Socks

I cannot wait to rid myself of socks. I don't like socks. They make feet look as if they were one complete thing and make toes lose their identity. Socks are so mumsy, frumpy, probably like the bloomers, our ex-headmistress Sr. David used to wear when I was at St. Joseph school. Well, no that doesn't do them justice, socks compared to Sr. David are pure erotica. I wonder if she's heard of laser hair removal by now. My guess is she hasn't. But socks somehow always remind me of her. Bad thought, bad bad thought. And no matter how sock manufacturers try to make their product cute, I really can see nothing attractive about socks. I have ten toes, beautiful ones may I add, so why should they live in such confinement? Poor toes, I think they must hate me during the winter, but I try and make up for it during the summer. There is one thing I like about summer (except for holidays of course), and that is the beauty of being able to go sock-less. And sock-less I go. I do not own one pair of summer shoes which do not show off my toes. Toes can be sexy, and I'm not talking about foot-fetishes. I do not go about admiring other people's feet. And thanks a lot but no thanks I do not like licking or sucking anybody's toes. That idea is a bad one, it makes my stomach churn. I like my own. It's a very Narcissistic type of foot-fetish I suffer from. Because I call a spade a spade, I will never win a beauty-butt competition, but I will carry the trophy off a beauty-toe competition. They are so perfect, and I make sure to give them loads of TLC. I also paint them in all the shades of the rainbow. Because toes might be a tiny percentage as compared to the rest of the body. But then so are the most revered phalli.

History

I've got diamonds. And that makes me a very happy girl. What also makes me happy is not just that the Mister actually produced the diamonds, but that his choice in them makes for perfect comprehension. In other words, it means he knows me extremely well. He got me hooked earrings, with my favourite type of clasp, a chain of perfect length, and the ring... the perfect size. It mystified me, and I asked if he had just got lucky. To which he answered all questions correctly. He knows my ring size, he knows my chain size. Incredible. And I felt lame because I didn't buy him anything. He... he was on top of the moon just because I sent an ecard. If everybody could be happy with such little things the world would be such a happier place. And of course, after promising him a quite dinner at our favourite Malaysian restaurant, I had to get sort of nauseous. So I had to cancel that too, and he was ok with it. Let's get things straight, my man is not a saint. He is into dirty jokes (a whole lot!), will not bat an eyelid at all those X-rated emails, and he has a dirty mind, albeit a clever one. But as much as I try to think about his faults, I cannot come up with more. Oh and he smokes cigars, but then so do I. Other than that... zilch. He does crazy stuff with me, not not talking about the dirty crazy stuff. It's almost as if he is the one taking care of me. He runs my bath, he cooks for me, he makes sure I am well. He is an excellent nurse in dire times. Could I have wished for more? Not really. Six years ago, and a 60kg less, I used to ask myself if the right guy would ever come along. Seeing I had already met a right guy who died, I used to think that perhaps we only get once chance in life. I dated so many men, plenty of psycho ones who stalked me, and some mad ones who wanted me to be their wife. And I turned them all down, because something just wasn't right. Six years also marks the EU referendum, and I had been going to all forza-EU gatherings scantily clad, always shivering, in the hope that I might attract a sex buddy at least. I did, plenty of sex buddies but that's where it all stopped. Until I decided to open a mysterious email I had received three months before. And I replied. I don't know what made me reply. It was a normal polite friendship type email, nothing sexy. But I accepted a date, and bang comes this man whom I talked to until the very early hours in the morning. I couldn't get enough, and so did he. I loved his broad shoulders, I loved his hands, almost child-like, I loved his smile... and suddenly I loved him. It happened so fast I will never know how and why. He was a man with a previous annulled marriage, I had my splendid macabre baggage. But somehow he stuck. I warned him I might never want marriage, I was still so fragile myself. And somehow it was as if he took me on his shoulders (he really could at the time, I'd crush him to death now), and that was that. Of course my mum butted in, her daughter dating a once married man? But it was ok for me, he was as single as you get, no kids, just an annulled marriage. I didn't mind. My mum gave it six months. Now it's been six years and through all the ups and downs, we've just done the one thing which probably is the reason why we made it so far. I promised to hold his hand and walk beside him, not in front of him, not behind him but beside him. And he promised to take my hand and also walk beside me. It's history now, not his-tory but mine too. And that makes it a together-history. Because as much as I rant and rave at the Gods, I think they dealt me yet another lucky card.

