The Hitchhiker's Guide to Absolute Zero

Tech, Music, Girls, Style

Break Up..

Sitting here at 11: 39pm. Wondering what to do with my life. In my mind’s eye, I’m Don Draper. I’m daydreaming. Of a never empty shot glass. I keep gulping endless rounds of tequila to drown the pain but my sorrows are expert swimmers. You see I’ve just broken up with Le Boo. Just been dumped to put it more correctly. Infact to be even more accurate, I’d been dumped a few weeks back. The postman was just slow with the memo. I know the usual things guys are supposed to say. ‘Ok, her loss’,’More fish in the river’, etc. but all that seems stupid when you really thought she was the one. You know that feeling you get when you’ve really connected with a girl. You feel like you know each other inside and out. You’ve been through all the phases. From the ‘Can’t keep your hands off each other’ frisky phase to the ‘Babes pass me the toilet paper’ comfort phase. We were each others’ best friends. The silly cutesy nicknames(kitten, booskums, babykins, pumpkin). Most painful thing is that She was a good cook. I’m sure niggas out there know what it’s like being fed carton after carton of indomie by Uniben winshes. My sweetie (Well ex now) would make me good rice with chicken stew. I’d be licking my fingers for hours and when I was feeling really bad, there was Fried plantain and egg to cheer me up. You have not lived until you have eaten my boo’s fried plantain and egg. All that is gone. She was so cuddly. Soft, curvy with things everywhere. It’s going to be difficult to fall asleep now. You get used to things like that. Someone to annoy you. Someone to diss your dress sense. Someone to not buy all the ‘I’m a badoo’ bullshit you give everyone else. Someone to be proud of(She passed her ICAN and some other hard certification course whose name escapes me at the moment). Someone to make fun of ‘Shop not shob,bae’. Though I think you do it just to be cute. Someone to argue with. I’m sitting with my phone trying to get an understanding of the words ‘Irreconcilable Differences’. My chest feels strangely empty. It beats but it feels wrong. Hollow. Out of Sync. Wish I could be like Skales and vent my anger by posting nudes but I don’t have any and I don’t believe it’s the right thing to do anyway. How does such a big part of your life just get up and leave?

Relationship Status - Single
Follow to buy me a drink @sir_castiq

The Fire

the drums, the kick. the beat in your ears. blood rushing. drinks, laughter , not happiness but close. high. eyes red, rolling. dancing. twirling. we are a circle. around the flame that is youth. we keep focused on the flame. it’s flickering. our spirits rise with it. ever buoyant. slapping backs. drinking straight from the bottle. kissing girls. doing drugs. not to lose ourselves. to stay focused. we’d do anything not to turn back. behind us is the night. the cold, the winter. wolves baying for blood. their shrieks raise the hairs on our necks. the bold ones risk a backwards half-glance. the sight is horrible. yellow teeth rending soft flesh. the haunting gaze in the eyes of the fallen. they beg for help. you can do nothing. only draw closer to the fire. their eyes as old as mountains. their breath make you retch. your gaze is drawn to their eyes. they hold you. twin pinpoints of light. this is not the light of hope. this is not the light at the end of the tunnel. this is the light of pain. of fear, of hopelessness. you try to turn away but you can’t. you’re stuck. gazing into those pits. you feel your doom coming. then you hear it. far away. the sound of laughter. you feel something faintly. a hand on your arm. it is enough to bring you back. to break the stare. breathing in quick nervous gulps. you take a drink and draw closer. party harder. the fear ever behind you. you cannot turn back. you do not turn back. you party on.


If I could paint my heart in the colors of the rainbow

RED would be for you and all the things you do
ORANGE would be for all the warmth you bring to my life
YELLOW would be for all the fun and color you you add to me.
without you, what a dry guy I’d be;
GREEN would be for all the growth you create in me.
trying to make myself into the kind of guy who deserves
you changes me.
BLUE would be for how cool you make me.
Each encounter increases my self esteem, and teaches me
what being cool really means.
INDIGO would be for your intrigue.
your games and the way you play hard to get entertain me;
VIOLET would be for royalty.
thanks for all the ways you make me feel like a king.

