Hand-Induced Pleasures

#np Jazmine Sullivan – Need You Bad

coitus more ferarum

Directly translated as: ‘congress in the way of beasts’. A medical euphemism for the doggy-style sexual position. Quite a good choice of words, aye? Especially when that being described is one of men’s favourite choices, or maybe it’s just me, when it comes to bedroom matters. A posture we would want women to constantly maintain, every second, every day (checks for men in support of this view). Just seeing those curvaceous hips and the sight of those voluptuous cheeks, all day, every day…ooh – if only… Well, that would work for most men, unless you’re one of those rare ones who’s into feet, or nails perhaps (choke). Nonetheless, I bet you that if the Roman gods had any arguments on just what position was the best to give it to a woman right, Doggy-Styleus was their go-to guy. I mean, look at the way he described his art: coitus more ferarum. Too tasty…

Back to present-day though…

The week is finally over. How about that guys? No more work, no more traffic snarl-ups, and no more dealing with bosses or clients. Its just you and the world that begins by your door-step. The world that full-time employees only get to see over the weekend – when not compensating for the lack of sleep or drinking themselves to near-death of course. So give yourself a hearty round of applause dear readers, for making it through yet another week filled with the bustles of life. Come on, I mean it guys. Clap as hard as you possibly can, because we’re ushering in a weekend filled with the many pleasures that we can and cannot afford. From those that put you at the risk of being arrested by the authorities; to those that leave you in dazed and clueless bewilderment, come Monday, as to what actually happened; and not forgetting those (really) sweaty indulgences that happen underneath the glare of closed doors. And I mean, the really, really sweaty, and crazed-kind-of activities. Those that pleasure every inch of your damn frame, and make you want to scream and shout in wild pleasure. From, uhmm….carrying a glass of water, to – you know….looking for the remote control. They really work up a sweat, don’t you say? Yeah…I knew you love such indulgent affairs.

Aaanyways, I’m a wiser man. Even wiser than last week, and wiser than I’ve ever been. Because it just occurred to me that men and women celebrate/show their happiness/express fun – in different ways from each other. (Take notes.) Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve noted that a majority of our males (grown men and young boys alike) celebrate by clenching their hands in a fist, and running about in wild joy. The exception is that the grown folk have an uncanny talent in losing their masculinity and reverting into kids. Scampering around as they jump, shout and chest-bump anyone in sight; exactly as young male adolescents who just had their first kiss would. On the flipside, the females (grown ladies and young girls alike) make their celebrations a teensy bit classier. When their celebrity crush walks onto stage or the team they support gets a point, they throw their hands up with open palms, and scream or shout something close to ‘Woooooooh…’ or ‘Yeeeeeeah…’. Simple as that. No sweat lost, no calories burnt. Just a few eardrums shattered by the screeching noises made.

Note, if you may, that the key difference here is this: boys/men – clenched fists; girls/ladies/women – open palms. Where does this trail of thought leave you and I? Well I did think about it, and in the same process of growing wiser, took on a different approach to rationalize this newly learnt concept.

Here’s my first breakdown of the concept:

Biologically, (most) men are all about the ‘hardness’ of life. Theirs is a world where everything boils down to the following: taking on (difficult) endeavours that will somehow result in a conquest or praise of some sort; going to the gym to carve and chisel out their muscles; working hard so as to buy the biggest, boldest car; and living a life where they are in charge of doing the hard stuff (eg. fixing broken items in the house, getting greasy as he repairs his wife’s stalled car, which almost always happens at twelve in the night etc.) Basically, men love making bold statements, about themselves, to both their partners and the wider public.

Women, the biological inferiors to men – yet superior to us in more ways than we are led to believe, are naturally more timid in their approach to life. A larger percentage of our dear ladies, not all, live a life where: looking pretty and feeling sexy is a must-have, daily experience; their sense of attractiveness comes from how beautiful or curvy they are as compared to the next woman; and when they do workout or go to the gym, tend to do it out of a need to get a more curvy shape, shed excess weight or tone up their curves/muscles. Theirs is a life driven by the need to look, feel and be their sexiest, with the essence of success taking a totally different route as compared to men eg. bagging the manliest/ most handsome man; having the sweetest boyfriend/husband and the happiest relationship/marriage; having the (boyfriend/husband with the) most financial means – all these in comparison with their friends. (Ladies, you can gouge out my eyes and crucify me later)