Six Years

I do not like birthdays, weddings, anniversaries and of course funerals. I do not like to commemorate things very much because they always make me think (God forbid) that I'm old. Commemorations also change the dynamics of life. But I guess I have reason to celebrate today. OK, so unlike my twin brother who would have hired all of the Westin Dragonara and thrown a party for the million people that he knows, I will light two candles and put them near each other and stare at them and think that at least I was right about one thing in my life. I will stare at their glow and marvel at how that glow never ever was hesitant. And I will be glad that the flame, ignited by so many ruffled things, is still on. And when the flickering wick will give way to nothing, I will divert my stare at another someone's face and see how it all is glowing over his face. Because just as the olden heroes stared at death in the face and lived to tell the tale, I have stared at life in the face and lived to tell the tale. They wanted me to quit on love. They wanted me to quit on one very special man. They wanted me to live my life they wanted to. They were a bunch of crappy idiots. Because I, we have survived against a lot of odds. And it's been six years. And it's so happy.

Virginal reunion

Still thinking about the reunion. I have given myself till today to decide. Because I thought it was going to be on the 8th of June, now I realise it's the 8th of May. Trust me to mix something like that up. Not because I'm stupid mind you. It's because my mind is taken up with things so much superior that it doesn't register trivial other things. My mine is a royal mind, just as the rest of me is a royal rest of me. I am convinced that there is blue blood running in there and it's not because of being a nazzjonalista or ex nazzjonalista either. Geeze if my dad saw this he'd have a heart attack, so consumed by politics. What I am hating about this reunion. Firstly why has nobody kept her maiden name? Why is it all a conjoined two surname thing? Heyyyy didn't we want to be equal? Or are we just a bunch of slobby women with a heat inside so high that we want to be owned? I will always keep my Chetcuti, even when I grow up and get married to a million men. Chetcuti stays. And it will never be a something-Chetcuti. Oh no, it will stay put and that is what my headstone will read. When I grow up and have babies there is no way I am putting an announcement in The Times of Malta reading, AnnMarie nee` Chetcuti bla bla bla. It will read AnnMarie Chetcuti. No nee`. It is pointless to change my name if it's not going to be Pitt or Noth. Chris Noth... oh God that man has me helpless. Really really helpless. That is why I watch re-runs and re-runs of Sex and the City... just to see Mr. Big and feel 16 again. No man on this planet has ever had me helpless like that. And yes I'd change my name for him because I'd love to be owned by him. Which is a mystery seeing that I don't exactly qualify for slave material. But then that's why switches were invented. Back to reunion stuff. I guess I'll go for the sake of going, and I also guess I will make a quick exit. I do not want to talk about placentas. I've never had one so what I don't know will not hurt me. I do not want to talk about breastfeeding. My breasts are there to put on show, not for some tiny creature to suck on. And then again, if it were a big creature... I'd consider a re-think. I do not want to talk about lousy husbands either because I haven't got a husband let alone a lousy one. I have my Mister who is as attentive as ever, who can talk sense, a Mister whom I can cry and laugh with, one who thinks I'm Belle in Beauty in the Beast. Of course I don't let on that I'm not. Let him think I'm some Cleopatra beauty, it doesn't harm anybody. I may have no husband, but my surrogate husband never looks down on me, always up. Well of course that's excluding the bedroom stakes. So what will I have in common with my old class mates with their virginal ways of thinking? Probably not much. They may have had placentas and gone on with their breast feeding, but they will still qualify as virgins. A virgin is not as in a vagina-known-to-man, but as in a totally dirty, crude, uncouth, sexy mind. I've always wondered why it's called deflowering. I never had a flower there, and it doesn't prick like roses do, or go all over the place as lilies do. Nor does it turn around in search of the sun as sunflowers do or open and close depending on night and day as some other species do. Where is the flower? It's in virginal minds. There is no flower, at 35 I hope my classmates will have figured that out. Some won't have, not even after having borne some four kids. Some won't even have mastered the art of swallowing, because that is something good girls don't do. They probably wouldn't even have thought of it. Dear dear Lord, what am I to do? Go and put my one asset, which has not breastfeed little mouths on show? Go for five minutes and do a vanishing act? Not go at all? Thing is I think I want to go. I'm just not sure on how long I'll make my royal presence. So maybe I'll make my royal presence together with my royal royal breasts. Go on Rob, you do the same!

