There's an extra hill in Ngong' that outsiders don't know about. No one goes there to hike or take beautiful pictures of the sunset. You will never find the fake deep smoking and taking selfies up there while filling your Instagram feeds with long irrelevant posts. There is no sight of windmills or breathtaking birds and animals. Considering it's a lot lower than its sisters one would expect to find lazy faithfuls praying or couples on dates enjoying themselves. Far from it, this heap of garbage is for no good. It defies every law of hygiene and environment conservation.
When it rains, this lovely hill is generous enough to donate its components to the environment. The water carries away some waste towards the road making them flood and in some cases render them impassable. I can only imagine the health risk it poses on the informal households nearby. Unlike the Nairobi residents, they don't take it to twitter to complain about their situation. This is probably because their governor's name, Honourable Doctor David Ole Nkedianye, seems like it has already reached the 140 character limit.
This hill had a lot of memories for Linyonyi. The married women had always preferred to meet here because no one would go round garbage heaps to look for them thus their chances of getting caught by their husbands were low. There were also times while driving his nduthi away from home where he needed to take a piss and this was his preferred washroom.
That day's experience however, would definitely surpass them all.
His fellow townsmen had woken up that morning with the soul aim of getting rid of him. They showed up at his house early, giving him several punches and kicks then carrying him to the garbage heap to burn him alive. Anger, which was mainly caused by jealousy, was in the air as the men accused him of 'spoiling' their women. Instead of using his sweet tongue to find a woman to marry, they said, Linyonyi was using it to lure all the women of the town and making them unfaithful to their husbands and boyfriends.
From their faces he could tell they really wanted to do away with him. They were also curios to know what kind of powers he possessed to entice such a huge number. The women he had slept with pretended to be as disgusted as the crowd but one could see that deep down they were hurt by the way he was being treated. One lady could not bear it any more and suggested that the better way was to take him to the police station. There was some resistance but they finally agreed. They put him on the back of his bike stating that they would steal it but they wanted nothing to do with him.
Liyonyi's cellmate in prison was a Pastor Jim. He had been accused of using his ministry to exploit followers and steal their money. He talked a lot about how big his church was and how much money he had amassed. Infact, he talked so much that Linyonyi wished he could just churn him into busaa and drink him. He said that after getting rich off a congregation it was always good to go to prison where he could change tactics, learn new ones and modify his appearance. He had even began working on a white beard during his court hearings. As an added advantage the prisoners were a good audience to preach to because they were a desperate people, similar to the ones he targeted in the outside world.
"For the last time Pastor Jim, my name is not Wanyonyi." It always pissed him off when people mistook his name. Back in Ngong, his numerous clandes would piss him off when calling him the wrong name during moments of passion, "Litonyi, Loliondo, Lolita."
He knew it was only a matter of time before he gave in to the name Wanyonyi and as it seems that was the only name his colleagues would use to refer to him, it began to bother him less.
Months in prison were spent listening to Pastor Jim's sermons.One night when they both could not sleep Pastor Jim told him about Moses and the burning bush. That God asked Moses, "What do you have in your hand?" Moses saw a staff in his hand and that's what God used to bless him. In the same way God would only bless Linyonyi using the talents and abilities that he had.
This message changed his thinking. He decided to stop feeling sad about his poor state and began working with what he has. He got so challenged that he used his gift of speech to become Jim's co-pastor, preaching once in a while to the prison congregation that was growing everyday.
Fellow prisoners began to prefer him to Pastor Jim and this did not go well. Linyonyi would receive threats and he thought it best to look for another place to sleep.
Luckily, one of his former lovers paid a good lawyer to appeal his case and he soon got acquitted. He received a letter from her on the day of his release that apologised for not helping earlier as she had to find a way to steal the money from her husband without him noticing. The envelope also contained a one million shillings cheque and the madam's workplace address so that he could look for her later on.
Outside the prison gates he found his nduthi waiting for him. It looked as beautiful as ever with a FORD Kenya flag at the front and the seat lined with empty packets of branded maize flour. In this world, his nduthi was the only thing that he truly cared about. Even while behind bars he often bribed the guards to take it from where it was locked and drove it around in a nearby field. He would talk to it as if it could listen and tell it that one day they would run away to see the world.
As he folded the letter back into the envelope he remembered how this particular woman would scream the name "Jehovah" while making love. It made him uncomfortable at first but he later got used to it.