To the second bit of my hapless explanation:

Men are more suitably built and raised to ‘grow‘ into ‘being hard‘. Dad will stress the importance of how it’s not proper for a man to be soft, or even cry, and how ladies are the only ones (on the entire face of the earth) who are supposed to shed tears. When dad’s not around, the Godfather will tell you that only women and children are allowed to make mistakes, while men can never afford that luxury. Women, however, are groomed into being sweet, approachable, emotional, and hesitant to taking a knife-edge approach to life. Hence, there are fewer women willing to take great risks, while they too account for an almost perfect 90 percent of the crying human population.

A recap please: so far, we see young boys being taught how to stop being soft, and being tougher in life. While young girls are taught how not to sit when around men, and why it is important not to be tough-mannered or behave as boys do: which would be, lacking emotion, playing boyish games, or wearing boyish clothes.

Now if that’s not enough, as a man, your gentleman sausage will always grows from soft to hard, not the other way round. Only going soft once the sexual excitement is over and you have experienced the supple-soft side of life at the hands of a woman’s soft breasts, soft behinds, and juicy sex. This biological structure (of the path of excitement) would (kind of) explain why a man would go from watching, or playing, a game with his hands at an ordinary stance up until the moment that the ball gets past the try-line, or into the arms of the net, or into that golf-hole. Almost instantaneously, the arm muscles get tightened, the fist gets clenched; and the mouth pours forth a croaky sound we think is a roar similar to that of a lion. Only when the excitement is over will his muscles loosen up and his clenched fist be pried open. From soft to hard, and back to soft – the biological nature of a man’s ‘limbs’.

Onto women: When women see attractive men, or men with tight bums, high muscle tone and a six pack to boot – they (get this) ‘claim’ to go all soft. They claim (cough) that the view of such eye-candy makes them want to be touched all over by the attractive man/men in question. Furthermore, “widely-accessible literature” states that their knees get weak, their minds get dizzy and their talking gets slurred. So, a quick review of facts at hand will show that the sight of muscular men, with chiselled-out muscles and abs, makes most women, literally – weak and submissive. Basically, women want ‘things that excite them’ packaged in ‘hard’ gift-boxes. Hence the reason that they enjoy the sight of hard-bodied men, love the feel of an erect willy, want ‘it‘ given to them hard; all-in-all, they love everything ‘nice’ being hard (hard-cash, hard-core men, hard-on’s etc.) Since all these hard-stuff makes them ‘soft and ready for more’, it would only be biologically reasoned that when men show a hard-clenched fist, they – as women, wave palms that are figuratively open and willing.

So that’s my flimsy attempt at explaining the reason why men clench their fists during celebrations, while women throw open palms into the air – and sometimes wave them like they don’t care. But if all these theories still don’t make sense to you, then my last theory will be as basic as basic has ever been.

Men pleasure themselves with a clenched fist, while women do it with an open palm, and a few choice fingers sticking out. So excitement for a man is equated to a clenched fist as he roars out in ecstasy, while for a woman, it is equated to an open palm as she writhes about screaming something close to ‘Woooooooh…’, ‘(Oh) Yeeeeeeah…’ or ‘(Oh) Yeeessssss’.

Simple as that…

#np TLC – Red Light Special


Sweaty Introductions

#np ‘Nothing’ by Total Silence

Ladies and gentlemen, for the next bare-naked narration of a man trudging through his day smothered by a sheet of sweat, we politely ask that you stay calm, and allow the mad scientist behind this boiling pot of letters and periods to continue concocting his imaginary self-portrait.



(Our protagonist, a guy in his twenties, clad in a grey track trouser and faded black hoodie, paces by a tree-lined side-walk, carrying a water-bottle blazoned with the Manchester United logo in his left hand. With earphones on, he walks along in wonky fashion, bobbing his head ever so gently, ever so rhythmically, as he listens to whatever it is that he listens to. Approaching a road intersection, he slowly grinds to a halt. He looks to the ground as if in search of something, or maybe to steady his step on the kerb, we’re not sure which. The camera zooms in to focus on his face.)

[[Fade to black. Credits.]]

(Scene opens with the guy looking dead into the camera. Eyes focused, gaze narrowed. A sheepish grin escapes from the confines of his face. He opens his arms wide, as words finally show relieved signs of being spewed out of his tooth-filled cavity.)