Mental

I am again ever so glad that I can come here anytime. It helps my psyche because I get to say things which I couldn't say anywhere else, and get away with it. I'm very sure I could not say such things at most gatherings. Sunday mass? I really don't think so. At a political mass meeting? I don't think so either because after years of sticking staunchly to the same political party I am flashing my red indicator. A talk somewhere? A conference? Only the hardened of people wouldn't blush. And yet in this democratic country we all have the right to voice our opinion. I have my doubts as to how vocal that might be. We are all trying to keep up holy appearances. we all know that it is psychologically good for us not to keep our feelings all bottled up. And yet that is what we don't do. We keep it inside with the risk of turning the psychological into psychotic. Do not shrug this off as something which could never happen to you, I see psychotic people among the best educated and among the worst educated. There is a fine line between mentally sane and insane. And so terrified am I that I might fall into this category that I come here and belt it all out. And yes I know it's so public and for all to see, but then again I like an audience, or at the very least peeping toms. During these past four years life has changed dramatically. And life is good. And I sometimes think that I have changed too. But have I really? Have I just taken lock stock and barrel with me, including the spotlight? I'm not sure. My therapist thinks that I am his best and worst case, he has said I am his most complicated case as well as his most brilliant. I'm not sure if that is a compliment. But he does not think of me as a patient. And I guess that's good. He thinks that I have a brilliant mind (how he figured that out I have no clue) and a brilliant heart both of which work in opposite directions. And that makes sense. It at least makes sense as to why I live so much in turmoil. I call it the turmoil of inside. I don't know if it has a name. All I know that it has me wondering how I sometimes cannot understand the basics of life. It's all so oppositely unclear. But then it's been oppositely all along. I was born to two opposite parents (I couldn't have bargained for more opposite then they are) , a twin to a completely opposite other being, and when it came to love, oh God, I couldn't have rampaged as oppositely as I did. It might not make sense. But it does for me. It explains the turmoil, the opposites, and it at least provides me with precious insight. Because sometimes it's all about me.

Reunion

So my friend Rob has been putting all her efforts into organizing a school reunion. 20 years. Geeze that sounds old, but it's been 20 years since the day I walked out from school to a whole new life. I didn't cry because I was leaving, because I had nothing to cry for. I hated school. Things looked so simple that I thought they were a waste of time. I hated having to go every day. I hated the flipping uniform. I hated it all. There was nothing I didn't hate about school. And finally I left. And it's been 20 years. And I'm not very keen on meeting all the girls who are now grown up. 10 years ago, I couldn't get out fast enough. It was a ten years later reunion, and all the talk was about baby pooh and diapers and breasts and pumps (not the sexy kind), and secretions (again not the sexy kind). I had nothing in common. What will it be like this time? I guess all the baby pooh will have stopped and talk will be about condoms and kids going to Muzew and schooling and husband talk, and there will probably be a lot of grown up girls trapped in grown up unhappy marriages for whom I don't have much sympathy. They looked at me as if I were some sort of alien last time, just because I hadn't walked down the aisle. Just imagine what a freak I'll be to them when at 35 I still haven't walked down that fucking aisle. And I really am in no hurry to do so. What's so special about aisles anyway? But all this apart, I have been saddened today. Out of a 120 girls all coming out so fresh and snooty from St. Joseph, 1 has died. She was my friend, my excuse to go and have a smoke in the loos. I loved that friend and she is no here no more. It makes me angry, sad and angry again. A quiet girl who had to inject herself because of a condition which doesn't kill. I don't know what happened to her. I'm not sure that knowing why would ease the sadness. I just know that she died. She never got to 35. And that's so sad.

