Last post of the year. I would first like to apologise for the lack of comedy in this one. It’s just random thinking while I sniff coke off a dead hooker’s tits. Hey, what do you know, some humour already!

What is Christmas? Is it really just a day where we mutter two words to each other, and then return to our daily morbid existence whilst slaving away in the kitchen in mindless celebration for an event we’re betwixt and between of? Was Jesus even born on this day?

Or is it about family and love? Perhaps “slaving away in the kitchen” is the excuse we need to cherish homely company without the distractions of our phones. One thing’s for certain: I’m keeping my Samsung Galaxy 8 under a poster of Batista, Chris Patt and the rest of the spaceship crew for protection. Thankfully, they are guardians of the galaxy. Ha!

My heart is open to the ones I love. Maybe we should all do so, and in that, we might understand the true meaning or Christmas. Merry Christmas!

Now, I’m no feminist, but I do hope for equality (I mean, my right breast’s slightly bigger than my left, for some reason). Not a fan of women propagating misandry under the guise of equal rights.

With that said, fellas, what the fuck? Consent sounds like a pretty simple concept, but the number of times I’ve been abused makes me think it could be some algebraic mystery formula.

∈x = N² / no means no.

This isn’t some an attention seeking post, despite how much I absolutely love attention (is why I only date Generals (… see what I did there, oh, nvm)), but merely a suggestion. No means no! (or number, but that’s not the point)

When a lady tells you she doesn’t want to sleep with you… well, you know what that means. Repeating this message has been every feminist’s wet dream that I’ve found annoying, but from experience, it’s been quite necessary. Control your horniness!

That’s about it, really. I think I’ve said it all. Understand consent or you’ll end up in prison spraying con scent. Lol. Oh, fuck off, that was comedy gold.

As for the men I promised to expose, guess what – I’ve got hella proof to back my allegations the fuck up. Information is ready. Ask and you shall receive.

Sallah is around the corner…

I just wish he’d run up and score this goal for Liverpool!

Ha! Just thought I’d start this off with a joke to remind you all of the holidays next week. I have a question, though. Why do we only celebrate our Muslim brothers and sisters when there’s ram involved? Become rather cliché at this point.

“Ahmed, baba! Just checking up oo. Happy Salah!……… How far this ram meat tho?”

Have we bothered to inquire what the holiday is really about? Do we know the significance of Salah? You all disgust me. Anyways, neither do I, I’m just talking shit.

I don’t even know what Christian holidays are about. I just know Christmas day is the day I complain of backpain so they don’t banish me to the kitchen.

Aha! Pussyfooting around this post has finally landed me a morale. We’re breeding a generation that thinks twice about traditional values and gender roles. While questioning is healthy, I don’t think we should unsubscribe to the stuff our parents instilled in us. Like bonding. Family dinners. And responsibility.

Responsibility… to send me ram meat.

Happy Salah.

Love, Praise.

            Boys make great pets. It’s Sunday, June 23^rd, I’m playing with my hairy dog (totally not an innuendo), and there is an astute observation. Obedience. The more trained your dark, sleek and beautiful animal is (no innuendo, again), the less likely you’ll catch him texting some whore with bigger boobs.

            I’m young and single, so I go out on a lot of dates. I even opened a Tinder account to see the level of boys today’s world has to offer, and, well… two “Send me nudes”s and one “Hookup?” later, I closed the page. Screw Tinder. “Matches” are made in heaven anyway.

            I have learned something in my journey through the hieroglyphic threads of the dating world: boys like shiny things. And, like pets, they’d do anything to grasp it. Sure, dress flashy and wet their appetite, but right after the big, shiny bone has been licked and stuff (okay, that one was an innuendo), they’d be off to find their next fix.

            What’s the morale of this post other than I’m shit at metaphors? Everyone needs training. With a little more training, Manchester United would’ve won the league and not Kompany in City. With a little more training, your man would yearn for your company when he’s in your city. I miss the Premier League.

Hi. My name is Praise. For reasons you’ll find out soon enough, I won’t be giving out my last name. Just Praise should do. Or “that beautiful Instagram model”. Too much? Fine. Whatever. Just Praise then.

Why have I summoned you all on my blog? (Smooth, I always wanted to use that line!) There’s been an ongoing theory about daughters of overprotective parents; military, evangelists, etcetera. Bit of an irony really – the stricter the guardian, the wilder the offspring. So, say your dad is fucking Thanos, you’d end up Tonto Dikeh pre and post marriage. Genius reference, Praise, well done. Well, my dad owns a church. But hang on, it gets worse… we live inside it. Do the math. Now I’m not saying I’m Tonto Dikeh batshit crazy yet (oh fuck no), but have a look at my IG @Praizzy_.

This blog will be my very own explicit diary. You can say I speak for every overprotected daughter out there… you know, like that cringe scene in Endgame where all the women stand together to beat Thanos? What even was that ? Stay tuned. This will either be the start to something incredible or a terrible mistake when my parents find out lol.