Then it hit him, if he was a better pastor than Jim who had amassed billions for himself, surely he could be god himself. Plus, doesn't it say in Psalms 82:6 that we are gods? So technically he wouldn't be doing anything wrong.
With a well thought out strategy he reached Cherangani town with his nduthi that show the meekness of a servant. The people were glad to see one who could speak their own language come to rescue them from their troubles. He told the people that he would give them special seeds that would do well in their soils, give them money to use in development and generally help in improving their welfare.
Never had they seen a leader fulfil his promises, surely he could not be a man like the rest. So when he introduced himself as Jehovah Wanyonyi, they did not refute.
Wanyonyi really believed he could make a difference. He encouraged people to work all morning, refresh themselves then come for a service where he would be worshipped. There was no need for a preacher as his followers would hear directly from their god who had divine eloquence.
There were visible signs that he was trying to help the community, comforted the afflicted and was ready to listen to their sorrow. Even though he did not peform miracles, they left his presence with the one thing they all needed most; hope.
Women filled the seats on Sundays, leaving their abusive husbands for good. They sang praises to Wanyonyi, prayed to him to bless them and their children. His easy ways, smart mouth and the leaked information from his wives that he was good in bed made them eager to please him while they waited for Christmas when he married a new wife.
Within two years he had built for himself a large temple where his followers would bring offerings and sacrifices. His private homstead had a main hut and six smaller huts for his wives and children. In another enclosed area there was a school and a hospital where only those trained by Jehovah himself would work.
His hut had a room that was always locked and no one was allowed to enter.
That was where he kept the one item that reminded him of who he truly was, his nduthi. He would open the room each night and remind himself of his past and where he should be in the future. Using the stickers and hang-ons he had customized his bike into an item that would keep him in check.
Trouble started in paradise when Wephukulu in a nearby village started convincing people that he was a deity as well. Wanyonyi's sons were also becoming of age and they got into fights with each other about who would inherit the throne. The wives, drowning in jealousy, accused each other of hoarding Jehovah's attention. The media and outside world became increasingly interested in the happenings of his village. Life, as they say, was happening.

One night he took all the money he had gained from farming and other activities, brought his bike outside the hut and silently took off. He drove it to nowhere in particular. As long as it was a place where he could be a Linyonyi, a little bird.
Bananas were Marvin's thing at first. "It reminds me of home," he said, "the places I've been and conversations I've had when eating it in the past." After a few months of having dicussions with Marvin over a bunch of bananas , they became Doctor Mwitu's thing too. Together, they would sit at the empty kibanda outside the hospital and eat some while talking about issues they found interesting.
Marvin had shown up at Doctor Mwitu's hospital seven months ago after hearing of the man's professional and affordable healthcare. He was a struggling journalist, unable to pay for medical covers in private hospitals, sickened by the half-baked treatment the government gave but in dire need of someone to check his persistent cough. Like most people in his neighbourhood, he survived on luck hoping that he would not fall ill because getting relief was a luxury that only the rich could afford. He was really impressed by the doctor's professionalism. While in the diagnosis room they discussed about the nation's welfare and what led them to pursue their respective careers. The doctor wanted to be part of the solution in curbing diseases while Marvin went freelance because employed journalists did not enjoy some fundamental freedoms. The two realised that they had the same grievances, acknowledging the strides being taken by their government but wishing for more. Within no time, Marvin rented an office next to the hospital in Industrial Area making it easier for their afternoon meet. Rates were becoming increasingly cheaper at the 'factory city' that was once famous for producing local goods but business was destroyed by international players.
They found themselves talking a lot about how the rich and powerful deal with competition. Marvin was working on a story about Betty Wap, a former politician, and the alleged conspiracy to murder her business rival, a Mr. Wytte and the doctor could tell that he was passionate about it.
Mr. Wytte had come across a poster that showed Positive City as a positive place with positive people and positive vibes. He knew that would be a good place for business. He quickly relocated to Positive City and found everything to be just as the poster said. Upon retiring, he set out to start his own production company, an industry that Betty Wap was already involved in. Betty was an angry woman who lacked a left eye. When she saw how quickly Wyte's company was rising against hers, she had to get him out of the way. Her company was the best, unbeaten in many years but given the threat she gave her rival one could only wonder if the methods she used to get to the top were noble.