-For Samantha

Life of A Star

I love the fast lane, my momma used to say I had Neon disease
'cause when the lights came on at night, how the hell could
I stay asleep? Don’t blame me, I gotta get on stage, the
bright lights make me come alive. Without that how else would
I thrive? After the show’s over I’m on to hotels, clubs,
casinos. Places I gotta be. Can’t keep still, the fun keeps
calling me, and I guess I’m available, afterall what the hell
else do I live for. The glory, the fame, millions of adoring
fans. The drinks: brandy, whisky, champagne all serve to dull
the pain of emptiness, till my next 15 minutes of fame.

The girls: models, actresses, billionaire heiresses.
They keep changing day by day. I can’t even remember names,
doesn’t matter, they only drive the lonliness away,
till the next gig, the next act, the next performance.
Me getting fawned over by adoring fans, girls fainting,
other artistes hating. The after-party at my crib
,groupies all around, we are all high, minds unsound. Drunken
orgies all around, the scent of flesh and blood, hopes and dreams
this is reality, makes u wonder what it all really means.

The money, cash in all currencies, pounds, greenbacks, pokerchips,
raking it in so fast it makes my head spin, or does it? Is it the
money that makes me high? Makes me like Icarus, mock the people,
call them haters when they say a man can’t fly? Well you just
watch and wait I’mma bring you a piece of the sky. It’s useless
doubting don’t you know? I’m a god. Call me Immortal. Kinda like
Zeus, shooting freaking lightning bolts outta the palms of
my hands and you know what’s best? Yep, you guessed it
I’ll never die.

I’m spending cash on parties, first on the ground at the best
hotels and clubs, NYC, Paris, St. Tropez, playing bed games
with the social elite, I got princesses, queens and all kinds
of royal floozies at my feet. Then it aint enough we gotta
get outta here. The pesky paparazzi can’t follow us if we go up
in the air. Lear, Concorde and tricked out Gulfstream jet planes, if
you aint gotta a yatch, or vacation on a tropical island please
leave. I cant stand to see poor folks like you. Yeah I love you,
but darling me and you are through.

Now I got a new breed of paparazzi, even up here. cnn, bbc,
abc I make the headlines everywhere. I got to sea yet they
keep following me. Can’t you bitches understand? I need my
space. I’ll do you one better, I’m taking this here party,
out to space. Like Captain Kirk, this is my enterprise
spreading the gospel of fun and living large over time and
space. No one like me I rule this place.

You wanna join in, it aint easy ‘cause it takes a whole lot
of potential my friend, if you want to blend, you’ve got to
never want the party to end. Back to earth, The fans calling,
gotta give them a show. Go on tour, get ‘em crawling, begging
for more. Afterwards its autograph time, only the best tits
get my signature on them. They gotta be prime boobies, for
this fella to suck on ‘em. Sell a billon copies, gone plat’num
again, back on my adoring groupies pouring cash like rain.

We vampires now. Reversing the day. Been centuries since I seen
the sun rise. A living legend, so high on coke, I’m seeing
fireflies. In my dreams they calling me to the afterlife, a
life of rest free from strife but my alarm goes off. 10 o’clock
that’s primetime. Walking on red carpets so much they mistake
me for aladin. Where’s my genie, bring him down here to see me.
I’d ask for a wish, but I’ve got the whole world at my feet.
Aww schucks guess I’ll just ask for a new set of teeth.
Keep on searching, R&D for more ways to have fun I get bored
quick. Never satisfied, never filled. Meeting people like me
as time goes on. More money, more clothes and clothless fun.

