Blackberry: the mental fruit

You would never imagine a fruit as simple as the Berry family could actuate a substance abuse effect as much as constitute a nuisance of incomparable magnitude, until you taste the Blackberry (& don't get me started on Apple). Gone are the days when fruits were just a nutritious staple, now they are the new high...welcome to the 21st century.

(Tongue out) I got my phone with the simple intent of keeping in touch with the world & to satisfy that silent, smug feeling that comes with you telling people "I use a Blackberry" (talk about Complex), but little did I know I was indirectly admitting myself into the Blackberry mental institution. Once you enter, a number of identification is assigned to you called PIN. So, instead of swapping phone numbers or exchanging complimentary cards with fellow inmates, you quickly dole out PINs without forgetting to let everybody know you use a BB bold or torch (You better not mention curve or javelin & woe betide you if you try too hard to belong by saying you own a BB pearl) how dare you be so poor. By the way, a monthly admission fee called BIS, depending on service provider, is a requisite which at first might seem affordable; when you're still forming...until...the berry buries your wallet.

Now, fast forward x32 couple of months & hundred of BBM contacts later, that's when your meds' effect dwindle & the psychosis starts taking its toll. By now--like me--you must have, ditched your novels/books, stopped watching the tube, even cable. In short you stop having a life & now a permanent resident at the Blackberry ICU: You wake up holding your BB (that bible you used to read for devotion is becoming stale), meanwhile you slept late..say around 3am tweeting/downloading with your BB--network was sleek right? (welcome to club insomnia). Once out of bed, its business as usual, you ping: in the shower, loo, on top okada, everywhere imaginable...while you carry your charger/extra battery along.
And all of a sudden you've earn a Phd in shorthand (smh, lol, btw, idgf, brb, ikr... Dnt wory dey coin nu 1s evry sec).

Ok! Now play in slow motion! Between updating your BBM status to warn off dumb broadcasters who are compelling you to forward a message or else experience a mishap (As if being in the loony bin ain't bad enough) & you gladly pushing the delete button on these annoying contacts with all the attitude of a dramaqueen & you muttering the worst expletive your faculty can muster as you angrily reply some Perv for inboxing you some sexually pervert text on Facebook, you wouldn't mind but wonder (Na who send me work sef). Not to mention the theatrics of begging for follow backs, celeb insults, tweet fight, inane tweets...on Twitter sorry I meant Ubersocial, which is all fun, except you waste a good part of your life here.

Back to normal play mode & almost all BBM contacts gone, you may start to sense the need that you require help (Yes! Psychological help) in context of what your BB puts you through, but like any psycho that is so far along in his head, you can't actually come to grips with the fact that you need HELP. Don't forget these are institutionalized people.

FYI, as a BB junkie myself, I am contemplating BB rehab as I write this on my BB, but rehab is expensive, plus my BIS will soon expire so I need to start saving up for my next admission fee. & that's just a tip of BB user's life.

PS: Did I mention persons of certain age who ought to be in nursing homes are stuck here too, clueless as to what to do & why they are in Freud's Haven.

From the Memoir of the Stylist

Since my days in primary 3 when someone first called me the word "Gay" I knew I was special. I wondered then as I do now why the man called me something nobody called the other male kids. In bids to protect me, my Aunties often scolded this person to refrain from calling me such, but my innocent mind was too excited to protest such a unique appellation. I thought he must have seen something different, therefore special in me to tag me with such a novel title.

You see, I grew up with women: my Mum, Grandma and Aunties, whom a lot of (ignorant) people hold accountable for my present psyche (I smh! If only they know). In reference to the special thing I assumed the man saw in me, I've always had a knack--a rather girly one--to criticize and therefore choose my Aunties' wardrobe & believe I did a badass good job because not only did they retain my fashion-advice services on every--as in every damn occassion till they all left the country, I got references as well. That's when I realized my specialness (if that's a word); I was a self-made fashion stylist. And that heralded my dream in fashion eventhough then I didn't know there existed a tangible platform for such a profession.


Regardless of Cynics' opinion about Fashion Styling being a talentless profession, I among many became a self-made one, doing & earning (intermittently in my case) a living without any formal training whatsoever. I can point out & recommend any fashion no-no in my sleep (Yes I'm that good). Though I'm not international material, at least not yet, my innate talent & working experience gives me the longterm edge.

To the matter of my chosen career being talentless, I'd argue thus: Cynics say we do not need someone to prescribe what or how to wear clothes, fashion designers do that already by designing the clothes. They believe it just being a lame attempt at furthering the lazy whims of extra hands in the fashion business. But if that were the case, why would you need a public image Consultant or Publicist, if you can do your own public image bidding yourself? Well...that explains what a talentful job Cynicism is....Loool (head thrown back).