are loved by many. You are the go to guy, the last patron at the bar still standing. You engage with everyone and are a joy, when sober. Give that man a Bell’s. And although you tweet about it a lot, I can’t imagine what your life is actually like since you tweet so much.

Everyone’s Favourite:

You fall into an elite group of people who can do no wrong. Your tweets are always stellar and consistently brilliant. You produce tweets with a wonderful combination of humour, profound awareness and humility.

People refrain from saying anything harmful towards you in fear of the masses suspending their account for you. You have a reputation to uphold, and as upstanding as you may be, it is difficult to save face when someone does come at you.

There are many other types of tweeters, like Sports Fanatics, Poets and Story Tellers, which speak for themselves. There are also those who merely use twitter as a platform to chat to their mates. You may fall into any one or more of these categories, or the ones listed before.

If you don’t, you’re probably the cold part in a poorly microwaved pie; you will be reheated. Terrible analogies aside, you have been heeded. 

 - @SeeYay

The Sex Exchange

If dick were a commodity at the Johannesburg Stock Exchange, it would be a share as desirable as a vagina after birth. Don’t get me wrong, shareholders continue increasing their influence in the industry.

Men have this uncanny ability to put up an intelligent façade and yet still do the darndest things. Dick is so freely available that it’s even given to the dead and infants, without consent obviously. Recently there was the tragic gang rape and murder of Anene Booysen and it brought the public to a state of realisation. The realisation that shit like that happens. What I’m interested in discussing is when did dick become so useless that it has to be given under duress, with multiple participants and then proceed to murder? It’s disgusting.

Every man knows how difficult it is to turn down pussy. Thankfully, and unfortunately at the same time, women are aware of this. The bank accounts of many a grown ass man have been depleted to negative figures because of the pursuit of vagina. Women need to understand that men cheat only because they are given the opportunity. You can’t cheat if no one else wants to fuck you. And we generous gentlemen just give the dick away like we’re Oprah Winfrey hosting a Christmas special. Grown ass men are publicising on social networks how they would do unforgivable things to merely toss the salad of any ample bootied woman that crosses the street. It’s all rather sad actually. I mean, I’d be crying if women were not so emotionally invested in the idea of having a man.

Ever since that Egyptian goddess Cleopatra, the pussy index has been known for trading at above market value and it has held firm. The screenmunch and thirst trap era, coupled with the inevitable “Ain’t nobody got time fo dat!” has secured their [missionary] position. As men (the competitive variety), we need to increase our stock price. This can only be achieved by ignoring the pussy altogether. Do not buy women drinks, pursue your non-sexual fantasies and leave before the club closes. Not unlike Facebook, I may be talking to a wall here. As humans, we are not designed, only taught, to not act on our desires. But in one’s quest for self-actualisation, all desires are recognised, according to Mazlow’s Heirachy of Needs. Please do not throw obvious bones at these women otherwise they will never let you forget. If you have to throw bones, make sure they are inception bones that cannot be used against you in the court of law. By the way, to 'throw bones' is to mack, spade or just basically letting someone know that you like them.

Don’t misconstrue what I’m saying as a plea for a young thug not to fall in love. Just don’t undermine yourself or give up on your values or principles. That is what women are attracted to; a sure man, an unforgiving man, a confident man. I may be wrong, but I think it was the recently retired Pope Benedict who once said, “You will lose money chasing women but you will never lose women chasing money”. Who knows? You might actually grow up and mature, thus also maturing what you look for in a woman. Sometimes it's not all about aesthetic appeal but emotional connection. You might even start to relate to Jimmy Soul's lyric, "If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife".

Fun For The Hoe Generation

The greatest trick the hoe ever pulled was convincing us that she didn't have feelings. Most men have, at some point, made it off the bench and started for Team Save A Hoe. I would also like to venture a guess and say that most men lost their virginity to a hoe. Hoes are a part of life, they are the backbone to the moral fibre of society and somebody has to do it. Please note: In this piece, 'hoe' is synonymous with 'side chick'.