All of a sudden I can’t keep up. Time’s running out. Liver
disease, bronchitis, Lung cancer trying to slow me down. Suddenly
I aint seen about town. NEXT thing I’m writing wills, seeing kids,
they grown up now, my life fucked up. A failed experiment I
realise as time shortens up. But I’m not sorry, Infact I’m happy
I lived this way. I’m done here. I had my fun on this earth,
Its time to move on to the big playground in the Sky. Nirvana,
where gods like me never die.


Sitting in a parked car, the mottled light through
the rain drenched windshield casts shadows, on your
skin. Watching the magical dance of the fireflies
as I explore the intricate delights of your company.
The drive home is slow and languid, as if not wanting
to disrupt the stream of consciousness of this most
realistic of dreams come true. The moon shines like
a silver coin harking at my thoughts like forbidden
treasure promised by evil sorceresses seeking to draw
me to the depths of the sea. Yet I can’t seem to take
my eyes of you,they seem fixed even as I try the
third time to fix the key in the keyhole of my room
door. Damn NEPA there is no light but candles can do
even better to enhance the mood. The feel of your skin,
velvety smooth beneath my searching fingers. I see
goose bumps appear as I lazily explore this sensory
heaven that is your body with my tongue. My eyes closed
as my fingers trace your every outline. I paint a
picture of extraordinary beauty in my mind. A myriad
different tastes and textures each intoxicating and
heady, threaten to bind me in a prison of sensation
from which I seek no release. Your little moans and
gasps like the strains of an otherworldly symphony
unresistable like odessey’s siren song compel me
to reach deeper into my little bag of tricks for a
formula to leave you at heaven’s door. Flirting with
consciousness I would rather give in to the whirling
tornado which threatens to sweep away reality as you
kiss me, gently at first then with increasing haste,
as if to kiss away my face. Your gentle touch
down the back of my neck as you bite gently my
lower lip. Exploring wantonly in the grip of desire
you recklessly pull off my woollen gray shirt.
You trail light kisses burning with the heat of
your passion and my fingers trawl unguidedly through
the thick masses of your hair. I bury my face in
your hair and mouth your name again and again as wave
after wave of pleasure floods through my brain.
I feel a sharp pain only to experience ecstasy
again as your lips touch me yet again. Your buttons
scatter randomly across the room as in haste I take
off your blouse, it’s insane, warping my perception
as I lose my sense of direction. Up is down, right
is left, the sun is a mouse. Never before have I
felt so aroused. Gently and softly as a snowflake
falls, I scatter little bites and kisses over your
silky soft breasts. Nipples harden like little
pink rosebuds as I blow gently over them. A sharp
sigh, a muffled shout as I draw it into my mouth
You hold tight as if to never let me out
of your embrace. I feel your heart race, the blood
rush to your face and I gradually step up the
pace. Sucking and fondling gently and erotically
again and again I pause to spread kisses designed
to muddle your brain. Till I feel you soft and
yeilding in my arms. No guile no tricks, a maiden
disarmed. A pause as I contemplate the ridiculous
fastenings of your skirt. I grow frustrated, your
impatience can be felt. finally i get it and the confounded
skirt sides to the floor.. I run my hands over your thighs
silently beseeching more!, more!. I lift you,


Afterwards cuddling, murmuring sweet nothings in your ears.
As step by step we fall asleep hiding from loneliness,
our haven found. Where else would I be than in
your arms?

