Miley Cyrus-What The Other Girls Won't Tell You

Here's what the other girls won't tell you, with their fitted frills and their batted eyes and their puckered little lips.



They won't tell you that it's almost never what it seems. Not with a dash of lies and a truckload of 'I don't know....all I'm saying is....I don't know." The truth is we know, better than anyone else that the reason you can't get us to commit to some prissy little flight of fancy is because frankly, you wouldn't be able to afford the plane tickets.



Let me put it more mildly, you're broke.





Not the good kind of broke were you've got your hands in your pocket because everything you touch turns into gold and you'd just like to lay low for a while, no. The kind of broke were your hands are flailing because you're drowning in a cesspool of your own worthlessness and can't seem to grab on to anything tangible. Anything tangible like say us-good women- so why should we stay, or even come into your secondhand arms in the first place? Bear with me I've only begun.





Exhibit A, Lola. Lola is a girl. A good girl. Lola just wants a good man with a good head on his shoulders. Lola finds said man and said man finds Lola quite attractive (but frankly, a bones a bone to a dog anyway, a man will almost always dig you if you dig him and generic affection is never a nice hole to be buried in). Said man marrys Lola and Lola begins the utterly romantic but downright stupid activity of 'starting with him from scratch.' Not knowing that love is not martyrdom, and love doesn't grow on trees and money doesn't either. So Lola quickly becomes despondent because both those trees are now withered away with no signs of life in the near future. Such a waste isn't it? Lola then realises that love doesn't cost a thing but the rent, kids tuition and extended family's upkeep certainly do. But girls aren't the only ones erring in this field, meet Charles!



Charles was the star football player in High School. Oddly enough, he was also quite intelligent, seemed to know what he wanted out of life. Unfortunately knowing what you want and knowing how to get it are two variant things. Charles finishes school. Charles goes to college, Charles then meets Charlene sitting on a tree, k-I-S-S-I-N-G ensues and then comes a baby, sleeping in a carriage. Like so many others, they skipped the marriage part. And now Charles is so bogged down by the pressure to be a father and or a husband he can't hold more than two jobs for fear of losing his woman or losing his kid. But hey, he still makes a very good striker down at the local community stadium where he plays ball with his friends on the weekends.



But still, is that what you really want? Blind trust, love, whatever, is that what you want her, me, to feel for you? Think about it. Shouldn't she see you for everything you are, all your potent and latent glory and decide that she trusts you to be captain enough to brave whatever storms may come in life? Because believe me there are storms, storms so strong that the strongest ships can't help but capsize, but no matter what, a great captain is invariably a great swimmer. Why would you want to be anything less? why would you want to be the first open door to a lost puppy? They're cute I know, they're adorable yes yes, but  you're a man. You don't do cute and adorable, you do strong and expedient.



What the other Charlenes and Lolas won't tell you is yes, they're not gold diggers. But there's not a woman-no not one!-that doesn't want to strike gold and to do that, recquires a certain amount of digging. She needs you to dig for greatness in yourself because not a tree, not a house and not a pipeline ever sprang up, without first breaking some ground.

 "Being a woman is a terribly          difficult task, since it consists principally in dealing with men. Joseph Conrad"

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ADELE: THE LONG DRIVE HOME

His memory came back to me like splinters, small, obscure and unnerving. Such that they sat wedged beneath my skin, intimate yet unreachable, unalterable in the same frustrating way as nightmares when-waking up and realizing it was just a dream- you mourn that you didn’t do better, react better.

 I wanted to call him, reach out to him in some off-handed way that didn't reek of desperation, but I knew he would see right through it like a paper thin veil. He knew me, and with that knowing was a lack of a place to hide.

I scrolled through my contact list nevertheless. There were acquaintances and colleagues and family and just a handful of friends, because anyone who really mattered had their number memorized, which was ironic because there his name was sitting between my travel agent and my accountant, there he was unofficiously, yet he mattered still, and mattered a lot.

I won't have you calling me that. He said one spring morning as a regally restrained ray of sunlight cut across the sky.I find it pretentious, and frankly, not quite you.

I see, and you've suddenly become the expert on just who exactly I am? I said teasingly, hands propped on shoulders, smile on my face, an expectation of joy, because joy was all that ever became of our pseudo-philosophical arguments.

