There’s no place like…house?

There’s no place like home.

There’s no place like home.

There’s no place like home.

What the hell was that little weirdo and her obnoxiously quiet dog, Dorothy, talking about? For two weeks now, I have been homeward bound, bound down and down in the dumps – stuck in a limbo of happiness and longing to go back to school.. As much as I anticipated going home, now I’m here, well, there’s not a thing for me to do. Mainly because I do not own a car (or a driver’s license for that matter) and taking public transport is not only the biggest pain in my butt, but also extortion. So now, for the days where I don’t wanna pester the parental units for money, I sit in my luxurious room (and that is not sarcasm, my room is pretty sweet), and watch episodes of the ‘L Word’ secretly. Secretly? Well, mainly because I think my mother thinks I am a homosexual.

I have no problem with anybodies sexual preference, you like who you like and none of my family argues against that. Funnily enough, my ma would probably poop her pants if I did tell her I liked women for the simple fact that she couldn’t have the Nigerian wedding she’s been planning for me since I was conceived. The problem with living in America is that the sexual freedom is so, well, free, that me embracing this new lifestyle is wearing me thin in my old lifestyle. Home. I’ve had to seriously become normal again around the family because half the things I do and say will buy me a one way ticket to a mental institute; but then saying this, I do not feel like myself. At school, I can act how I want to act, say what I want to say and do what want to do. However, at home, I can’t do a thing.

My mother insists that because of this brace on my knee, not only am I a baby, but I need to be in my house by 9pm. 9PM!! Her hypothesis is that because I can’t run, somebody will chase me and then, ultimately, I’ll die. Therefore, she wants me to stay inside the house, wait for her to return from work, and then have girly chats with her about my life whenever possible. By whenever possible it could be 2am in the morning when I am half asleep, or 7am in the morning when she is going to work and I am, well, half asleep; either way, I'm half asleep. She’s trying to catch me when I’m down I tell you. She now knows about all of my tattoos and managed to make me slip a little about my sexual activities. Why? Well it was about 3am in the morning and I was exhausted. What a low blow ma.

Then my sister believes that I am Mrs. Money Banks and declares that because I am the oldest sister, I have to pay for everything whenever we go out. My brother bothers me non-stop about playing on my phone and on my laptop regardless of the amount of times I tell him no. No. No. NO. Leave me alone, let me sleep, let me spend my own money, and let me live my life with my personal technology. The problem is, I see in their eyes that they’ve missed me when we have our own little private moments and I melt, I give in to them; all the while, I’m being little miss perfect. Shall I tell you what I wanna do? Walk around my room butt naked and dance like I do at school. Curse after every other word like I do at school. Have friends over whenever I want and let them leave, like I. Do. At. School. I love home, I do, but goodness me, I have no life. Mainly because half of my friends still have stupid exams at their stupid universities in stupid places like Brighton. I text them daily and inform them that I am back and they better get their priorities right. Exams will always be around whereas yours truly, will not.

So in a desperate bid to get out of the house and earn some cash to fund my siblings’ unhealthy obsessions, I have a job. I start on Tuesday as one of those annoying a telemarketing person who phones anyone who was ever pressured on the streets to donate money to charities and ask them to, go figure, donate more money. Whatever, it’s really good pay and I choose my own hours and, it gets me out of the house. My excitement to do manual labor has never ever been this extreme, but desperate needs cause for desperate measures; or whatever that saying is.

In case you’re wondering. No basketball for me until like, October, which is poopish, but it does mean I can be a kid for a bit. I plan to go to Spain for a bit and also to Amsterdam and visit the Red Light District to compare their prices with mine (that was a joke). Regardless, apart from rehab (swimming but really trying to go deep enough to hide my ugly ugly feet from the cuties who are taking a dip) and you know, waiting for my trainers over here to contact me. Frankly I think they’re avoiding me since I email them daily and try to do my diva thing of DEMANDING they tend to my every whimsical and miniscule need. So far, none have been met. [sigh].

The dreams have followed me continental though. I had a dream that I was a notorious drug dealer alongside few of my friends. Our hideout was this underground room that we could only access through going to the bars in my school area. However, it wasn’t only the soft stuff we sold like, coke, weed and ecstasy; we sold the good stuff, valium, xanax, happy pills and some self made pills for the people who were tryna lose weight; something like a laxative but, you’d always smile when you were on the toilet. I don’t know. It’s been a rollercoaster of emotions and I’ve only been here for two weeks. There are days I love being here, and then days when I miss the old guy whom oogled my goodies back at school (see to pee or not to pee). He came back to fix my blinds literally minutes after I’d put the work order in. What a surprise it was him huh? I feel like maybe he’s directing my orders to his personal email in the hope that when he comes I’ll be nakey, and luckily for him, I almost always am.

I just hope my time here improves – if not, I may start walking back to school now – hopefully I’ll make it back by the time school starts.

…because everyone is a special enforcer at heart; some just choose to get on the court.

To pee, or not to pee…

I am on crutches.

A special enforcer on crutches is like a sign from someone that I am destined to be a special enforcer for the rest of my life. You know what I mean? I can’t work on the craft that seriously needs to be perfected – actually, I can’t work out, period. Which means that not only will my fitness level decrease significantly, but this awesome body I have worked oh so hard on is gonna go straight to chunky Heaven.