The Strength of Weak Ties

I think it was Granevetter or some other social scientist who wrote that paper. The gist is that the majority of our social capital lies not in our close dear friends but in people connected to us less strongly. That guy you met at the barbershop who’s kicks you admired, that chic who you mentioned on twitter, that guy who’s motorbike pic you snapped for Instagram. These are the people that matter. It isn’t that your close circle of friends do not matter. Far from it. It is just the fact the people we are friends with tend to be like us. Same tastes, same choices, etc. Granted that some of our friends vary in interesting ways but you cannot be friends with people to have great diversity in your social group. There are a finite number of friends you can be close to. It is estimated that an average human has 150 friends at any one time. If you needed to meet someone like say the president. You or someone in your circle might know him personally but then again they may not. The worst case yet still a bit likely scenario gives a probability of 1 in 150. That is if you only factor in your 150 friends. Lets go back to that guy who’s bike you liked. His name is Joe. He’s a final year business administration student at Convenant University. He’s best friends with John another CU student who’s father is a senator and close personal friend of the president. Joe could probably invite you to come with him to John’s house one weekend when the president would be visiting. See how much easier it is with weak ties? I heard a saying today. We make a living by what we get but we make a life by what we give. A smile, a compliment a helping hand. These little things build bridges. The more bridges you build, the more places you can go. After all a bridge has to lead somewhere right?

Truth 1: It is impossible to keep your cool. 

Turning 21, yay! cue existentialist issues - the meaninglessness of existence, the pointless marking of time and the realisation that only an infinitesimal fraction of the human population which represents and even smaller speck of dust on the back of a flea in the vastness that is the universe cares that you were born today. Dark thoughts to wake up to, but that was why man invented beer. That of course is some people’s opinion. Take beer goggles for example, At the bottom of the fifth shot glass of tequila, you really begin to see the image of God in your fellow man. That 2 you wouldn’t touch with a tractor beam all of a sudden becomes the love of your night. Add in the sudden jollity and copious amount of speech, courage and suavity and I dare any man to refute this statement: The road to hell may be paved with good intentions, but standing on a stack of Jack and Johnny bottles elevates us to knock on heaven’s door.

Yes, so much to do. Party Mode - scratch that.. Party setting mode. Two very different things there. The second lacks the gaiety of the first. The sheer amount of frustrations and annoyances which can crop up is astounding. It’s like throwing a party is universe-speak for “introduce me to Murphy’s law”. Things go wrong and not in the cute laughable sitcom ways. Here are 13 rules to keep:

- Never, ever rely on PHCN, they will fail, it says so in the manual.

- Never do beer runs hungry or sober, that is just sad and dehumanizing.

- 40% of the people who RSVP will not show up… and they will be the girls. This is the perfect time to subject you to cruel and inhuman begging practices, don’t drag it ..they simply cannot hide their nature.

- The amount of uninvited guys at a party always increases until the  stable-state entropy threshold is reached, then one of two things happen : a sausage-fest or a fight. The best parties are kept secret.

- Even the sworn abstainer will drink kegfuls with the right music.. if you think you don’t have enough, buy.  If you think you do, buy more.

- Your music is not loud enough until people cannot hear each other speak. Then they resort to more natural forms of communication. Tactile conversations under alcohol influence probably resulted in the creation of 2 in 7 humans.

- A little weed keeps boys happy. Allowing a vent for their bad guy delusions makes them calmer and less likely to start fights and harass girls.

 - It is your role as host to be both concierge and brothel madam. Accidents of the 9 month later kind are not    funny, provide protection.

- Absolutely no pictures, that lap dance or keg stand could be what stand between someone and a governorship post someday.

- Girls at rest tend to remain so until set in motion. You will to seed the mixture need a few friends of the questionable morals variety to set things going.

- Make sleeping arrangements for overnight guests. Nothing is more awkward than playing room roulette with six tired girls at 3 am.

- Make allowances for set P. If she decides to go home with him, make sure she isn’t too drunk to decide and he’s a gentleman. 

- An after party snack will be required. Only winshes and ogbanje sell food at 3 am, plan accordingly.

- Being host means giving up your resources to enable friends to set P. Provide what ever is required no questions asked. It’s in the bro code.

All in all was fun. Walk of shame at 6:30 included. Off to bed now, have the mother and father of hangovers. Redd out..