I'd like to think so. He responded matter of factly. Let’s say if you ever for some reason stared into a mirror that's been cracked and-having a million different reflections- wondered which was truly yours. I'd be  able to tell you.

Quite hauteur isn't it? To insist that looking through your eyes and not mine is the only way in which I'd see the true image of myself? My hands were in his now, fitting perfectly, being.

He looked at our hands together, seemed to reach my conclusion about them, smiled and said. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder not the beheld, then who you are is who you are perceived to be, and who better to perceive you than I? I who have loved you, sensed you, breathed you.

Now you just sound like a serial killer. I said pulling my hand playfully and abruptly from his.

Do you love me? He asked, sincerely.

I guffawed. Wow, all this just because I called you munchkin?

He got on his arms now, so that we were facing each other, head to head, chin to chin. If you trust me enough to love me, then you must know that I see you, the you that is you that is you. He said and squeezed my nose.

That's how he was; able to vacillate from graveness to levity in the blink of an eye. I loved him for this. It made our dark moments easier to bear. And now here I was, pining over him, the butt of the joke, the punch line.

What if he didn't think of me as often, or at all? What if, in my wistfulness I had painted a picture of him that was just as invested and intrigued by the relationship as I was? What if he had forgotten, was I to take so bold a step? Why did I have to be the one to feel regret so strongly? He always used to say that mutual feelings bred mutual actions. So that if one leaned in for a kiss, the other leaned in as well. Where was his leaning now? Surely he still had my number. I'd kept it and guarded it for just that reason. Made myself very accessible so that on the day he decided to turn around, he would find the road back to me quite encouraging, road map, arrows and all.

I felt alone in my longing, and with that lonesomeness came a sense of betrayal. How could he move on so suddenly? Move to another state, get with another woman, co-habit with her? It seemed chimerical to believe anything else of him. To believe he was waiting.

I tossed the phone aside then and decided I wouldn't give in, not if it killed me, which was likely. I would die with my pride firmly grasped in my hands. The woman is to be pursued and not be the pursuer after all.  My independence was relevant only as far as it was mine and not subservient to unrequited feelings.

My phone that usually buzzed incessantly didn't ring for the entirety of that night. As if the universe had decided to call my bluff.

You will do no such thing my mother stated the following morning when I told her I was driving down to Charlottesville to see him. At the very least take a flight, buy two tickets now! One to and another fro, she said when she saw I was unrelenting. Don't stay too long, really you deserve better.

Thing is I didn't want better, I wanted him. So I called to give him a heads up.

His voice was groggy; it seemed I had woken him up. I should’ve considered the time difference. Nevertheless I could hear him sit up in bed when he heard my voice.

Oh my god, it's so good to hear your voice. It's been so long, are you in town? He said, a little enthusiastically, perhaps even hopeful.

No, but I will be. I paused, swallowed hard. I'm coming, I'm coming for you.

There was a long silence, as though he was taken aback. The silence lasted long enough to make me nervous. Hello, are you there?

Yeah, sorry, I was just trying to make sure this wasn't a dream. I've had many like it. When are you coming?

Now.

Okay. He said and I could feel him clutch the phone, reaching for me. Adele?

Yeah?

I never stopped loving you.

And that was all I needed to hear, to make the long drive home.

 “For the two of us, home isn't a place. It is a person. And we are finally home.” 

― Stephanie Perkins

 “Men go to far greater lengths to avoid what they fear than to obtain what they desire.” 

― Dan Brown

Ronaldo v Messi: Dawn of Justice

In my world, there are only three things that matter, the ball, the pitch and the game, nothing more, nothing less. My name is Jermaine Justice, and this is the story of how I became the greatest footballer of all time.

It all began in 2012, Cristiano Ronaldo was at his peak, and it seemed there was no stopping Lionel Messi. They were the gods of the game, but the heavens could only harbor one ruler at a time. Needless to say the ocean had room for only one titanic, constantly at cross hares, one always trying to outdo the other, but little did the world know that these two forces of nature shared a strange relationship. A relationship that thrived outside the stadium, behind closed doors. 

They were friends.

The truth is they had always been friends, but the powers that be paid them to keep up appearances, encouraging a celebrity feud that gave fans of both their clubs something to bicker about. Off pitch they shared dating tips and talked about gardening. Messi was always having trouble pruning and Ronaldo just couldn't get the ladies to stop calling. But lately, the two had found something heavier to talk about. A dark cloud had cast its shadow upon football, and they found themselves in a precarious situation.

