#yeah sample bias blah blah blah

[aropride]

*neurotypical meaning "typical neurological development or functioning". i.e. not neurodivergent, i.e. someone who doesn't have autism/ocd/schizophrenia/an intellectual disability/tourettes/a personality disorder/social anxiety/dyslexia/bipolar etc etc you get the picture i'm just listing off disorders atp. yes self dx'd or questioning/researching is fine i love you 👍

[libertineangel]

Not to keep going on but like really what are you meant to do when you've tried as best you can and just absolutely failed

Yeah I know "dating app users is a demographic subject to sampling bias" and all the other usual platitudes blah blah blah but really, who the fuck tries seven of them over fifteen months and doesn't meet a single fucking person, who sends easily a good thousand messages and receives dead fucking shit all back, what am I supposed to infer from that other than that I am remarkably unappealing

It's not like I didn't try and present myself well, I read guides and followed them as best I could, I explicitly asked for advice from the communities of several of the apps and got almost universally ignored there too, what little advice I received mostly amounted to "this is the wrong place for you, try this other app" in a loop wherein each one sent me to the other

Like what conclusion am I supposed to draw other than that nobody fucking wants me, how am I supposed to foresee any future other than one spent alone, this literally could not have gone any worse

[millenniallust4death]

I hate the snap back comment, “Where are your peer review studies for this?”, that I am starting to see in Facebook dog groups.

1. I have three degrees, including a MLIS degree (Master in Library and Information Science). I can find anything if I want to but I don’t feel compelled to personally educate you. Your snarky comment just alienated me.

2. Let’s talk about the problems inherent in peer review.

3. Let’s talk about how research funding determines what gets researched and published. Also, dark data matters.

4. Not everyone has access to the journal literature. No, just reading the abstract doesn’t count. 

[cooltyrantface]

Hit me below the belt

One of the rules of the Gentleman club is: Find you a girl that is a Times Roman in the streets and a verdana in the sheets.

That girl was (supposedly) Nelly (like the rapper). [there was quite some resemblance between her and Nelly the Rapper, otherwise my brain was playing tricks on me(again) on some cause-relate bias]

We met at Rotaract, but I initially saw her at AIESEC. It was her first time, and probably her last time. She told me: “I found it boring”, which personally was kind of ironic considering how actually boring I think Rotaract is, and as a former AIESECer, id say those were the good times. It was lit.

These things are relative, and had she stuck around the MSS, her experience might have been different. She was also the VP of Rotaract so brand loyalty? She had to root for her team and disparage the other (competing) team.

We saw each shortly after that during the Journey meeting. The one that had an African theme. The Thursday Jeremy had come around for a sleepover, and I had either deliberately or circumstancially (I don't know) showed up anyways in the Leopard print coat, the grey shirt and the SONY headphones.

It was chance. I was dressed up for the party. I was oozing in confidence and totally had a time of my life. I cheered, rather too loud for my norm. I sat on the writing board on those JKUAT seats with this girl, appraising the models, judging the performances, watching everything.

After the event, there was a small sort of after-party. There was a DJ turning tables, then the rest of us on the dance floor (the cleared center stage of CLB 00-something) were in two crews, facing each other like a dance-off, though it wasn't a competition. We were just having fun, from the hype guys on the front row showing the rest of us the dance styles to move to the songs. I was on the front row but more like a cheerleader.

We danced like crazy, and I especially, with my two left feet and sedentary lifestyle was making a fool of myself and sweating through every pore and every hole. Nobody seemed to care, especially me. I was watching her on the other side and she was sweating too. She was smiling too, with those demonic eyes that make me want to do some very bad things to her. (Cue in MGK and Camilla Cabello).

Since then I had seen her around, on various occasions, around my place in Gate A. She lived nearby. We passed each other on the streets, barely a word being said between us, only exchanging looks that hinted recognition. That went on for months, until a few weeks ago…

It was a Monday evening. I had been invited for the Rotaract meeting by Fatuma (more about her later) who was also an official at the club. I accepted the invitation.

I entered the room half an hour past seven; a little tardy by all standards; a little drunk after a drinking session with my bud Ron. I sauntered into the room like a Russian spy and sat quitly on the closest a available seat. I sat for close to an hour and a half, listening to this guy talk about his fashion business, then through a Q & A session (I asked him the current state of the fashion industry and how it can be improved, but my brain was too intoxicated to absorb anything close to unrehearsed mumble-jumble of a reply. He was a cool guy though, and his outfits were terrific!), then followed the procedures to the conclusion. I ended the matter in a style and a fashion, a little sobered up, contrary to my late entrance.

After the meeting was over, I tapped this girl on her shoulder and began making a conversation.

