shit keeps changing. and staying the same.

Enzymes make shit happen when they bind to their substrate molecules. That’s what makes life as we know it possible. Our professor told us that the paradigm for enzyme-substrate binding has in recent years been shifting back to the lock and key model. This came as quite a shock for a couple of reasons. First, the induced fit model had held sway for a long time, seemed more reasonable, and it was what I’d taught hundreds of impressionable Etyopian kids. And second, induced fit had served me well for so long as a metaphor for the kind of complementarity I aspire to in a relationship -life partners changing each other for a better fit.

Frigging science has now ruined my metaphor by implying that complementarity is kind of perfect from the outset. I may have to fall back on good old ተረትና ምሳሌ -ቶፋ ግጣሙን አያጣም:: As could be sensed from the ተረትና ምሳሌ there probably is no need for active participation on the ቶፋ’s part. It wouldn’t be going around looking for no ግጣም:: It would just be chilling, and someone or something somehow would put the ግጣም on it. And that, sounds to me, like a sound plan for finding love in this cold cold world (in the meantime, we keep breaking records for the hottest year on record): just laying in the cut, አርፎ ትምህርት መማር, until, one day, ዘሪቱ አንድ ጊዜ እንዳለችው “…ቁጭ ባልኩበት ፍቅር መጥቶ ኳ!…“ እስኪያደርገኝ ድረስ::

እስከዚያው ግን I got Paris over my bench:


እና አሪፍ ዘፈኖች:



So, whom/what do you turn to?

While we are on the topic of unrequited love…


Meet my bed. Check out my throw pillows; there’s tens of ways of arranging them! That’s where I lay my weary head down every night.

“ፊትን ወደነገ አዙሮ መተኛት”: ነብይ መኮንን is a favorite expression even though I have not been  practicing it. There was the rosary on the vacant pillow (or clutched in hand. i know, i know. i am supposed to pray with it, not sleep with it) phase which I still go back to, every now and then, especially on those days when it feels like the monsters are gaining on me. Recent times have seen my mobile phone occupying the same spot where the rosary used to sit, lulling me to sleep with Sheger FM.

It is not that I am having trouble sleeping. It is rather a case of going to bed being the most exciting part of the day—for better or for worse—and trying to set it off the right way.

What’s all this got to do with unrequited love?

Well, in all honesty, probably nothing. I mean, I got so much love to give and shit (my love be just sitting there, waiting, like a winter’s growth of grass on the playground of our primary school, ምሥራቅ ድል, ጨረታ ያሸነፈ ሰው መጥቶ እስኪያነሳው. ኖ ጨረታ ፎር ማይ ላቭ, ቤይbae) but there are currently no vultures lurking around in my life, at least none that I know of 🙂 But it must be nice to have someone to turn to at night, someone who would be a personification of my late night traditions, all rolled into one. For whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen. I ain’t seen her, Lord! (A very polite exclamation mark.) If I had, she would be my way of loving you. Forget the radio, the sound of her breathing would be all the information I need, proof that the world is functioning just fine. And the few pages I used to read before bed, before it got too cold to stay exposed for even a minute, she would be my lifetime of reading.

ህመሟን የማውቅላት;  of whom the best I would bring out, only to the best I would compare… (ዘፋኞቹ የግዳቸውን የሚዘፍኑ ይመስላሉ)

Someone whom I would make cherish her day

A lot of “would”s

We be so tight with Kd in the nanomolar range that nothing or no one could come in between us except maybe some room for her vibrator. I have come to find out from my extensive reading 🙂 of The Guardian that women don’t mean their vibrators to replace their men but to augment them, like augmentin. Cool.

This also from the Guardian; even after somebody had commented on the mistake, the “Aramaic” was still there last time I checked.


Back to the topic at hand. The world is crazy. Something wrong with the human race. A whole lot of people running towards love. A whole lot of others running away.

Fuck it, I’m out.


I had missed out on these cats all this time

a post for sist

Watch this space.

The Journal of Infatuations and What Not (2012)


Esua sist alechiw simuan asanisa

She is so heavy


To want. To need. Adam needed a help meet for him and Eve came into being, leaving posterity to wonder how a single rib got to grow this heavy. Almost brings to mind Gebremedhin’s line wa leAdam ena Hewan kejemeruma ayCherisum!

Fret not, for this is going to be short.


One Adam is finding it hard to live up to the task preordained thousands of years ago. He does not insist on leaving behind a copy (copies.) But he has raised his soldiers to be independent thinkers.


A rare specimen Sistus exoticus, sist for short, has made a recent appearance in his fucked up world and he surmises that he is smitten. Soft, oh mysterious smiter! You’re knocking me off by degrees!


To see this shit through to the sweet end. Explore the possibility of publishing an article on the much more prestigious Journal of Make it Last Forever.


This blog is fraught with reports of past endeavours, however pathetic.


Um, get carnal with her of course. Take her pH measurements repeatedly. The standard guidelines on how to write a proposal demand that one shows the pH meter that he would be using* ph metre

With so much drama in the LBC With so much distance in between the two, it’s kinda hard to do anything else at the moment except have some mind sex:


The uncensored version is so much better.

But one promises, should by any chance that distance turns to naught, the first thing one is going to do upon clapping eyes on her is smother her with kisses, all the while taking care to blow on her because she would be so hot! He is positive –he has seen her avatar. And besides, Dokile voice, sayayu yamenu bitsuan nachew sibal alsemashim?

 Where are his manners?! First the date. Here is where the first one took place. I bet she never had someone give her the whole field:





She has gone through enough of his writings to be in the know. He has got foolish proclivities and is lacking in experience when it comes to the workings of the fairer sex. Just look at him, referring to them as the fairer sex!