Guys, I’m back at the gym. (smiles)

(Checks for oncoming traffic then crosses as soon as road is clear. With earphones still on, he continues…)

I told you guys, nothing on earth is as focussed as a man with a purpose, didn’t I? (Wrinkles face) Wait…did I tell you guys or was it the other guys I talked to yesterday? Because I sure see some faces that are as ugly as the ones I saw yesterday, some even uglier. (Aside: Like a bright new dawn comes each day, so do people get uglier in bright new ways.) Anyway, listen up guys…I’m tired of false pretences, I’m fed up of small talk and have no time for empty chatter or things that don’t concern me. And yes, I did intend on using the word ‘guy(s)’ excessively today, because I have no time for play-names like ‘peepz’ or ‘fam’. If you have a problem with that…

(Quietly lifts a very long middle finger and shows it to the camera. Camera continues to focus on 20-something year old guy, ie. #20_SYOG, as he narrates his story.)

Now, I recently came to learn that my temperament variation is part Melancholic and part Phlegmatic – MelPhleg that is. I’ll hereby assume that most of you dear viewers (read: guys), if not all, are well versed with what temperaments are. However, for those who need an introduction to the course: temperament, as far as the Reader’s Digest Oxford Dictionary is concerned, can be described as:

noun/ a person’s distinct nature and character, especially as determined by physical constitution and permanently affecting behaviour.

So before I go any further, allow me, dames and gents, to dash to the house so that I may read to you an excerpt I lifted off Tim Lahaye’s book, whose title I hope you’ll Google for yourself.

(Gets off to a light jog. Camera shifts view. The image of #20_SYOG trails off as he jogs to who-knows-where.)


(Scene opens with #20_SYOG, now dressed in red boxers only, with traces of sweat still clinging dearly onto his upper body, flipping through the pages of a book. Finally locating the page he is looking for…)

“These gifted introverts (MelPhleg personalities that is) combine the analytical perfectionism of the melancholy with the organized efficiency of the phlegmatic. They are usually good-natured humanitarians who prefer a quiet, solitary environment for study and research to the endless rounds of activities sought by the more extroverted temperaments (~he forgot to mention music, they tend to listen to loads of it~). (…) Mr. Melancholy has by far the richest and most sensitive nature of all the temperaments. (…)He particularly excels in the fine arts, with a vast appreciation for life’s cultural values. He is emotionally responsive, but unlike the sanguine is motivated to reflective thinking through his emotions. (…)Martin Melancholy has strong perfectionist tendencies. (…)The analytical ability of the melancholy, combined with his perfectionist tendencies, make him a hound for detail. Whenever a project is suggested, he can analyze it in a few moments and pick out every potential problem. He can always be depended upon to finish his job in the prescribed amount of time, or to carry his end of the load. He rarely seeks the limelight (~so true~), but prefers to do the behind-the scenes task. He often chooses a very sacrificial vocation for life, for he has an unusual desire to give himself to the betterment of his fellow man.”

What does this excerpt have to do with me? Well, everything.

For in the few words Tim Lahaye used to described MelPhleg personalities, I felt like I was being dissected atop of a biology class table. I felt four scientific imbeciles, so focussed on learning about inner matter, pinning me down to the wooden platform thingies on which specimens are laid during practical classes. I saw their lab coats, as white as our dear Caucasian brothers and sisters from Northern Europe, swooshing through the air as they moved around the table in gleeful delight. Clapping their hands as they skip to imaginary tunes and sounds, perhaps the sound of metal objects clanking around inside their heads. Shiny, sharp, metal instruments lie around me. All placed in an orderly manner, all breathing heavily as they drool for a taste of my flesh. My body lies in state, even though my only viewers are these gloved imbeciles in white coats. As the head of the group finally comes to stare me down before my final exit, with eyes red-lit by the fire growing at the bottom of his curiosity, I give my last lifeless plea as I try, one last time, to save my skin from their grime filled claws.

Nothing I say looks to dissuade him, not even the offer to give him my sister’s phone number. For the fire in his eyes seems to consume the white even faster, replacing it with a red that reeks of wild and uncontrolled violence. I look at the two men and two women around me, very ready to help me see kingdom-come, and realize that these imbeciles aren’t real. That I really am not meant to be on this table. That all these psychotic thoughts are really just figments of my wacky imagination. But the water in which I drown only inches higher by the minute. I feel my ears filling up with water as the first incision is made right in the middle of my chest. More incisions and slices follow.