They usually start off very cool, almost like a male companion. Laughing at chauvinistic comments and getting involved in general bro talk. Men take this as "She wants the D", because more often than not, she does. She'll casually come up with an ideal proposition along the lines of fooling around with no strings attached. At this point, the man doesn't feel obligated to divulge any much information with regards to whatever relationship he might be having at the time, nor does he care for whatever relationship she might be in. Besides, most men know that nothing beats the warmth of your penis wrapped inside some vaginal walls. So you proceed to fucking like champions and enjoying the pleasures of a non-committal and unemotional relationship... then the man gets confused. This is primarily because his dick is hard 95% of the time he's with her, and the amount of blood in the male body can only run one head at a time. This carries on for a couple of weeks or months and the man may start to consider dating her. The problem is that he doesn't want to jeopardise the great head, solid vagina and non-existent pillow talk and she doesn't seem to even require a relationship.

This is until she sees the man in his mack stance, talking to another woman. Or until she finds out he has a girlfriend. This is when all the shit hits the fan where all hell has broken loose. She will badmouth your girlfriend, threaten to castrate, or set clothes on fire. The bi-polarity of hoes has always astounded me. For example, even after the less than amicable end to your extra-curricular dalliances, she will see you at the club, drunk, and attempt to have sex with you in the bathrooms. She'll do this right in front of the leopard printed shawty with the pedicured toes you were trying to win. Some hoes take it as far as conjuring up fake pregnancy scares in an attempt to trap the man, or get money out of him. This is a bold move and used as a last resort that could turn out very ugly, especially if she really is pregnant. This distinct lack of tact pushes the man further away and before you know it, all is forgiven and memories are kept. It goes without saying that this methodology is what makes her a certified hoe. It is the combination of not wanting a relationship while having casual sex, then acting like you did when it's over. Take away the latter and you have a girl that just enjoys having sex. Hoes love attention.

I don't have anything against hoes. Life would be boring without them, and probably longer. I wish we could celebrate them with some kind of Hoe Olympics where performance enhancing drugs are the norm. I would love to see who the Dance Hoestrong would be. What bothers me is the amount of emotional turmoil hoes withstand to continue hoeing. How much heartbreak can one take before they lose it completely? Maybe that explains why they're bi-polar. And it is for this reason I do not want a daughter. I would consider starting a new family if I saw my future daughter tweet "We outchea in VIP! Hoe vibes lol ;)".


Disclaimer: No hoes were hurt during this post.

Left For Dead

Sbu and I at the IG office in Greenpoint,

On Friday I went to an Instant Grass party. It was at this new place called The Industry on Harrington Street. I later remembered that it used to be a titty bar called "The Cage" where pregnant strippers were not uncommon.

My friend, Adam, and I started at Neighbourhood for a couple draughts and a catch up on THESE WHORES!! The establishment was more full than last night's moon, so we didn't stay much longer than the duration of imbibing a cursory draught and tequila shot.

When we rocked up at The Industry, it was pretty empty. There was a boxing ring around the DJ booth which kind of reminded me of Vinyl Digz of winter last year. I heard that this particular party was organised by Leneave, but I couldn't blame him for the mediocre attendance because it was still very early. Adam and I resolved that we would leave if Raiko's set didn't bring a vibe that would involve women losing their inhibitions, morals and the occasional braid. The problem was, during his set, Adam's pops texted him to inform him he was dropping furniture off at his place at around midnight. He said he would go home, charge my phone, then come back. He never came back. Mind you, he still owed me two rounds.

Adam and I at Pop Bottles last year.