Rumour had it that Betty Wap was a pirate in her former life. She stole ships worth billions carrying loads of gold and jewellery. Life there was not easy and she lost her eye during one of the encounters with the authorities. Once she heard about Positive City and how easy life was for powerful people she decided to resign early and become a politician there.
This conversation wore the doctor out. He could not understand why Marvin was stuck up on the murder conspiracy while that was something that happened everyday. The rich committed crimes to benefit themselves and always get away with it. It was inevitable that Betty Wap, like all the rest, would get acquitted. "This is Positive City. Bad things happen all the time and you can't change that. All you can do is focus on the good stuff."
The case against Betty was strong. There was enough evidence to convince anyone that she was guilty. Phonecalls, text messages and receipts showed that she wanted Mr. Wytte dead. Were it not for the greedy assassin she hired who approached Mr. Wytte to ask for money her wish would be granted.
Marvin was in the library when the earthquake happened. He had just received news about the Betty Wap case. The files and evidence against her had suddenly disappeared. He was drafting his rant when all of a sudden, he noticed the ground was shaking. The intensity and effects increased as he saw the library shelves started moving. By the time he got up to run, the history shelf fell on his legs. Two other shelves landed on either hand and the pain was unbearable. He was sure that it would be his last day on earth but was glad that it happened in a bookstore where wisdom of many men before him could be found.
When Doctor Mwitu did not hear from Marvin that day and didn't see him at his place when he stopped by, he knew something was off. In the morning he decided to check up on his friend at the local library where he loved to spend time. It was a quiet place since people were not much readers in the city and Marvin found it a serene place to write his work.
He brought Marvin to the hospital when he was still unconscious and when he woke up he found himself in a strange place with Doctor Mwitu examining his leg. The painting on the wall and the nearby sounds of a factory suggested that they were at the hospital but he had never been to that room before. The doctor explained that he found him unconscious in a poor state with books and shelves all over him. It was unexplainable how he was still alive. His hands had never seen before markings that looked like a million words when seen under a magnifying lens.
Later Marvin was feeling a bit better and they were able to go outside for their bananas. They talked about the earthquake and the many patients who streamed into the hospital with numerous injuries. By then, the hospital had acquired more doctors to meet the demand but it would take months before everything could go back to normal. The radio they had in the kibanda announced that Betty Wap had been set free due to lack of evidence against her.
The anger that rose in Marvin frightened the doctor a bit. His hands started shaking and the veins in his hands became more and more visible by the second. Right then before the the doctor's eyes, he ran out of the kibanda and flew up into the sky. All that could be seen was a green streak moving rapidly into the sky.
Betty Wap was still outside the courtroom telling the press that it had all been a plan by her enemies when a man appeared and slapped her. Everything happened too fast for any camera to capture and all the recorders noted was Betty screaming in pain and disbelief. A few seconds later, the magistrate who had ruled over the case and was still inside the courtroom was also slapped by a man who ran outside immediately after.
Back in Industrial Area, the doctor was still trying to figure out what had happened to his friend. Marvin had just walked in lying with burns on his hands and immediately figured that he was the man who had slapped Betty and the magistrate. He then became even more curious about what exactly happened during the earthquake.
Even before the press had time to fully cover the slapping story, reports came that Betty Wap had confessed to the crime and was ready to face the consequences. The magistrate also apologised for a compromised ruling and admitted that Betty was guilty producing the documents that were allegedly stolen.
Betty did not know what had come over her and it was never her wish to cause harm. It was like an extraordinary thing had happened and now the two culprits suddenly acted with reason. Had the wisdom from the library books transcended into Marvin's arms?
"Has he become some sort of Slapperman that could slap sense into people?"
There are two things I hate; three that I find detestable; poverty, a man who cannot dress well and a man who does not know how to spoil his wife with expensive gifts. Lord knows I was not put on this earth to suffer in marriage or start a family with a man who I'd be ashamed to take a stroll with because his clothes do not complement who I am as a brand. I therefore took it upon myself to find the one. The one who would take me to the land of plenty treat me like the queen I was.
I found myself in the world of dating which is known for defying a lot of scientifically proven laws. In the real world, unlike poles attract but not when you're talking about love. Here, like poles are the ones that attract. The person that is thinking of you all the time and is obsessed by everything you do is most probably a true reflection of yourself. It is true that no two people are the same but most relationships begin with the words, "we have so much in common" even if no one acknowledges.