Slowly, surely, the thoughts in me start scrambling for caves in which they can hide, dark alleys in which they can escape to, so as not to be lost to the world I now depart. My tearing flesh makes noises I wish I could forget, even though I will definitely not have a recollection of this entire process. The transition to who-knows-where is slow yet sure. Memories of my past are my last cognitive moments on that table, with an image of the new me being the last image that flashes through my mind.

From kind-of living life, to embracing the fullness of my new life. From a world of conformity, to a world of fighting the flow and fleeing from the norm. This is the new me. I no longer care about non-essentialities in my life. I have grown to become more assertive in my search for success, and more ruthless in my disregard for hate, jealousy and envy. I never used to give a #F, now I totally don’t give a #F what anyone has to say about me, my lifestyle, or my life. I am who I am, and the best me is all I can be. If you have a problem with that…

(Quietly lifts a very long middle finger and shows it to the camera. Camera continues to focus on 20-something year old guy, ie. #20_SYOG, as he wraps up his story.)

In my gym session today, one where sweat was my only true companion in the fight for muscle definition, I feel I become a little wiser. As I saw newbies try to outdo each other in lifting heavy weights, laughing at those not strong enough to keep up with the seasoned gym members, I realized that most people project their insecurities in other people. That men are slaves to their egos, and women slaves to their vanity. That conformity is a plague, a cancer. One whose inevitable blow-up is guaranteed, with or without identification of the symptoms. You either live, or you don’t. You either seek, or you won’t find. You either embrace all that comes your way, good and bad, or live your life in eternal disappointment at how things didn’t go your way.

For me and my sweat, we will weather whatever storm that is headed our way. Happiness is what I now seek. No love for materialism will blind me from that goal. From today I look at this wonderful world through the eyes of a child. No dreams will fade into oblivion, and no hopes will be shattered. I want to be the kind of guy that you don’t forget, the one you think about as you gaze at the starry sky on camping trips.

So for all you viewers tuned in to today’s show, please take a listen to Twista’s ‘Wetter’. Learn a few things about how to give it to your man/woman right. How not to stop till she wets up the sheets, and he gives out in a fit of explosions.

Step your sex-game up, and peace out peepz…Oh, sorry. Peace out guys.

(#20_SYOG picks up towel and turns away from the camera. Beads of sweat are still visible on his back, and scene ends as he enters bathroom. Sounds of a running shower are heard.)

[[Fade to black.]]

Soft Lips and Creamy Pasta

#np Louis Armstrong – What a wonderful world

Quiet. Absolute quiet, with a light touch of never-ending tranquility. Water drips from the tap, slowly, surely. Repeatedly stroking the voiceless chords of the room in neat strums of acoustic breaches of the peace that has enveloped me tonight. Yes, yet another night of me and my keyboard. No women-loving, code-named, crime-lords with me tonight, or mercenaries from Dublin. Just me and the dripping-tap that is ever so calmly letting off drops of night-long disturbance. That and the raspy sound of Mr. Armstrong baring his soul out at how red roses really are.

A distant tune weaves itself into my already harmonious atmosphere. From the sound of it, it seems that one of my neighbours has decided to say goodnight to the world through those gospel cd’s sold along Moi Avenue. You know, the ones that every non-alcoholic woman above the age of 40 listens to, or those whose videos are shot in the middle of a roundabout, in front of a fountain that met its thirst-induced death ages ago. The hums and hymns continue pouring in, causing the hate for those loud city stalls, and their ever moody patrons, to scurry their way to the surface of my emotions. A hate that burns ever so brightly underneath my hairless chest. One that has one too many a time brought me to the brink of tearing down the blaring speakers from which the noises of downtown Nairobi emanate from. (Watch this space people. Soon, I just might give you guys an action-packed account of a bachelor gone berserk on the noisy streets of downtown Nairobi.)

Moving on though, I’ve always felt – and always will feel – that the best way to truly assess a woman’s nature, and the entire essence of her femininity, is by watching how she eats her spaghetti. Not in the comfort of your home, or under the cover of those eternally dirty sheets, but in a posh restaurant, or café. One that serves something more than just a main course. Where you pay for more than just the meal, since the ambience comes with its own price. A diner where none of the noise from the young girl – Bieber, or Nicki Minaj and her silicone friends, will ever be allowed to ricochet through the chandelier-lit, glass adorned room.