THE Cycle

I read my last entries and realise just how cocky (pun not intended) I can be. But I'm getting so less cocky it's amazing. Probably what kept me awake last night. The cycle. The usual cycle, the only time when I want to be a man. And I really want to be a man so perhaps I could have my balls tied with an elastic band so that it cuts off blood circulation until they shrink and fall off somewhere. But we're not that simple alas. I don't know what I could tie. I would if I could. I really really would. But I am a girl, that much I've been certain of for a very long time. Being a twin to a boy makes you realise there are heaploads of differences at a very early age. And yet I never asked my mum anything. I probably figured she'd tell me a fat lie because I was young. Yep I never had exactly a low I.Q. It's only now that I've turned sort of stupid and mentally challenged sometimes. Age does that to you, well it does to me. But there are other differences, not just of the physical kind. If I open my bathroom cabinet there are plenty of tampons, (enough for all the klandestini at the closed and open centres), face cleansers, serum, tonics bla bla bla. Mister only has a cleanser and a moisturiser. No tampons. It's not fair. We should be given an allowance for this thing. So so uncomfortable, it so happens that once a month, my whole perspective on life changes. I get depressed, I feel irritable, and I not just bark but bite also. Suddenly everything sucks. I suppose it's nature and life, but one thing will not be sucking anything lest it bites... and that's me.

The C String?

A friend has brought my attention to something quite new on the market. It's a C string. I have plenty of those in my viola case, because for us musicians G strings or C strings are what makes our bread and butter and we are comfortable enough to talk about them because there is nothing sexy about it all. Not so in the real world. Say the two words G string, and you'll get a giggle. But my guess is that if you say the two words C string you will get no giggle, only a confused look. It's the in-thing for 2009... the brand spanking (pun intended) new C string. It should be the best type of underwear available, at least you get no visible pantie line because there is almost no pantie anyway. It looks just like a fig leaf and reminds me of Adam and Eve. Perhaps the apple was in fact something in the shape of a C? Whatever, these type of pants come in the shape of a C, just like an alice hair band. You do not put them on, rather you struggle to get into them. And woe betide you if you get caught wearing a skirt in a gust of wind. You'll look as if you're really kinky, because it'll be just as if you've given your underwear a miss. Are they sexy? The concept is. Real life... they chafe, they're smaller than your hand. But it works ok in the s and M world where pain is all part of the deal and where rules are rules and not to be broken... or else.

Power Freaks

I seem to be stuck in a rut. All this power talk. But I like to call it personal research, perhaps one day I too will sit down an pen a self-help book although it will be all terribly censored. Censorship. Big sigh. I know three men who are into that kind of stuff. By the look of one, you'd just never even think of it. By the look of the other perhaps you'd start thinking of it. And by one glance at the other the word is spelt all over his face. And all are, must be... power freaks and... men. It is indeed a power bestowed by I don't know who to get to choose who sees what, who reads what, who experiences what. They are people who are controlling our eyes, our minds. And that's not very fair. I want to see what I want to see not what someone else decides what I see. The world is really getting all about censorship. Don't eat this, don't drink this, don't read this, don't write that. It's getting a big too much. In a matter we will have shit censors, yes telling us which way to shit and what to shit. Sex... we have that already and as if that's not enough, even the Church thinks it has the right to invade sexual intercourse, so much for sexual intercourse being a pleasurable (or not) experience between two people, it's graduated to a threesome. Because the Church wants to be in too. More Churches; in a matter of time it will be a multicoloured gang-bang. And yet there will still be power freaks. Interestingly one man I know who goes about censoring movies is a priest who does not look like a priest and certainly does not behave like a priest. And I know him well enough to know what I'm saying. And God certainly knew what he was doing when he made 'the call' to this man. Had he married, he'd have had his poor wife in the madhouse in three days. And yet I still believe that underneath all that power freakishness lies a man desperately crying out to be dominated. Go figure.

Yet more sex...

