It is my room. Mine. In your house, admittedly, but mine nonetheless.
It is possible to not spread one’s bed and still live a long healthy life. Mind blowing stuff, I know. Spreading a bed is second only to nipples on men in a list of utterly pointless things.
No, no one says ‘jienjoy’ anymore.
Yes and no are perfectly acceptable responses to questions, as are grunts and moans.
It is vastly uncool to drag your son into a gaggle of smiling relatives and ask him to identify each one. The phrase ‘cruel and unusual punishment’ comes to mind. There is a corner table in hell reserved for mothers who highlight just how well their son does not know his relatives.
‘His mother and my half-sister’s uncle were sisters from the same father’ is not, and will never be an acceptable response to ‘Who is that man next to Auntie Mama Ian’
Cousin Shirley is not a ‘prostitute’, she just doesn’t have bigger clothes.
It wasn’t porn. It was a twerk video. Those are accepted now. You should see what they are doing in church these days.
A vein in my head pops every time I am introduced as ‘your baby’. And the petname? Not in public, bruh. That’s all I ask.
No, the game I’m playing is nothing like Solitaire.
There are better times to send your son to the shop than when:
- He is playing FIFA and is on the cusp of European glory
- He is responding to a raunchy text from his sweetheart
- He is oggling Anne Kiguta on TV
- He is clearly heading into the toilet. Clearly
I am the king of sarcasm. Me. There was a vote, and I won by an overwhelming consensus. But by all means, challenge me
You communicate better when you don’t yell.
No, I will not tuck in my shirt.
Your husband cannot cook. For the love of God, don’t leave me alone with him.
I have a blog.