How would a girl who had just arrived from the village catch the attention of her ideal man? I had not even grasped the vitals of Nairobi civilisation. It took me a while to realise that when someone says Kanye west, they are talking about an American musician and it was not a new version of our native greeting, "Idhi kanye?" The only way I could afford to make my ojuglebas look better is to stuff socks in my bras. There was simply no chance a city boy would look at me twice. What with my face that was full of pimples looking like a sheet of braille.
I had to do the inevitable. There was no choice. If what my pastor said was true, that one day we'll stand before BigMan and witness our sins kama vindio I will ask for 7D effects when it comes to the part where I bought kamote to attract my husband. I would like the whole world to know where I got the love potion from. If her powers made such an honourable man profess his love for me all this years surely she could save us from eternal fire. Plus with all that marketing on my part she would definitely give me a discount when selling the spell that would help us avoid everlasting damnation.
The only rule that came with the kamote was to make sure that only the targeted person should eat the food laced with the love potion. It would be dangerous if his then girlfriend tasted some of the food as well. That would mean two people would have deep affection for me and I can't handle all that attention.
It was only a matter of time before Wamusee became mine. The result was unbelievable. He would bring me boiled maize, roasted maize, smokies and boiled eggs every evening. I slowly worked towards being the woman that was worthy of him even and learnt how to deal with opposition from people around him who knew our union was definitely not normal. Soon we became the power couple to watch.
When you take care of a man the way I had done with Wamusee it was only a matter of time before admirers start envying what belongs to you and try to have it for themselves. With such a good man, competition was expected and I had prepared myself on how to deal with them.
There are those that were not much of a problem the ones that Morio One would call non-issues and that is just what they are. Those girls cannnot stand a chance of taking my man and after a few weeks their plan to steal my lover ends up destroying them instead. Usually I pay no attention to such. Since I am an artist by profession, kuchorea hio story si ngumu.
Then comes the girls who are persistent about having Wamusee for themselves. They refuse to understand that he is for one person and one person only. Strategies are drawn and plans are devised to lure him and when I feel threatened or insecure about them I call my mboys who know how to make a person disappear. Once my goons are done with their job the lasses are nowhere within reach or something wierd happens to them. They are nothing a little threatening cannot do.
The strength of a woman is to acknowledge her point of weakness.
Mine is you, Njoki. I have tried everything to make you leave Wamusee alone. Can you even count how many times I have hired my mboys to drop you in a dangerous forest or quarry? I cannot because they are too many. Yet you keep coming back. Last month you really got on my nerves and I slapped you but you showed not even a speck of emotion. Sometimes I think you are not capable of such. It's like the only thing you feel is that kabreeze that hits your exposed stomach when you're wearing a cropped top.
Wamusee can't keep his eyes off you Njoki. I can tell that he tries to remain faithful but you are a force he can't contain. Maybe you need to give me your witchdoctor's business card. His stuff seems to work pretty well.
I am tired of spending money to import spells from around the world just to get you off my husband. I don't even want to beat you up because it seems like everytime you go to the hospital with bruises you come back looking more beautiful than when you left.
All that's left is for me to plead with you woman to woman because there is a way that we humans with two sets of lips can communicate with each other. You know how much I love Wamusee and how our love has stood the test of times.
If this is a battle then you have already won. You possess such beauty that no man can resist. I simply cannot compete with you. But I beg you Njoki Njoki Njokiiiii in the name of God please don't take my man.
It's too cold for us to get out of bed
But that's the best dilemma right?
When I can hear all the feelings your words won't say
And live the dreams we don't wake up from
Coz I've been holding out my hand
Hoping you stretch yours out too
But all these fingers have been getting are tips
You know this is real, stop playing then.
I don't think you understand
What people do to get what we have
There's a lot of disgust and mistrust
out there
So don't you dare dismiss us
Or what we share
I love the way you look at me
I love the way you look
I love you.
Why don't you give yourself to what is true?
You know this is real, stop playing then.
No, men are not all the same. We all do different things when drunk. They are those who become experts at second generation moves; moving their limbs up and down, keeping silent as though they are meditating. The moves look as impossible as what you see on TV but these ones are accompanied by unsteadiness before the participants lie flat on the ground. Some transform into gifted singers. A Bruce may walk into the pub but once he's had a few he sings better than any Caitlyn.
