Some Infamous 10 Minutes

I have learnt something new today. I have learnt that there are human versions of churchmouses. Yes I know that it's mice, but these individuals do not deserve the correct English plural of the word mouse. They are odd people, scared, timid, they sweat to do their job and they are grossly incompetent in human relations. I am not very good at socialising myself, but these beat me hands down. They are also very white; they are whitely pallid as if they were a victim of some big illness. And they are. Their pallor comes from the big illness called inflexibility. Perhaps they also haven't progressed from Freud's little-boys-touching-their-thingy. Only now they don't touch their thingy (it's still a micro tiny weeny thingy) because they have been told it's inappropriate, so they clutch at a stopwatch for dear life instead. And just when I thought that the adult world wasn't about telling mummy and daddy, I learn that for these people, it hasn't changed. They still go telling mummy or daddy because of course they do not have the balls to confront anyone, especially a big girl with claws like me. Their stopwatch thingy never seems to be useful, but on the one occasion when it is, then they will jump up and down in glee, their thingy having finally found an opportunity to sway left and right just because of a measly 10 minutes. And then the Catholic Church wants to make us believe that we are all made in God's image. God's image? Hardly. I think of God as a powerful, macho male whose privates would take any woman more than ten minutes of pleasure-scrutiny. I really don't want to think of a God who has a thingy, that's not the picture in my mind. And I do the thing I always do, I ask what if it were me? If it were me I would never go to daddy, I would just tackle the problem on a one to one basis. 10 minutes is really making a mountain out of a molehill, but then molehills are probably gigantic to mouses (not mice). Everything is relative, if you're small then normal looks enormous. And this makes me cry tears of frustration, at least I've learnt to channel anger into tears. It's unfair but then I can never see things from the point of view of a churchmouse. And of course a churchmouse will not confront big me with dangerous claws. It is best to leave these mouses alone. Because somehow when it's a previous ten minutes their stopwatch never works. Perhaps what they want is relief, but then again, talking of time, time is precious, and nobody will waste their time to relieve a microscopic thingy. I am in no way trying to be callous. It's just that Freud had it so very correct as in the behaviour of men according to the size of their thingy. I have also learnt that it seems quality is not appreciated. I would like a mummy or daddy to sit in one of my classes. I would never break out in a cold sweat as churchmouses would. It would be a pleasure. But it'll never happen because I know that the content is supergood. I think churchmouses and their thingies are best left alone. 10 minutes. I never did it on purpose. I wasn't even aware. Now I am, and I won't forget.