Gratitude is due to the good folks at WordPress. And time. And space.


GeTere! I don’t trust that dude. He was the one who started this getting naked business in the first place. She has already tried to tell him that… but…**


The getting carnal and blowing on her lines are courtesy of Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer; it is a premium book.

           * and ** are the points where one blows it.



         Conceived – some time back. Published –15 December 2012.


re: me

Something in the way she moves …

Here be (a lot of) metaphors!

Eyes. Eyes wondering why their counterparts would not play with them, which playmate they are looking for. They are standing at the Bajaj Stop. He is looking at her, she is looking away There are times when he is as free as you like around her. But it is moments like this that take the wind out of his sails; leave him with skid marks of words in the middle of his tongue. Sometimes he does not know how to talk to her, what to talk to her about. But heaven knows he has got a thing or nine to tell her.

Having discovered that he was a player (Amharic translation —techawach) and having been pleasantly surprised, she had once commented: “I did not know you could talk so! mindinew endih af yeleqeqebih?!” He blames it on the bump that he had received in the car when he traveled home for the holidays. “It might go anytime!’’ he warns her. The tenuous chit-chat network that the purported bump had helped establish inside his head might come undun the same way it came into existence in the first place –without notice. He might run into her tomorrow and might not even say hi, thereby dispelling any illusion that she (or anyone else) may be harboring about him being gregarious. Things would return to normal. He would return back to his shell. His shell, he has not thrown it away. He has kept it safe in bubble wrap, for possible future use.

These are after all the eyes that, in their haughty way, had made him feel like he was seen, for the first time since the one who knows. Hers are the same eyes that had made him think that maybe, just maybe, he is not a defective (Does anyone remember the sitcom “What a Country?” There was this scene where the Russian guy talks about how, back home, they accused him of being “a defective”, to mean defector. Get it? No? Well, I am about to slam this frigging bracket in your frigging faces) Chances are she is treating him the way she treats every other male member of the species. I mean, look at him, looking daggers at every other guy that she may be sharing a laugh with like “This must be the owner of them preferred eyes. This definitely is her boo!” What he considers mixed signals are probably her normal innocuous mode of communication.

It turns out that our hero–that is to mean wimp–has lost but one of his shells. His fear of dealing with his feelings and reporting them to the concerned authorities in a timely manner still reigns supreme. Oh, his feelings! Let’s talk about them, shall we? Okay, he has been confused about what label to put on said feelings. In the absence of immunoassays and such, physical signs are all we have got to go by: he is happy when he sees her; he feels like shit when he doesn’t; she is the biggest promise that tomorrow holds. In many circles these are regarded as sure signs of having come down with love. Prognosis: not good if you suffer from it alone.

A growing body of evidence suggesting that she is suffering another fool but this fool’s fixation grows. Mounting is the burden of proof that he is carrying for his silly hypothesis that she might be the one. He dreams of sharing with her what Narcissus and the pond had (with a happy ending though.) Her eyes may not currently be projecting the best of his images; but he hopes for a turnaround; he hopes she might come around. It is safe to say that he has imprinted on her like a duck. He thinks she is his momma. She becomes the object of his affection. He keeps looking at her. She sees right pas…

God bless her!  She takes away the pain. And then she becomes the pain.

While they are standing there, he gets to thinking (compressed thoughts, because the moment in question lasted for about 5 seconds) whether she is looking for a/the person or forward to being at a place.

The person: judging by the people he has seen her with, she probably has the tendency to go for the well-proportioned ones; ones that would in all likelihood raise hell should anyone dare eyeball her. He on the other hand, the last time he got punched in the face he went (massaging his wounds) and got his brother. When, at a much earlier time, his other brother and co. would get embroiled in scheduled group fights after class, he tried to look at the situation objectively (war, what is it good for, right?), from the safety of his home, near his real mommy. He would obligingly make her laugh any time of day. But count him out of altercations. He can’t be her “bird libs chemaqi”. He knows his limits. He never went beyond white belt –white blood cells is the only way he knows how to defend himself.

Now, it has been said that women dig ambitious men. Well let her dig this; this is how he lives his life. He is not one to take life, the bull, by the horn and shit. Rather, he’s one of those people who meekly ride on life, the ship; no captain of his ship, master of his destiny here. Meekly, that’s what it seems like to onlookers. At another time she had asked: “Do you even know what the meaning of ‘to worry’ is?” or something to that effect. From afar a ship’s movement might seem effortless, but one needs to have a closer look in order to understand all the work put into giving the ship that calm visage (shoutouts to Tolstoy.) Of course he worries his ass off! He, in his silent way, invites her to get closer and have a look. She does not understand silent.

In the course of this writing, he has been presented as a ship, a duck, a traveler on a ship, and then again, a ship. But it goes further. Let us go right ahead and use another figure of speech: still waters run deep; now he is water.

But it seems that she is into rapids.

The place: she is a woman: it is time for her to be places and then some. He fears that it may require an ultracentrifuge making him settle. Whatever it is that may be going on inside her head, and however little he may understand of it, he has to fight himself from getting all cocky and blurting out: “t is what makes here, there!” getting his EPRDF on like “the future is bright with t!”

He keeps on bullshiting and equivocating until one day, he sees her with a ring on her finger. He listens with feigned nonchalance and occasionally chimes in as she talks about her plans for the engagement. She asks him when he is planning to get married. He replies, when someone who reads eyes comes along. Mute freak!

Fuck it! The title of the post is “about me” so, no more he

I am still under her spell. Some might call it coveting thy neighbor’s wife; I choose to call it unconditional love.


My self-esteem gauge points so low, one would be an exaggeration.


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