It's not like it used to be. Messi confessed. The spark man, it's gone. Everything's so predictable now. The league starts and you kind of already know the teams in regulation and the teams vying for the cup. There are no underdogs, no black horses, just winners and losers. It's no longer a game man, it's a corporation.

Ronaldo who was always the quieter of the two, just nodded his head as if to say, I feel you bro.

We've got to do something man. I mean me and you, we can hold our own, and we can thrill the crowd. But in the next 10 years, we'll be gone, and then what? This game is bigger than just the two of us man, we've got to leave the fans with something more than a memory.

What do you suggest? Ronaldo asked.

Messi thought about it, long and hard. Let’s find a protegè. Someone we can train, mold into a paragon, a model of the perfect footballer, to inspire the next generation.

Let us make man in our own image. Ronaldo mused and the both of them shared a hearty laugh.

Their joy didn't last too long as they would soon find that their task was easier said than done.Everywhere they looked, they found either talent without skill or skill without talent. Ronaldo favoured the latter whilst Messi preferred the former, but they could never agree. Only the perfect blend would do.

That's where I came in, they found me in some little corner somewhere, playing street football. They were impressed and theytook me in.

For 12 months they trained me secretly, dragging me through the dessert heat and the forest rain, trying to force me to shed off all my excesses. They worked me so hard I couldn't feel my legs and arms anymore. It was like I ran on air. Fatigue became a stranger. They pushed and they pushed till I could hold nothing back, I became the perfect hybrid, the ultimate player, in theory of course.

But it wasn't enough. Ronaldo needed to know that I could maintain the skill, that I could carry on without them. So they weaned me off all support and put me back on the streets where they found me, to fend for myself. 

I'll tell you up front. It was horrible! Every one and every game was just too slow for me, the kids I used to look up to suddenly became pushovers, nobody played with the intensity I needed. But I was determined to stay focused; I wasn't going to let their drizzle dampen my storm. I played ferociously, like a wounded beast on the pitch; the ball was mine and no one elses.

By the time they came back for me, I was better than ever or at least by my own estimates. They had one final test for me. It was Messi’s idea.

The test was to play a one on one game of two halves, the first half with Messi, the latter with Ronaldo. I protested of course, it just wasn't fair. I'd be comparatively fatigued if I was playing with a fresh of the bench opponent the second half. I threw their challenge back in their face. I said I would take them both on, in 10 minutes with a Golden goal in effect.

They did not restrain themselves, nor did they relent. They came at me with all their firepower. Messi dazzled me with his legs. They went left and right, and left and right, then right again, but he just couldn't clear me. He passed to Ronaldo and who tried to use his stature to prevail against me physically, but I held my ground, even if I was to lose, I would not make it easy for them.

The ball was at the feet of Messi again. He accelerated. Not ran, accelerated, it was like he had 10 gears and all the horsepower in the world, but I knew something most didn't. One light little touch and he would go tumbling to the ground. I did it, he was flat on his butt. Then all I had to do was get past the imposing figure of Ronaldo.

He marked me, and it seemed no matter what I did, he wouldn't budge. I spun left, and right, and flicked the ball. But I just couldn't shake him. Messi was back on his feet and sprinting towards us. My window of opportunity was slipping away. I had only one option. I took a deep breath and charged forward. My plan had a two to one chance of success. It was either our impact would floor him, or floor me, or floor us both. I was just inches away from him. I could see his broad chest heaving in anticipation of defense, but I never got to find out what would happen if I struck Goliath. Right there, at the very last split second, I decided against my plan and did a 180 degree spin with the ball. I stood back to back with Ronaldo facing the post. I struckt he ball and it began to roll rapidly to the goal line. 

That was when I felt it.

A strong wind blew past me. It was Messi, no longer sprinting but on full speed, he was going to intercept my goal kick. I began to wish I had struck the ball even harder. I'd never seen a human being move so fast. It was as though the clothes he wore would tear off his skin!

He kicked the ball away....

.... a second too late. It had already passed the goal line. I had won! I had beaten the two great gods of football. The both of them ran and embraced me, as though we were all on the same team and shared the goal. They bore me up on their shoulders, and the champions proclaimed me to be a champion.

"True leaders don't invest in buildings. Jesus never built a building. They invest in people. Why? Because success without a successor is failure."Myles Munroe.