“Hi”

“Hi”

“ You had a question for the presenter of the day? I saw you raise your hand but he didn't pick you out. What was that question?” I went on.

She told me, though I can't quite remember. Something generic.

The idea was to take her hand and take her to the Fashion guy, and after she asked away, I'd add some some smart talk and impress her, then take her home. No. Take her number and ask her to come and see me sometime. My mind was on some other girl.

The Fashion Guy had disappeared.

“My name is KK, what's yours?”

“Christine”

“That's a beautiful name…

[“Thank you”].

[We exchanged contacts].

Let's get out of here. It's kind of noisy.”

“ I'm sorry. I have something I have to do before I leave.” She declined.

“Are you an official here? Like do you have club responsibilities?”

“ No, actually. I just help serve the coffee.”

“ I want some…” I blurted out.

She sold me coffee, then a few seconds later announced that it was on-house. The fuck! “You sold me free coffee!” I didn't really mind though, it was just ten-shillings for some shitty tasting coffee in a miniscule plastic cup. A coffee tot.

The girl that was on my mind had been at the center of the room posing for pictures all this while. Then next thing I knew, she was gone. It was time to go. I was outta there.

I got out of the room into the cold air of the night, stepped onto the veranda and circled around the staircase to the other side of the complex and then I saw her! I hopped. I flagged her and her friend.

“Hey. It's you that I wanted to talk to.”

She turned her head ever so gently and gave me the most lady-like smile I have ever received in my life.

She stopped walking and I stood in front of her, looking into her eyes. Then,

“This is going to sound like the corniest thing you have ever had, but you look very familiar. Have I seen you somewhere? I just want to get you out of my mind.”

That smile. That damn smile. We started walking again, talking. I told her my name. She asked, “KK stands for?”

“Kennedy Karanja,” I answered, putting the accent in the right place, like a true son of Mumbi.

“Shee.”

“Haha. Like S-H-E? She?”

“S-H-E-E!”

“yeah, right. Is that your real name or your stage name?” I teased.

“My name is Magdalene Wanjiku(no accent), but my friends call me Shee”

I asked her what she did for fun. Apparently, Netflix and Chill is the most fun she has for days, semester in, semester out. I had other ideas, so I put my arms around her to drive a point. Touching.

She backed away slightly, but then kept coming back. I told her I was a rapper. She was impressed. She asked for a sample, which I had to produce. We had to stand as I scrolled through my Twitter for my SoundCloud. Umm...tweets from last year...mostly rants. Tweets from some past I was depressed. Tweets from a remote history when I didn't have an idea what Twitter was for...then I found it! CABBAGES!

That was a banger. By Kenyan standards. If it was well mastered and mixed and promoted, by all standards.

That's how I got my number one fan. She complemented my voice and I saw in her eyes she was falling for me. She was tripping for me. She said she could sing too.

“Well then, try this:

1-2-5 tuko 4-2-0,

Juja-maica tuko maji tuko H-2-0.”

“125 tuko 5-2-oh!

Juja-maica tuko maji tuko H-2-O”

Impressive!

That's was just her first take. I imagine the future would lit for this gyal should she decide to pick music as a career. But she sings in the choir.

“I was choir-one in high school” she chimes in just as I am about to blah-blah-blah my complements.

We were so long lost in conversing that realizing we had finally reached Gate C came as a rude shocker.

“This is where we say goodbye. But before you go there is something I'd like to say”

I took a breath and gave the conversation a breather.

Then I said the most absurd words she has ever heard come out of a human mouth. I spoke like a dragon of a human,

“ I want to fuck you and make you my bitch.”

She stepped back in shock. I had lifted some rapper's lyrics and quoted them verbatim. I said those words so casually, in the midst of witnesses and eavesdropping passers-by. She retreated back to her shell; no longer smiling; no more of those eyes. Those damn eyes!

I was left to my own mental space, finally realizing the gravity of my stupidity yet ambivalently confident in my aggressive approach. Little did I know that this woman that I was prospecting to fuck and do bad things to was born-again. Jesus Christ, who is the freak now?

I had to hastily say my goodbyes and leave with my tail wagging between my legs, the defeated dog that I had turned into. Back into school, back to CLB - I had to claim my prize. My final option. It was her.

Remember how I implied that she was a Times News Roman in the streets but a Verdana in the sheets? I had to find out. I trekked at a marcher's pace and trotted at a runner's pace.

When I made my re-entry, I was lucky she was one of the few people that had been left, and had I been a few seconds later she would have vanished. I went straight to her and we hit it off.

“i wanted to nominate you for the Fashion adjudicator's award. You're minimalist, but you still look stylish. Real stylish.”

She looked down, half inspecting her outfit, half blushing at this stranger’s kind words, then rebuffed with a “ ah! I dont know.”