I'm at a point; the one which you can describe as a point at which things can only get better, but I know that they can get a lot worse. And I don't know why. I did quarrel with my mother over a water biscuit, in Maltese terms, the classical biskuttell. Incredible thing this, that an innocent biskuttell can cause so much trouble. It can. My mum suddenly thinks a biskuttell can kill me. Because it might have a lot of sugar content, which is scientifically and culinary untrue. And so she has decided that she's found something else to argue about, and I know she will make herself sick with worry. My brother has also called, because he too saw mum terribly worried, but he didn't know it was about a biskuttell. He just blurted out laughing. I think my dad is keeping watch too by sieving through all the rubbish I put outside for the taking. I'm not completely sure but I think he really is. True they don't live very far, just comfortably far enough for me to lead my own life without having to face their speculations, without having to explain why the milkman took five minutes instead of two; the milkman here being used as a generic term for any man because of course I buy milk off a shelf. That makes my dad a tramp, what the hell have we got to now, looking through people's black garbage bags. So now I've ended up feeling terribly sad and guilty because of a biskuttell which is not called a water biscuit for nothing. A water biscuit, not a sugar biscuit, or a fat biscuit, or a cholesterol biscuit. And still that seems to be something to argue and worry yourself sick about it. And I shouldn't be here worrying about that.
Another thing, since I have this gastric something bug, then my parents think it's cancer of the bowels. They think that since I smoke, then a cancer has just decided to embark growing in my bowels. As if any type of cancer would ever have the guts to hear them complain. And since my gastric bug has been caused by a cancer due to my smoking, then they have every right to get upset and point the dreaded finger saying, I told you so. Which makes me want to point another finger, but I'm too sick to go through what the outcome of that would be. So, according to their very nutty and extreme hypochondriac disorder personalities, it then becomes equal that it's my fault I'm sick. So go on lay the blame, as if anybody would choose to feel like crap. As if I like it. Of course I don't. I am housebound with the only little exercise being that of rushing to the loo and back here again. Then it'll all happen again 10 minutes later if I'm lucky, 5 minutes later if I'm not.
And the thing is I've got this bag of biskuttelli which are beckoning. Something like forbidden fruit or sweet. Except it's not sugary. So please leave this poor girl alone. One biskuttell will not kill her, nor will two, or three.
Another thing, since I have this gastric something bug, then my parents think it's cancer of the bowels. They think that since I smoke, then a cancer has just decided to embark growing in my bowels. As if any type of cancer would ever have the guts to hear them complain. And since my gastric bug has been caused by a cancer due to my smoking, then they have every right to get upset and point the dreaded finger saying, I told you so. Which makes me want to point another finger, but I'm too sick to go through what the outcome of that would be. So, according to their very nutty and extreme hypochondriac disorder personalities, it then becomes equal that it's my fault I'm sick. So go on lay the blame, as if anybody would choose to feel like crap. As if I like it. Of course I don't. I am housebound with the only little exercise being that of rushing to the loo and back here again. Then it'll all happen again 10 minutes later if I'm lucky, 5 minutes later if I'm not.
And the thing is I've got this bag of biskuttelli which are beckoning. Something like forbidden fruit or sweet. Except it's not sugary. So please leave this poor girl alone. One biskuttell will not kill her, nor will two, or three.