I can't even begin to understand why this thing called sex gets so much under my skin. Should get inside I suppose, but I'll leave that out as in physically out for now. I still cannot shake the image of the domineering. What a hoot. That is something which will never get underneath or inside And it will never make me tremble because the days of the Holocaust are over. I like men. That should come as pretty normal. I also like a variety of men in the fact that I do not have 'a type' of man. I have dated men who all look so different to each other. For some I have felt nothing at all, for some I have felt lust, for some I have felt love, and for the very special ones I have felt love as in 'love changes everything'. All have been men, all different as in Andrew Lloyd Webber's 'Aspects of Love'. And somehow as I look back, I realise they all had a common factor; none was domineering. I'm not sure if they even had a dominant streak, but I would have coped with that. Perhaps a girl keeps looking for her perfect man, when her definition of that perfect man is either exactly unlike or exactly alike her daddy. Yes I am still a daddy's girl, always have been, always will be. Life, as riddled with strife as it may have been threw me a lucky dice; my daddy. But it is only now that I come to the conclusion. That is the reason why I had so many sugar daddies. That is probably the reason why I only dated old men for a period of time. Somehowe, sitting dangerously on sugar daddies' laps is an experience in itself. It made my real dad upset because he thought he hadn't been much of a dad. Because that is what all psychological self-help books state. Wrong. It can really work in reverse. Another reason, perhaps I, myself am domineering. I cannot exlude that if my equation is to hold. Dating old men can give a girl a kick, a very powerful one too. There goes this girl at 20 watching men of 50 and 60 lust after her like dogs on heat. It's all so powerful, because in women stakes, beauty and intellect together with a high sex drive are powerful aphrodisiacs to men. It's so very simple. And yet I ended up happy with a Mister who is not even a year older than me. So much for my let's-ravage-old-men symptoms. So I have explored all the concepts which turn women on. But what turns men on? It's not so different. It's also all about power. But the poor men have power in reverse. And with the men it always gets physical. They think they have the power. In reality it's us making their poor old members rise to attention or scurry away into hiding. That's why it's called foreskin because it's all so skin deep anyway.

The Sex... again

I am still wondering about the sex. What is it exactly? Animals give out scents and parade on roofs to give out the signal that they're ripe for the picking. It's called the influence of pheromones. Are we human beings the same? In a world where women are supposed to be the equal of their male counterparts, are we really being equal? And what about the pheromones? Ok, so we've graduated from stinky pee as in cats, to Dolce & Gabbana, Versace and Hugo Boss. But we still act the same, no, worse, or better, we're acting in the same way. And although watching cats on heat can be very Discovery-Channel-like entertainment, watching humans go for the kill is a type of entertainment which would really be worth a 100 Euro a minute. And what's best about it is that it comes for free. The only problem is that there is no ticket booth where you can buy your seatings from. So sometimes you have to watch it from less then comfy positions, but that doesn't make it less worth your while. So what happens... there first has to be an aphrodisiac present, which is normally power, money, power, money, power, money... that's about it. Women rarely go for the looks where men are concerned. Why, I have no clue. What's worse is that the more dominant the man, the more swoony women tend to get. Big sigh. Why are women such gluttons for punishment? Do we really think that a domineering man will suddenly turn into a pussycat once he's taken? Of course not. There is one big difference between dominant and domineering. And the latter is not to my liking at all. And yet I keep seeing women waltzing about through whiffs of D&G and Cavalli and Christian Dior. And the man isn't even good looking, or sexy, or nice. But then of course you can get attracted to a man who doesn't look like David Beckham if he's good with words. But this doesn't even qualify in that either. And my mind wanders, perhaps because it's a dirty mind, as to what this man would look like naked, all sweaty, all hot, ready to pounce on the usual fragile counterpart. And it makes me laugh. And I try to give him another shot and try to think what he'd be like at foreplay. And that is hilarious. And then my dirty mind wonders what he'd be like during the act itself. Oh God, it's so funny, lame, a laughing stock. Would he be good at talking dirty, he being Narcissus in persona, could he possibly get it up just by stripping and looking at himself in the mirror? Or perhaps he could really do with a bottle of glass-cleaning fluid and a cloth... to wipe away the load he'd be shooting? What on God's earth possesses a woman to seduce a guy like that? Guys like that are as cheap as the aftershave they wear. There are plenty more fish in the sea, nice fish in a cleaner sea may I note. My mum always said that as long as a guy is well groomed and clean, then he'll be ok. This one needs a good soak in an acid bath. That bad. And no, I'm not sorry I'm bad mouthing the guy because he deserves it. Beware all you domineering man out there, because something like my mind will be playing all the dirty tricks in the world, and then you'll just end up on my blog for all to see. Ditto.