Smug lil’ F#ckers

There’s something annoying about overly happy people. Something offending, irritating even about their wide smiles, loud laughter and quick bursts of speech. I’m sitting in church as the choir sings. Would have had more fun hanging out with Torquemada. At least the old sop was good at his job, even if he was a bit off his rocker and genocidal. The head chic is doing some vaguely salsa like dance. Vaguely alike in the way a parrot resembles a goat… which is to say, not very much. She moves with the grace of an epileptic giraffe and is just as gangly with a face only a mother could love. I guess the church really doesn’t discriminate even if you are terrible at what you intend to do. There’s terrible and there’s terrible. It often takes a genius to find that sweet spot between bad and good - so bad it’s genius.. sadly, genius she is not. However, somehow, in this holocaust on the art of dancing, she seems to be happy, enraptured even. As though her state of mind somehow translates the dance routine from “retarded antelope learning to walk” to”“graceful swan ballet”. Quite unlikely but I must admit I am not up to date on the latest developments in neuro-psychology. Her smugness however does create in me a need to smack her upside the head, repeatedly if necessary. Maybe I’m in a bad mood today. I will however resist the urge as I am a gentleman and a libertarian. Such are the grave trials I have to face.. tsk tsk..

The decline of Masculinity

Man - A male human…

Male - A member of a species of the masculine gender

Masculine - Pertaining to the male gender.

We are a generation of sorry almost-men. A line of homosapiens standing at the door of destiny, too timid to knock, too cowardly to enter. Weak willed, taciturn, indecisive, unaturally modest and shy. We are not the higher level sapiens more fit for survial than Neanthertals or home erectus, no, such blood has long since left our veins. Blubbering dithering approval junkies driven by fear of pain and shame and the lure of cheap and safe pleasures. We dream but our dreams do not make us great, or even drive us. Rather, they serve to rob us of the sweetness of our lives; showing us the paltry nature of our cheap successes. A man is great because he is able to feed and provide for his family? Bah, a joke. What happened to the race of men who dug into the hearts of mountains, diverted and dammed the courses of rivers, tamed wild nature and stood against sickness and even old death himself? Men who grabbed lady luck by her hair and made their own fortunes? We are lost.

We grew up with fairytales. Every girl is a princess, and every boy a prince. Only to be forced, once we are old enough into the great press of reality, which squeezes out and kills all dreams, and into the long lines to the grave called the labour force. Some of the old men still live among us. Business magnates, Rock stars, Artists, Leaders who still know the old ways. Who know how to truly live, and they would have us slave for them. 

We are the husk, the chaff, we are what remains, cowardly pussies or abominable dicks. Too cowardly to lead or too insecure to follow. Seeking approval and direction, following any one who seems to know the way. Maladjusted malcontents, unsatisfied with their lots and unable to tell why. Forced to realise that we are the turbines of society, cursed to forever toil and turn. So much motion, neither foward nor backward, we turn in place and provide power to retain the status quo.

Take the job seeker, quivering before the panel, possesing skills and capabiities beyond the job he seeks, yet unable to confidently request adequate compensation. Even as I wrote that line, my heart beat faster at the thought of the loss of the job due to such seeming arrogance. I am truly lost. The job seeker dares not speak because he has been told all his life that this is all there is.. 9-5, five days a week of the best years of his life in exchange for a monthly pittance, a guranteed sum to retire to, and the chance to raise his head a little higher than his fellow slaves. Imagine how many Einsteins, Teslas, Da Vincis and Faradays have been lost this way.

A father makes a decision, his son asks why. He scowls and turns to put the foolish young one in his place with a harsh word. “Because I say so” he says. In his haste he fails to see the opportunity to pass sound decision making techniques to his son. This must stop. The old techniques of command and obey apply no longer.

They violate the laws of learning and logic. Curiosity is in. Authoritarianism is out.