I choose my drinking buddies according to how they act when intoxicated. Take for example Baraka, he's a good guy but no one wants to hear his lame jokes for the rest of the night, "Unajua Usain Bolt anaeza kimbia hadi apite exams." Ngatia on the other hand, he is quite something and I always look forward to when he would invite me take one for the road. He gets extremely generous when under the influence and I take advantage of that. He can sort your bills, buy you a watch, get you a plane ticket. Most people have benefited from this and it's no surprise that he's going bankrupt.
Me? I do nothing interesting when intoxicated. Just the ordinary guy who mumbles to himself and later dozes off. Unless of course you consider the date where our story begins. That night where, all the booze in my head took an ultimate high when I was talking to a lady. I can't remember what I said to her or whether her hair smelt of coconut oil or shea butter. I don't even know why she agreed to go home with me or why we saw each other for the better part of the following week. I just needed to get my mind off Joanne and the fact that she won't be in our bed when I go back home. I was desperate and when the brown bottle told me a one night stand would do it seemed like a good idea. A longing to vent out on someone else is what drove me. With this new chic I didn't have to face my problems. This escape that everything is fine made me safe.
But that's the problem with us humans. We are such suckers for safety. We can always carry an extinguisher or break glass in case of a fire but our preferred option is to be where there is no risk at all. Doesn't matter if what is out there is better than what we have we'd rather stay inside and let our eyes dance with the flames but never responding to their call.
****
No one likes Mondays. Solomon Grundy would be happy because it was the day he was born but the thought that he would be dead and buried in a matter of days kills his celebratory mood.
Weekend hangovers became harder to deal with when they put the weekly meeting on the first day of the week. The last thing you need when your body is half-asleep and a migraine is noisily munching your head is someone screaming at you saying what is expected.
One Monday morning, a bigger problem presented itself. I looked up and saw beauty staring back at me smiling with the promise of love. It is hard to be seated opposite an attractive person. Your whole mechanism gets confused wanting to stare at the lass but doing so with caution so as not to alert the person that attention is on them.
The struggle became harder. Changing seats did not help; it is as if the whole energy of the room is concentrated on that one person. I gave in a little after that and walked up to her hoping to find answers for my emotions.
Her eyes did that eye sex thing that very few can do. A spectacle that happens when you look at her and my system becomes faulty. Mouth speaks incomprehensible words, hands sweat as though the temperatures are too much, legs become jelly weak and mind cannot explain why heart is happy.
An angel had walked into my life and I was determined to keep her. My whole life revolved around her until we became complacent with each other. The dangers of being used to someone presented themselves where one doesn't appreciate the other. All of a sudden someone is not as amazing as they used to be storm they would cause within becomes a little drizzle. Not that we had problems. None whatsoever. We were not as happy as before.
On my birthday she would get me chicken wings and even though she now worked at KFC where such a meal is very easy to get our relationship had reached a point where such a gesture demanded a lot of effort. The fact that the chicken wings was accompanied by chicken thighs and later on her thick thighs and thin lips suggested that maybe there was hope for us.
That hope, however, kept dwindling. Any tiny aggrevation would ruin what we had built. We were fed up with each other and a quarrel we had confirmed what we had feared; that maybe we needed some time apart.
Seeing her suitcase wheel away crushed me. Thoughts of what we first shared rushed through me and I got scared of a future without her. These same thoughts led me to the bar for a quick fix. Just a small affair, that's what I told myself. Something to get my head back in the game.
The affair was indeed short and when Joanne came back to give us another chance there was no trace of any girl around. I was happy about our rekindled love I knew I had to tell her what I had done.
Every day I left the office planning to confess to my girlfriend. I wasn't the cheating type, never will be and my mind was set on making things straight before moving on. But I swear the way she welcomed me to the house and her effort to make things work made me postpone my confession and just enjoy the moment. All my objectives went back to factory settings; loving her and I became a fool of her love.
It was like I was entering a forest. At first I didn't want to get lost so I tied red strings on the trees I have passed to make my return easier. Then, as soon as I got in deep enough, as though I was not myself I rushed back and destroyed all the red strings. Suddenly being lost in her arms and warm embrace was the only thing I wanted. Her lips on mine made me erase any other agenda.
She almost died when I had told her what I had done. It broke my heart to break hers. Something I'll never forgive myself for. Something I am still paying for. Thus time she left for good and nothing I could do would change that. Our pleas became a round song ; I was begging for another chance and she was screaming that it was not possible.
