I think we should limit it to 500 words.
500 words? What do I look like?
Ninakaa bucket inafuja maji kama zile huchota maji ushago?
Hahaha. You have no choice, bubii
FOR CHRISSAKE, WHICH 88 WORDS SHOULD BE REMOVED AND STILL MAKE THIS STORY HAVE SENSE?
You’ll figure it out.
Wewe ni mzii!
Goodnight booby bear.
⤄
Remember when I used to rumble about my editor’s deadlines? Turns out it was a matter of time before we became a thing; in between spending too much time together and her bashing some whack articles (may they rest in peace), we coupled up. Thinking of it, my heart has a fetish for empowered women with a dangerous edge. The kind that craves to be explored. Which isn’t a bad thing, mystery and danger births dope memories.
But! There’s always a but, isn’t there?
Whoever implanted the idea in my brain to have my editor as my girlfriend must be having mimosas in their grave. Their last hoorah! A parting shot fired straight towards me. I could wish them a peaceful rest but tit for tat has always been my cup of tea. Maybe my failed attempt of turning vegan has a role to play. Somewhere between the steamed spinach, roasted ribs, and a shot of tequila brought this whole mixup. And by the way, fam, if she asks; these are some of the unspoken thoughts in relationships. The ones lingering in the pits of darkness never to leave our mouths. But paper doesn’t count. Please! Don’t kill my vibe.
I have a hard time counting. Numbers go in through one ear and deposit themselves out the other. It’s the rambles in my mind which bounce through the walls whenever they enter. My editor is the opposite. All targets must be reached, all darlings must be killed. Personally, my words are my babies; my way of opening up. So limiting them seems to be in the same boat as killing babies. But if she asks; I never said that. Don’t kill my vibe.
My girlfriend has a tone she uses when she’s stern and unwavering. It especially comes out when I’m doing babyish things which I won’t mention because I’m a good boy 😉. When the piercing voice hits a certain note, msee the frying pan has heated and you are the egg. So that’s where we are now, 472 words to close this predicament. 116 slain words without a funeral and a happy editor as their prosecutor. Doubting Thomases’, by all means, count. But Please! Don’t kill my vibe. Math was like a hurricane that twirled past and left me senseless.
Fellas! Jamaas!! The moral of this story is; working with your girl on a project will definitely drive you nuts but it keeps you in check and on the right path. The real moral of this story is; try to do what your girl tells you. Your house is not your own anymore.