There I was, left for dead with nowhere to go. Shafted like a Capetonian in Joburg, I was determined to attempt a 'Spread', like Ashton Kutcher. Then I saw Mila. Mila is short for Milagre. He's from Mozambique and chews honeys for fun. He advises me that there are two girls who take the D seriously enough to fear it. I just wanted to sleep, so I winged for him. The girl's names were Vuyo and Sandra, and after some carefully placed negative compliments (by Mila, of course), they offered to take us to their humble abode. They lived in Woodstock, filled with Woolworths products. We drank and smoked until night and day became an item. I was wearing one of my worst pair of boxers, so I had no intention of showing them to anybody. I woke up from my drunken stupor at 1pm on Saturday, not knowing were I was. Sandra and Mila were nowhere to be seen. I woke Vuyo up to let me out but she wasn't impressed. I'm not sure why because I'm a good person, but she had short blonde hair and I couldn't be associated with her for much longer in fear of what her boyfriend may be capable of. I've met some that have priors, so I'm not delusional. By that time I knew my girlfriend was hacked with me, so I left immediately. I asked some winos where I could find a public telephone (I gave my phone to Adam the night before) to call Jade. I found out that she was at the Old Biscuit Mill enjoying The Neighbour Goods Market so I met up with her there. I relayed the events of the previous night told only to find out that Adam had already told her the concocted cover up story. She was cool with it but not keen to go to Vinyl Digz, which her friends had launched her into attending. I didn't really care, I just wanted the hair of the dog that bit me.

I get to the rooftop and it's hotter than a mahfucker (still not sure what's that suppsed to mean. How is a person who fornicates with your maternal parent, hot?). I smoke a few joints with Sakhile and chill with Jade and her mates. We commandeer a couch under some gazebo thing. It was so hot I had to take off my black tee. Now, I have only just recently become accustomed to showing my torso in public. I'm not saying we should all go to a nude camp and see what happens, but I'm not against the idea. My psychosomatic illness came from having an outie bellybutton and a surgical scar around it, but I digress. Looking around the rooftop party I met some more good peoples in Roxy and Vim. I started receiving lingering glares from the crowd, but I attributed that solely to the bundles of oestrogen around me. The heat, the beer and blunts started catching up on me worse than some trifector that Satan probably places on his mantle piece at his crib. Jade and I ducked out of there before things got way too messy for our budget.

On Sunday I woke up feeling more tender than a recently gangbanged vagina. Lying in the foetal position in bed, my girlfriend baked what would later be some delicious mini-Oreo cheesecakes. What a sport. Good weekend.

- Siyabawisa or @SeeYay for short. 

My Handle

I attended Rodebosch Boys' for eleven years.

Okay, let's double back. Having spent the first seven years of my life eMthatha, I knew next to nothing about isilungu. I had my first crush in what we used to call Sub A at Umtata International School. She was a coloured girl in my class, and one day I arrived at school and my teacher was unconscious with blood all over her face, outside the classroom entrance. Being the Jaleel White (of the 90s) of awkward situations, I searched for my crush. I found her sitting on the floor, crying for her teacher in distress. I'll never forget what it felt like to hold and console her. PAUSE.

The next year we moved to Rondebosch and I was associated with white kids until about Grade 9. By that time the black kids in the school became wary of my delinquent behaviour and I felt ordained when they took me under their wing. And no, it wasn’t to reform me. As much as I felt like I was only there for these okes’ amusement, I truly felt the friendship when one of my mates started calling me 'CA'. I heard this as more of a ‘Siya’ on some Colonial French tip. Either way, I ran with it further than Bruce Fordyce. Maybe even to a point where I was inceptioned into studying chartered accountancy. Nah, that's just the weed talking.

- CA

PS: Oh yeah, my Sub A teacher suffered her head injury by walking into the face brick wall next to the doorway, on her way into class. Drugs are bad, kids. 

So Far And Before

"Compleemants of teh seizures" - Me (31 December 2012, Midnight). To all those who sent their season's greetings via SMS with perfect grammar and spelling, I'm so sorry. You lot should learn to live a little. Ironically enough, I tried this last year, and as most Bafana Bafana fans don't know: You win some, you lose some.