The Sex

My doorbell's ringing but it's going to have to keep ringing.I am not about to emerge out of my cat-invaded quilt. It would give them a fright and after all the campaigning that's been going on about being kind to animals, I do my bit too. I am also not opening the door because I know who it's going to be, the pesky neighbour who is taking days, no months, to paint his door. I don't care. I'm staying put, totally. Had a good day today, but I keep thinking and re-thinking about sex. The sex. Not the kind of thinking which men think about according to statistics. But still it's about full blown sex, and yet not the kind of full blown sex statistics talk about. It will always be a mystery but is seems that power of some sort will always be an aphrodisiac. It's as old as the hills. Take a 'powerful' man, and women start behaving like cats on heat. Terribly lame. But very entertaining if you keep your mouth shut and try to become as small as a fly on the wall. One would think we're still in Stone age, because not even my cat waltzed so hard as to provoke my other cat in having sex. And that probably is the reason why Stemtil and Panadol will continue to make millions. All that waltzing must take its toll on the head. And that, in turn, is why shrinks will always be a household staple.... will be back.

Denise

It's been ten years since I last saw my pretty cousin Denise. That was the day she was gone forever, at 18 in a car crash. Today she'd have been 28. I look back on and see the grief. Such a waste of a life. And I can only repeat what I read during her funeral, bearing in mind her white coffin.
When somebody dies, a cloud turns into an angel, and flies up to tell God to put another flower on a pillow. A bird gives the message back to the world and sings a silent prayer that makes the rain cry. People disappear, but they never really go away. The spirits up there put the sun to bed, wake up the grass, and spin the earth in dizzy circles. Sometimes you can see them dancing in a cloud during the day-time, when they're supposed to be sleeping. They paint the rainbows and also the sunsets and make waves splash and tug at the tide. They toss shooting stars and listen to wishes. And when they sing windsongs, they whisper to us, don't miss me too much. The view is nice and I'm doing just fine.

Homeworks

I was just flipping through HomeWorks magazine (distributed by The Times of Malta) and I just sighed sighed sighed. How is it possible for people to live in houses and have such perfection, law and order? It baffles me completely. My twin is the same, probably that was one reason (among many others) why he too was featured on the same magazine. I too have a house. And it's a beautiful one... i.e. when the maid has been. She knows how to restore a battlefield into the Santa Sede. I can only live with clutter which is so strange, seeing that people deem me as a perfectionist. My therapist thinks I am way too a perfectionist for my own good, but that is because he has never seen my kitchen table. And neither have I. And the moment I decide to make an effort and clean up my act, then I cannot find things because I've stored them diligently and my brain forgets all that is diligent. So I sit here and dream and wonder why? And do nothing about it.

The Whip

I just screamed. And no, not because of big Oh Yes. I just made my mission impossible possible. I finally found my two pants which I have been looking for for three days. And they were just under my nose. Shit, what a waste of energy. So that makes me not irritated anymore but it still doesn't stop my wanting to take a man down with a whip or two. Funny side of gentle old me this. I'd never harm anybody but then when it suddenly turns sexy, and when suddenly some man (or woman) proves to need a lesson, I cannot stop. And teachers make good subjects for this. They always know it better, they are authoritative, they are just perfect. Perfect for being taken down with a couple of welts. Not all of course, some are really nice people, just the ones who push it too far. Because discipline is one word which takes me into a whole new world. I do not know how to discipline little people. But I do know how to discipline adults if I had the chance. But most times I do not have the chance so I do a little day-dreaming. It satisfies me and hurts nobody outside the dream. So that makes it harmless enough. And as I look in the mirror that is placed right in front of me, I ask, should I be taken down with a peg or two? I think not, because I'm way too perfect and I have to be the one who rules with the whip, sometimes imaginary, sometimes not.