Now I may have gone ahead of myself and painted a picture that many-a-working Kenyans might not quite afford, or be well acquainted with, one or the other. But I feel that the time has come to put my fellow brothers wise. I feel as though we men, are most times blinded by all the whim-whams offered by our dearly treasured women, that we forget to have a look at what lies underneath all that curvy, or not-so-curvy, goodness. That most men would go out on a whim to impress a lady who is far from being a true woman, just because she shows more than enough skin, or her ‘bozzom’ has your undivided attention.

Allow me to explain further:

Take One: Leona Lewis.


A British musician who seems well-bred and raised right. Her looks? They sure rank WAY beyond your average looker. Her voice…my-oh-my, and I mean MY-OH-MY!!! To me, she represents the last generation of women with enough ‘umph’ in their swing to make smart men do really stupid things. I feel as though she might just be among the few ladies of whom most women will openly, comfortably, and undeniably agree – is beautiful.

Take two: Nicki Minaj.

Born somewhere in the Caribbean islands, raised in ‘silicone’ valley, and the current Queen of Siliconia. Do I need to explain her further? I think not. We all know what she is made of. A few more silicone shots and she just might join Lil’ Kim pictured below in Silicone Hell.


Now picture a scenario where each of the two is eating a bowl of spaghetti, rather yet – pasta (sounds more enticing, don’t you agree?). Imagine a meal of pasta sourced somewhere in the hills of Italy. One with a name more exotic than the language itself. Bright yellow in colour, and sprinkled over with dashes of fresh green parsley. Slices of fried mushrooms and baked ham poking out. Each strand of pasta oozing with creamy Parmesan cheese. All of these colours and tastes, teasing to the senses as they may be, effortlessly melting in your mouth. Ladies and gentlemen, picture some Tagliarini Primavera, would you. And after that, picture how Leona Lewis would eat it. Take some steps further down the dark undiscovered alleys of your imagination and imagine how Nicki would eat the same.

Men, do you now agree with me? Ladies, am I right or wrong in saying that a meal of spaghetti can help reveal the true workings of the inner woman? The one underneath all the make-up and silicone. The one who only comes out in the dark of night, when no more pretence and innocent giggles are needed. Or when she is home alone, with an old white wife-beater on, watching the Real Housewives of somewhere, waiting for a call from her man. Who she will go on to give a colourful picture of how sexy she is dressed, and how bored she is without him. (choke)

I’ll leave you to our devices and allow you to form your verdict, as I stick to mine. But if you are on the masculine end of this readership spectrum, be a sport and try this out for yourself. Order spaghetti for your soon-to-be woman, catch or plaything – whichever she may be. It works. I can guarantee that. If you are, however, on the feminine end of the few that wander onto this page, and fall into the ‘Nicki’ category, how about I give you some tips on where to buy some face for your make-up.

For the few of you who do fall into the ‘Leona’ category, will you please marry me? I mean, I hate to admit it but I love a woman who loves herself enough to go out on some of her days, if not all, without make-up. One whose eyes, nose and lips, especially the lips, make me stare at her for eternity. Make me want to turn into Parmesan cheese. To be sprinkled all over the Tagliarini Primavera I order for you, just so you can eat me up and eat me whole as I sail the grey waters of your personality in my quest to find out how worthwhile the endless stares and night-long fantasies really are. And to prove that the woman in you will help me forget that beauty, such as that of Leona Lewis or Kelly Rowland, even exists. However you take my intentions in buying you this meal of pasta, dear lady in red, I’d really love to see you eat, and hopefully, get to enjoy you further later tonight.

#np D’Angelo – Send It On

Bitter-Sweet Love (continued…)


#np 213 – Brown Skin

(…) The kind of women that parade their sexuality with shameless abandon. The sort whose laughter can turn men’s inflated egos into shriveled portions of self-esteem. Those that are rarely approached by men, but make the moves themselves. The type that don’t giggle at any man’s jokes, they tell the jokes, as the men giggle away. Let it also be known that these women, Gee’s women, as well bred and clear eyed as the next woman is, share no amount of love-blinded sentimentality with the rest of their sisters. Yet it would seem that the few, whom my humble and shriveled-up portions of masculinity have been graced to meet, have a strange sense of affection for this cool-headed bloke, Gee.