Chunky Heaven is a place for the chunky people to go and, well, eat (and get more chunky, obviously). Apart from my seemingly long-standing membership with the special enforcer club, it seems as though I also have a lifetime membership with the kangaroo pouch crew. You know, that annoying kangaroo pouch that just kinda sits at the bottom of ones stomach and peeks over to say ‘hey there guys,’ to the world over my jeans or shirt. It’s annoying because this means that I’ll be sitting on my butt and not moving, causing this kangaroo pouch to grow and grow and grow and grow until it’s big enough to fit like, two small baby kangaroos in there instead of just one. Ever since I had the surgery, I’ve been squeezing my abdominal muscles really tight in a desperate hope that those six chocolate cookies I inhaled yesterday night won’t make a home in the pits of my stomach. I also squeeze my butt cheeks really tightly in rhythm (right cheek, left cheek, right cheek, left cheek) as another attempt to tighten my buns (mainly because my teammates have deemed me thee loosest booty in the world) – so because I can’t squat, this will have to do. I’ve managed to convince myself that it’s working every time I look into a full-length mirror butt naked, and tell myself that this small hindrance is actually like, a blessing in disguise – right?

Darn these knees – they’re preventing my summer body and frankly, I’m hating it.

Basically, I tore two things in my knees. Nothing to major, like, an ACL or anything, but what I do recall from what the doctor told me is that one of my tears (my cartilage one I believe) is as big as a nickel. I remember this particularly because all I was thinking about was whether or not I could actually hide a real, life-size nickel inside this tear and retrieve it on a day that I really need it. Anyway, it means that since Thursday 15^th of April, I have been in my room doing absolutely nothing. These pain medications make me slip in and out of consciousness at any given time. It’s ridiculous. One minute I’m staring the four walls, and next I’m having dreams about being chased by the rapper Coolio through the mean streets of Holland because I apparently stole his car; (and while I wanna blame the meds, I kinda can’t because, before them, I had a dream I was a chicken and reproduced with pig, and had these little pickens and, some died, then I ran way – so I kinda can’t fault my weirdness on medication). Regardless, yesterday was probably the first time I turned on the television and watched anything. Maybe next blog I’ll express how much I now adore ‘Glee’ and how much I’ve decided to let it affect my life; but my the main purpose of this blog was to tell you about my humiliating experience due to my handicapped-ness that occurred this morning.

I sleep naked. Not completely naked, I mean, I cover my down below lady parts with underwear, but apart from there – nothing, (what can I say, I like to be free). Anyway. Since Thursday, peeing has been somewhat of a dilemma. Not that I can’t pee, but more of, well, it’s so annoying having to get up from the bed and grab these annoying crutches (which I’ve already had two painful incidents with), and crutch myself to the bathroom. So. I normally wait until my bladder wants to explode before I hobble to the bathroom and let loose. Anyway. This morning, I wake up and have the desperate urge to urinate. I mean, yeah, all the fluid I’ve obtained is bound to want to escape sooner or later right? So, because I hate these crutches so dearly, I’ve began to master the act of hopping on my good leg to short distances – it’s quicker and though very energy consuming, it ultimately gets the job done. Besides, what bad could really happen right?

Yeah right…wrong!

This morning, as I hopped to the bathroom to relieve myself (and rightfully so, I have every right to release the pressure from my bladder), who greeted me? I dunno who he was, a maintenance guy I guess, fixing something in our common area. So, there I am, mid-hop, boobs flying everywhere because these bad boys are definitely not small, left leg bandaged up and right leg quivering due to all the strain my hopping is doing on the poor thing; in front of a like, fifty year old guy ogling my goodies. He obviously couldn’t multitask ‘cause he stopped, stuttered and stared – then remembered that this isn’t some free peep show and turned around so I could hop into the bathroom. By the time I exited, he had left. No note or anything. I feel like some sort of cheap lady of the night, he didn’t even invite me to dinner, or leave a number to call or anything – sheeeeesh.

Nevertheless, this embarrassing incident will go down in history alongside the time I locked myself out of my room after a shower and had to go to a whole different hall to get a key in nothing but a towel. Anyway, this does mean that I will not be peeing for a pretty long time.

Blah. The bad luck just seems to keep rolling in.

…because everyone is a special enforcer at heart; some just choose to get on the court.

enforcing the special people?

I am a special enforcer

Yeah, a special enforcer. Well at least, that’s what my coach called all the benchwarmers last year; and it being my freshman year, I guess you could say I was proud of that. You know, it almost sounds like a superhero right? And the rare chance I would get on the floor, I would feel like here I was, saving the day. Okay, so granted when I did get on the floor, we would probably be up by like a thousand or so, but still, they wanted my awesome defense to make it even less of a game by shutting down whichever post I was guarding. I knew I was liked, mainly because our fans would scream and holler whenever I was subbed in and, God forbid I got the ball and scored; we’d have to shut the place down.

By the end of the year, I achieved the ‘Special Enforcer of the Year’ award, and though it isn’t recognized with ESPN, it was pretty big within the special enforcers I knew, and that was okay in my books. I didn’t get an award, I didn’t get a plaque, no streamers or balloons, I didn’t even get a friggin’ cake – but, within the special enforcer community around the world, I was thee best one.

That was pretty much my freshman year – plus or minus a few nights I may or may not remember (which I cannot talk about because I promised myself I’d keep this strictly PG rated) – but that was freshman year; simply a blur.

Well, anyway, here I am. The end of my sophomore year, and I’m blogging. Why? Well. Why not? I was watching ‘Julie and Julia’ in a desperate attempt to drown out my suitemates fornication sounds and was instantly intrigued (not with the fornication sounds, with the movie). Not only ‘cause it was about food, my number one favorite pastime, but because, well, she was writing about it and people were enjoying it. Now, personally, I can’t guarantee that my life is more interesting than that of an aspiring chef; but I might as well try right? Not to mention I love to write, and this is a great way to tune out my professors when I am obviously not paying attention in class.

So sit back, relax, and have a kit kat. This could be the most boring and un-updated blog you’ve ever read; or, it could change your lives in ways you’d never imagine.

…because everyone is a special enforcer at heart; some just choose to get on the court.