Fault too lies with the men of old. They went off leading wars, discovering continents, going on crusades, solving problems and so forth and left their women behind to raise children by themselves. Such children grew lacking as did the women the skills of leadership and making choices, but for different reasons. The Women did not lead because they chose not to, choosing in love to abdicate these responsibilities to their husbands as it does not become two captains to lead the same ship. The child-men on the other hand did not lead because they knew not how to. Listless and subservient, unable to seize life by the throat, ever looking out for who to follow. Someone to praise if things go right, but more importantly, someone to blame if things go wrong as they so often do. 

They feel out of touch with their women, choosing to gain their favours by gifts or deceit.

The women prefering men to be confident, masterful and daring. Joie de vivre comes, not of watching life, but of living it. Take the word “advances” for example. A man makes “advances” to a woman. The word speaks of bold steps foward  down the desired path. Men now make “passes”. He merely hints at what he wants and stands there dumbly waiting for her to act first. He “passes” all control of the interaction to the woman. Poor fool. He must learn. 

However, this is not a rapist’s call to arms. To make advances is not to force one’s way upon a woman. That is the path of cowards and fools. One cannot call them retards or animals, it simply offensive to the noble beasts and the unfortunate mentally incapacitated to do so. To conquer in love is to be unafraid to declare one’s intent. To make love known. To keep to one’s purpose, not to annoy and pester the object of one’s affections with half-hearted and insincere amoure. It is often said that a lady may try a man’s love but often she does not refuse it. It is also a man’s place to know when to stop. A serenade is delightful in the moonlight but it begins to pall by lunchtime the next day. Enough said.

Another common abberation these days is the friendzone. The socially inept guy falls for typically the most beautiful girl in his class. It’s almost nollywoodish. He could choose the nice friendly girl who sits next to him in chess club but no, he must have the diva of the class. This is not his crime. Every living organism has a tendency to attempt to live beyond it’s means. Why, the talented author Oscar Wilde was said to call for a glass of champagne on his death bed with the words “I have often lived beyond my means, I suspect I shall have to die beyond them”. His crime is choosing the most foolish and ill advised technique not in the playbook, by becoming her friend. He hangs on her every word, helps out, is nice and polite, and generally shows himself to be a nuisance and ten kinds of an oaf. The tactic here is: if I’m nice enough, maybe I can guilt her into dating me. Poor him, first thing kitty lost after her virginity was her conscience. Even  if she still had it, there is no way she’d date a loser like him. It would simply upset the balance of life in the Universe. So he ends up resentful and hurting in the friendzone. Spineless sucker. A bold move, a charmimg approach and the heart to speak his mind and who knows it could have ended differently.

In the next category comes the players. The ones who hope to get rid of their creeping insecurity by making notches on their dicks. The hope that with enough pubic scalps one might be able to make a boat and sail away from Loserville is quite commonplace. It turns many a sweet young man into a cynic sleazeball who feels all girls are bitches and whores. Which is quite suprising because their morals are never low enough to sleep with him. He blames it on his lack of good looks or cash. Thinking with a lil more cheddar, and bottle popping in the club he could get ‘em gurls. True alcohol does loosen legs, but you can’t get them close enough to offer it to them with your attitude. 

Everybody’s so judgemental these days. A girl has sex with a guy and she’s cheap. What about she just likes fucking? It’s a pretty pleasant experience if done right. Why wouldn’t anybody like it? I salute the girls with the courage to give these idiots the middle finger and do what they want. In Crowley’s words “Do what thou wilt”. That’s right, do what ever you want as long as you don’t hurt anybody, it’s ok.

Hurt is relative. You may dump a girl and hurt her and refuse the advances of another and hurt her too. Society says you are more right in doing the latter than the former. I’ll let society decide that one.. don’t want it on my conscience. 

Basically, don’t be scared to do what you will.. within reason of course.. I’ll leave with you with the paraphrased words of Laurence of Arabia. “The dreamers of the night do dream and wake to find that it was just a dream but the dreamers of the day, those are dangerous men, for they may act out their dreams with impunity.”