Am I jealous of him? Hell yes. Do I wish my own level-headed personality could tame the wild ways of such women? Definitely. Yet as fate would have it, Gee seems to be the only chap, I know, with big enough ‘plums’ to sail the frosty waters of these ‘wild ones’. It would seem that the empyrean courts saw us, normal men, not worthy of the steel needed to maintain a decent level of courage in the face of raw and unvarnished femininity.

Nonetheless, there are no loud-mouthed wild ones to keep Gee warm tonight, and me to cower from. No cold corners for Gee to head off to as he hunts for prey, nor football matches for me to lose myself in. Just two young and virile men, in a two windowed room, in the company of a solitary, glass-topped, coffee table sitting between them. With cold beers in hand, we share few and far-fetched spasms of wisdom. Moments of unbridled reason and intellect rush to our mouths in eloquently formed words, only to be washed away by the barley flavoured water we drown ourselves in.

I think about the millions I would love to bank someday, even though today’s reality has me earning trifles. Gee, on the other hand, whiles his time away scrolling through his phone-book and making random calls, to loud-mouthed women with gold teeth caps I suppose. My bets are that the booze has started kicking in and he feels oh-so-randy. The kind of randiness that gives your plums a darker shade of red as you search for a late-night conquest. Fed up of his worry-free take on life, I bury myself in the memories of my past week. Memories so fresh they float effortlessly in my mind. Makes me think about how Pi and Richard Parker drifted ever so slowly over the endless sea.

Working for eighteen hours straight each day, in a law firm located in Nairobi’s Hurlingham, I must say it has been one heck of a week. I spent my days with my nose stuck inside tons of files and folders. Sifting through heap after heap of legal write-ups,  appending stamps and signatures where needed. Quite the eye-opener I must say, especially for a guy from an IT field. It paid well though, real well, and it was some real important job too – so somebody had to do it. Even so, a maroon carpet, old and worn, was the only source of comfort any of us at the office could afford.

On this carpet, I experienced sweet sleep, an hour at the most, before I headed home for another four hour bout of sleep. I had dreams of the same millions I think of now, few nightmares too, of one of Gee’s women tearing me apart. And as you squirm at how lifeless my sleep must have been, I have to note that I was quite the lucky one – landing on the carpet, that is. Files stacked over each other, to form beds, were the only other option for those not bold enough to fight for the coveted spots underneath the few tables available. The toilet seat too, if memory serves me right, was also an open consideration. Yes, the toilet seat. I remember seeing one timidly-built, and somewhat quiet, miss spend the night there someday.

Back to tonight…As I look at Gee talking into the phone, passing on sweet words laced with deceit, it comes to mind that perhaps I should learn something from him. Maybe I should take a sip from his stress-free beer-mug of life, and focus less on the worries and sorrows of the world. The most noble thing I can do tonight is be less envious of Gee’s manicured personality and rich background, because the more I keep up with this self-pity, the less I will focus on the main price of self-motivated effort.

Gee finally looks away from his phone, and directly at me. Apparently, the scumbag wasn’t just going through his phone-book mindlessly. He passes on some words of advice (which he might have just ‘Googled’). Anyway, he tells me this: “Even though life isn’t always beer and skittles for us, you can still find the answers to some of life’s problems at the bottom of a beer bottle.” Very deceitful words, don’t you say? Wisely put deceitful words. But I believe him, because those are the kind of words that I really need to hear right now. And seeing as our table is still furnished with a couple of mercenaries from the land of Dublin, they should hold just the card to magically swish my disheartening thoughts away.

So, this is where I turn off guys. I have four or five more battles left between me and sobriety, even though the kick is already setting in. My focus is getting hazy, I can’t stop swallowing my words, and numbness is quickly rushing to swathe me in its warmth. Yet here I drink on…yet here I prepare to valiantly face my five remaining adversaries. One 6.5 mm bullet in each of the guns they hold, that makes 32.5 mm worth of wrought iron left to go.

In the famous words of Arthur Guinness, aka Arthur ‘Gee’ – “I’ll take each roasted  chance as it comes.” Goodnight world.

#np Tupac – Life Goes On