It’s time I accepted Hollywood, Bollywood, Nollywood, Riverwood; heck let me even throw morning wood into this fire, lied about falling in love. Or love. Or what it’s like.
Our red dot headed buddies, from the other side of an ocean named after them, were the first to to lose my vote of confidence. See for them love came with dancing. Dancing. Explains why some of them are named Singh. They’re probably musical. The whole lot of them. An argument between two would probably sound like the sequel to sound of music. And they’d dance. And their hands would be as fluid as cooking oil in a hot pan. Oh and also if they weren’t a Singh it’s not a big deal. It’s just dance. I’m sure they Khan. Pause. Moving on. And I hated it. I can’t dance to save my life.
I imagine being in a Jack Baueresque conundrum. A man towering above me. With menacing eyes. A huge gun that’s as old as time itself. Wooden butt crafted from Moses’s walking stick. And his white face would be as dark as a nuns thighs. Ever seen one? Me neither. So… Dark. And he’d have a tooth pick which wouldn’t be an ordinary toothpick. Maybe the pinky finger bone to an enemy. A man that dared look him in the eye and blink awkwardly. So he snapped it. His finger. Roasted it like choma sausage at a bar in LA. And made him watch as he ate it. This guy would look at me. I’d look back. Blink as normally as possible. Then there’d be silence. Then he’d smile. And he’d like it. My blink. Very few people have their blinks synced. So he’d say. I like you. You blink well. Now dance. Dance and go. And I’d say I can’t dance. He’d scoff. Of course everyone can dance. Even monkeys can dance. Even rain. Damn rain can dance. So he’d see it as rebellion. Me being a hard ass. And hard asses can’t shake. Not like we see on t.v. They stay firm. Or sit firm. Or whatever hard asses do thats not shaking. And I’d be dead. Just like that. A hard assed mother *bleep* that didn’t dance.
See, the only thing fluid about me is my thought process. And that too is like a wave crashing carelessly on the beach. I envy people that can dance. They won’t have to be killed by a man with a pinky finger bone for a toothpick.
Then we have the Goerge Clooneys. Men made in the image that women have in their minds. The guys in well cut everything. Abs. Chest. Cloth. Accent. Bank account. Voice. Basically sandwiches with the crust off. They come in Clooney or Idris. Take your pick. Romantic fellas. Guy meets girl at bar. Girl actually meets guy at bar but pretends not to have met guy. Girl then gets herself noticed by guy. When guy noticed girl, girl pretends not to notice guy. They make eye contact. Girl bats her long lashes. Caresses the stem of her drink. Looks away. Flips hair. But there’s a connection. That brief moment in each other’s eyes they saw the beach. A wedding. Three kids. A house. Happy life. And a divorce. Because let’s face it. Hollywood.
Back to me. Clooney? Idris? I’m like Kevin Hart’s ugly cousin. I don’t even make eye contact with the camera at the ATM machine. Alarms could go off. But I have a beard. And I’m funny. So it kind of makes up for it. Like a house having a large kitchen will make up for a small shower. Or chocolates and flowers will make up for infidelity. Or eyeliner and foundation makes up for bad skin. A Hollywood romance story of me would involve a mail order bride from Czechoslovakia. A bottle of vodka. Cheap. A detective. And a pet monkey. The bride would be for the monkey. And I’d serve the vodka on their honeymoon. It’s cheap because ever seen a monkey buy expensive vodka? Even champagne. They actually hate champagne. Had a conversation once with this sullen monkey at a bar once. Cool chap. A little bit late to get onto the evolution train but pretty upright.
Chap was celebrating a new move. Higher tree. Greener leaves. Cooler air. More female monkeys. Riper bananas. He made it. I asked why he didn’t have champagne for the celebrate. Guy told me. And I am not shitting you. I swear. On Kevin Harts genealogy. That the two names champagne and chimpanzee are too close for his liking. The CH was too conspicuous. Asked me if I’ve ever seen a chimpanzee drink champagne. And damn. He was right. So they hate champagne. Next time you’re in town looking for a good business guy to strike a deal with find monkey. Good chap. Drinks vodka. Hates champagne. Works at monkey business. Ring him. Or her. It’s hard to tell.
So basically. There’d be no boy meets girl story. More like boy sees girl. Girl sees boy. Girl runs. Leaves the country. Changes name. Runs from that country. Changes name again. Has plastic surgery. Runs country again. Quits alcohol. Which is the stinger. A girl quitting alcohol because, your face. Ah uh. Kai. Lol picked that word up reading guys from Zambia. Funny fellas. I tell you. They call their currency Kwacha. Sounds like a tusker promotion. Kwacha Na tusker. Hehehe.
Then there’s this little fact. Which is not me. That I’m a closet romantic. No one knows what this is. So let me indulge you. What I basically do is think up the most romantic things. Picnic by the lake. At 5.30. When the sun is giving off that bright orange light. Making the lake shimmer with hints of gold. Cool breeze. Little sandwiches cut out in heart shaped. Chocolate. Red wine. Good music. And watching sunsets. That’s me. I think all that up. Plan it. Then never tell anyone about it. I don’t even tell her. No. It’s just my secret. Something I know I can do. But never will. And that’s what a closet romantic is.
Well Riverwood is just, well, down the river. Guy gets trapped in a toilet with a damsel. And things literally go to shit. Or down the drain. Which is basically me. But sometimes you get a little bit of that Holly-Bolly-River wood kind of experience. And you hope things work out. And that’s what I’m doing. Hoping.
Side note: If a girl gets a boob lift to impress a guy. Ends up attracting more guys. Leaves first guy. Can we say shit literally went tits up for the first guy?