I should have followed her that day for I have gone everywhere we used to go together to look for her. She changed jobs, changed towns and she probably changed her name because no one seems to recognise her. Maybe if I left the red strings, it would be easier to find her. Nothing is torturing me more than knowing I did this to myself. All I need now is wings; wings to fly and look for my Joanne.
Which soap
Tell me
Do you use
To brainwash millions of people
And convince them that they are unable to do
That which they see in everything they look at
You negative thoughts you
Look what you did to Ogana
A confident man who when taking nudes
Places his ID next to his mshulunthes
Just so they know that's not some googled shit
But once the blues kicked in
This illicit blues
Told him he would amount to very little
That his name is good enough for nothing
Not even a matatu sacco.
Have you ever heard someone say
That they've lost their death certificate and need to replace it?
Is it because
Dead people don't need to prove that they are
That's what you're doing to us
Making us unproductive
Inactive
Unable to give or create
You make us doubt ourselves
And you make us lifeless
Because a man is only as living as they aspire to be
I appeal to you
Insecurities that live within us
Energies that destroy what we have not started building
Do not unhope us
Do not discourage
For their is little we can do
If we do not believe in ourselves.
I love the way you look at me. I love the way you look. I love you.
*****
There is this boy. Actually, there is always a boy. If there is no boy, there are many boys.
I decide to write him a letter to say that I have built him a place in my heart; permanent and free of Nairobi floods. The words stress how I feel about him and the number of times I find myself dreaming of the two of us together. My plan is to post it as a piece of writing because personal experiences can be changed into works of art. With letters, there is no word limit and so emotions can be expressed the same way they are experienced. Mine contains phrases like the one above to make my intentions very clear. 

Once I am done with my letter, I'll have to consider some things first. My readers are many and I have to make sure they all feel comfortable with the work I put out. These are people who have walked with me in this writing journey. Surely I can't let them down because of a fling.

First on the list is my mum and all other moral authorities in my life. I don't pay my own rent or buy my own food. Even if I was financially stable, I would never live with the scolding and mean stares. I therefore can't tell this boy that my loins have not known the touch of a man in many moons. I might also need to delete the details about new positions we need to try out and the props we can use. Those are things I can always snapchat him anyway. The detail about missing class to go meet up with him to get high an unnecessary detail. He knows I skived school to get high, he was there, we don't need the whole world to know just incase someone decides to enrol us to a rehab.

All my friends know I write and they are my die hard fans. They always pay keen attention to the stuff I say about them. I can't afford to walk alone so I better cut back on the trolls. Convincing my man that I'm better than they is my main aim but I'm not in the business of stepping on others to get to the top. I'll have to scrap off this line, the one that shows Cindy still calls nail polish cutex and she has no idea what box braids are, bado anashuka *pees.

For the sake of my new cool kid friends I have to replace 'guan like Guantanamo Bay' for something gisty like 'chill like an old man without his blue pills.' Street cred muhimu maze.

I have to make my work activist-proof. Omitting the fact that  we first met when I threw a bottle of soda out of the window hitting his face would keep people like Jewel and other environmentalists off my neck. I'll earn points if I say that the first night we spent together was after an #Occupy protest and he was afraid that I was too teargassed to go home. They need to know that I am aware of my rights as a Kenyan citizen and I fight for them. Anything contoroversial has to go. Me I don't want to be termed ignorant or heartless. Everything has to be politically correct and unabusive.

How writer-ish does my work sound though? Maybe I should look at Arunga's Dear Dorises and see if they sound the same. I think I'll be safer if I sound like another established writer. That will mean that my work is commendable. All these experiments, 'nights with you are cold. so cold that they're burning me,' we can try out new things once we get to the top.

But who am I kidding? I'll never be as good. When I sit with my fellow writers and show them this piece they will probably look at me with disgrace. These are people who spend sleepless nights coming up with otherwordly phrases like 'muthokoi blue' and I show up with a love letter? Does this article even have structure? Am I saying something that people want to hear?
By now my work sound basic like Taylor Swift lyrics. For sure, this boy, like everyone else will not appreciate taylor words because they seem like they were done swiftly. I should just write about basic stuff... like the weather.

Something like, 'it was a dark and stormy night.'