I love reading The Herald – I maintain a portal that has to stay up-to-date with latest news, so when they update their website, I have to read it.

Today, I actually bought the print version (for the classifieds; long story). And in the spirit of sharing, thought I’d highlight a couple of interesting things.

EIGHT women believed to be cross-border traders were last Thursday night robbed and stripped naked in Marondera by four suspected men who had offered them a lift from Forbes Border Post in Mutare.

Did you notice that? Four suspected men. Not four male suspects. Or even just four men. Four suspected men. Now, if we’re suspecting these criminals of being men, they must have had serious wardrobe issues. Or they could have been disguised as buxom mielie ladies, a la Leon Schuster. I now have this vision of cross-dressing hardcases terrorising the poor folks of Marondera. English lessons, Herald. English.

It just felt so good to see Coventry and her teammates Hill, Brand and Felgate getting on the floor, dancing to Tuku and Mukanya’s music.

So not only was this guy so very chuffed at being in Beijing (with the First Lady, apparently); the sight of white people dancing to Oliver and Thomas, well … you’d think he could have dedicated some of this breathless coverage to the entire Games, not just the final gig. Eh? oh.

O Zimpapers. You entertain me, you do.

Life is a sine wave. There are dips and troughs, with varying amplitude and frequency, but the graph is essentially the same. Up and down.

No matter how happy I am, I always get a nagging feeling; the stuff of nightmares really, that little itch – the light rat-like scratching in the dead of night which invariably turns out to be a monster intent on consuming you whole, balls an’ all.

When things are going right, and all is sunshine and fucking peaches, I always worry and wonder when it’s going to come crashing down in a heap of wasted plans and broken promises.

And then it comes – a stroke of luck so bad, so malicious as to look pre-planned, like some entity has been watching and waiting for the right moment to stick a pin in my doll. And I know, right then, that it begins. The time of plenty is over.

Then I look around at what I’ve broken, or whom I’ve lost, and I brace myself, because I realise the time has come. With every great disappointment comes another, and the one thing I can count on is that the dam has, once again, broken.

And whether it’s of my own doing or not, I can’t help feeling that great pain, like great happiness, is an unavoidable bottle-store pit-stop on this great dust-swirling piece-of-shit pothole-covered suspension-breaking tyre-swallowing road called life.

So now I know I’m fucked. And the hits just keep on coming.

So it looks like there is *no easy way* to actually delete a Facebook account. From my Googling, I’ve found that the only way to do this is to communicate with them, whilst simultaneously deleting every single item of personal info from your account.

While I could rail on about how shitty this is, and how these buggers aren’t so concerned about privacy etc etc, I’ve decided to just keep it simple, and not fight it. But I’ll do it my way.

I’ve changed my name, I’ve deleted all my pictures, and I’m not taking friend requests.

Besides, it’s the only way my baby sis talks to me.