Things only really started falling apart towards the end of last year when I lost my job. There are few things I hate more than dwelling in the past and wallowing in self-pity, so I'm not going to go in to detail as to how my vocational contract was ended prematurely.

All in all, however, 2012 was a memorable year. Partially because for most of the year, a very small part of me was hoping it would all end on the 21st of December, as predicted by the extinct Mayan people. I drank, I loved, I lived. I learned a lot about gin and tonic, managing relationships and being nice to others. I am happy, in a stable relationship and still loved by my parents. This all may sound like fun, but through all this I also hurt, and learnt, the hard way.

I'm not the type to blow his own horn, so I won't. I am an advocate of self-deprecation, so I laugh at myself as often as possible to prevent others from procuring as much joy from my dismay. During the embryonic stages of 2012 it soon became apparent to me that I was somehow more appealing to others than I have ever been (men and women). I'm not exactly sure if it was because I had a new found confidence in myself but something was ripe in the state of Denmark (Hamlet). I had graduated in BCom Finance at UWC the year before, and I was eager to engage with people that wear jeans that fit and mouths that were worth opening. Too eager. A couple of broken hearts later and almost losing a close friendship (which I'm still trying to fix), it hit me like a "Missed My Flight" from Abantu at 2 in the morning. You know, when couples are already on second base right next to the bouncer sitting on the barstool outside? I knew I needed to grow even more worldly than just the cosmopolitan confines of Cape Town. I met many new people from all walks of life: Those that are not from South Africa, gays, lesbians, transgenders and some big booty hoes.

I was living on my own, on my own account, for the second time in my life. And the rockstar lifestyle dwindled along with the wages every month. I look back at it now, and I honestly do not regret a single moment of it. A lot of people that know me, or think they know me, would be forgiven for thinking that I was some kind of sex-crazed alcoholic. At some point, maybe I was, but there are so many different aspects of my personality. I am terrible in my mother tongue (no incest), good with maths and English, and my mind rarely sleeps. A good friend told me that I drink so it can sleep, to which I hmmmm'd very introspectively. So I carried on living outside of my means and out of my comfort zone and realised that what I want in life won't be attained while I'm blacked out, or maybe I black out because I'm afraid of what I'll attain if I don't. Petty excuses, I know. One thing I haven't lost is my need to throw in a crumpled piece of toilet paper in the bowl before I defecate to prevent any arterial spray during any audible log droppings. Okay, time for a new paragraph.

Twitter had a huge role to play in terms of my relationships, viewing the world how others perceive it, twerking and a whole host of other abominable realisms. People are not inherently on Earth for everyone else's benefit. They generally don't care unless it involves them. And they often find amusement and joy in the failure of others. But I'm not here to give Twitter a bad rap. During the many times I was painting the town red, people would approach me asking if I was 'SeeYay' or 'Sunny's brother' (Sunny is my brother). By then they had already had a decent grasp of what kind of person I was based on my tweets, and it was thus easy to engage with them, if I wasn't on the floor begging it to stop spinning. This was around the same time I decided that Twitter was indeed real and I would use it to my advantage. And by my advantage I mean get women. It worked, but it was meaningless. I was never raised to be that person, and I never will be.

It has come to my attention that I want to become a writer and need to not mislead people with 140 character sensationalist tweets, but rather get a full view of who I am. This is what I think is the best platform to showcase this talent and kill two birds with one bone (yes, this is a threesome reference, but not really). So here I am, giving in to the whims of blogging for the betterment of my life. I really don't subscribe to the notion of IDGAF. Everyone cares, and without caring all we have is anarchy and unkempt toenails. Like my early days on Twitter, I have no idea how this works but one thing I do love is learning. And with that I complete my first blog post.

- Siya Mawisa or @SeeYay for short.