For starters, Noel Onyango is not allowed to read this, and if you do, please reserve your comments. You can use my mom’s freezer for that! Secondly, I am blogging at church, so maybe we can close one eye on those inevitable grammatical curves that will most likely appear after blogging via phone with a subdivided attention (and the African god will bless you for that while the European god will most probably sneer at you)
The worst thing that can happen on a Sunday morning (am not a morning person so every day I wake up earlier than 10 am is dull n fucked up) is when the priest keeps telling people to talk to other people and the guy seated in front of you feels the need to keep talking to you. He is in front of you for Christ sake! Doesn’t his neck and back complain? I wish I could make them do. But he talking to me is not a problem because, obviously, he is doing the talking for both of us. Most of the time, I am clueless of what we are being told to say. See I have a short concentration span and a longer reading patience. So when you start blabbering about things I can figure out for myself and you are not quiet enough to not assault my hearing senses, I zone out. Quiet conversations are a good way of protecting the world from noise pollution (yet preachers keep finding the need to save the world and doing so by shouting their guts out. I think NEMA should stop fueling graft and talk sense into this men of god. or talk to god about pollution. He created the world in six days, no? So he can flip their heads upside down and cramp some sense in there, no?). Plus they ensure you keep your bad life threatening breath to yourself.
Anyhow, this guy keeps talking, talking, talking and talking. And his breath smells worse than a dirty pit latrine. Yet he finds it necessary to keep talking to me. Cant he talk to his neighbor? Oh god! Why me? Aren’t you supposed to protect me from things that harm me? Or did the devil pass on an email that asked for permission to test me? Am not Job from the bible caves, remember? And am far too impolite, too aggressive, too loud for him to bother with me. He knows am trouble enough to not want me in his fold.
So, I don’t get why this guy keeps wanting to talk to me. And god and his answering machine both seem to be out of service!


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