Dream again

I had yet another funny dream. It's so funny because in the dream itself I kept comparing myself to my cat. Five years ago my cat had four kittens. And in my dream I had four babies. So strange. I wasn't even amazed at four babies, I kept thinking it was all normal because it was exactly like my cat. Now... it's macabre. Four babies? Geeze, how the hell would I cope? But it was so easygoing in my dream, it was as if the babies could be programmed. And about dream interpretation... no, it is not my biological clock ticking. It can tick as much as it likes, there is nothing I can do. I was not born to bide by the biological clock. If I had, it would have happened long ago, and as it is, I'm not really one of those poor women who would like to rock the world to have a child. My lifestyle does not permit babies, and I'm ok with that. Babies shouldn't have deviant mothers, and I deviate somehow in a lot of spheres. Not as in the wrong cruel kind of deviant, but deviant just the same. Mothers as supposed to be with their offspring day and night, and I couldn't do that. Nobody can do that when they live like me. So what is this? Do I want four more kittens? Do I think I am a cat? And why 4? What's the connection?

Corporal

I am so so irritated with this mission of mine. I guess I'll have to declare it impossible and lay it to rest. But it doesn't stop me being irritated. And I am suddenly in a foul mood, I could really bite someone's head off and spit their brains out. Sounds gory, but I really could. And anyhow there are plenty of people whose heads are serve no purpose save for decoration because they would have no brains for me to spit out. I have two options, smoke myself to death or just scream. I could probably do both but then I really do not want a van from the mad house coming to pick me up at this unearthly hour. For the fragile, please stop reading here because it's bound to get worse. Ok, so here I go. I need some good old sound s and M where I could just switch and whip someone until they bleed, and watch the welts forming. Oh God, I'm so bad, but it's the truth here. And I know just the man to whip into submission. And it's my wild (but probably correct) guess that he too is into the stuff. A man, way too dominant during the daytime must turn into a sloppy pussy by night. Even the worst murderer has his right to tell his own version of the tale, let alone me or someone little. No I don't hate the guy which is another mystery. I actually think he does a good job, I think he does have brains, and I think he's ok. But that still doesn't let him off the hook; my hook of whipping him until he bleeds. And no, he will not have the right to speak because I'll gag him, tape his mouth if necessary so he won't even be able to beg for the mercy which he will need. And I'll take my time too. And this is so wild, coming from a girl so against corporal punishment. I'm still against corporal punishment in the real world, but this won't be the real world, it'll be the after-hours-my-kind-of-world. And the guy is crying for it so he also thank me. And this is all coming out of the frustration of not being able to find a couple of pants... sometimes anything is a good excuse for making people see themselves in the mirror and think twice next time.

Lost

I am on a mission which is proving impossible. It also is, by now, a 28 hour mission, and yet still impossible. I am trying to locate two pairs of trousers which go with two really classy suits I bought very recently. I just took the pants off for hem alteration, and hey presto I haven't the slightest clue where they've gone. To the moon perhaps? Because it really seems as they have disappeared without a trace. And I want to wear the suits, but cannot very well go pantless. And my birthday isn't due for three months so I cannot even wear my birthday suit.... must keep looking!

The smirk

I feel like a cat; a cat who got the cream, all of it. Finally life is going to start paying its retributions, and I suppose I shouldn't feel so smug, but then I am not so good. I am human and sometimes cannot help the odd smirk when I see something like what I've seen happening. Amazing. It is perhaps the one decent thing I have learnt after working for so many years in the music underworld... patience, and patience of a bad kind. But patience is still a virtue, even if it is of a bad kind. It only makes it a paradox, a bad virtue. I cannot help it, and I'm not even trying. I will probably end up in hell for this silent smirk which speaks volumes. But since I have had no hand in it, my guess is I can smirk, I can bask in the very bad glory. Because although it's bad, it's still glory. The people who thought me sinful just because I co-habitate now should think twice, thrice, four million times. And I've got the last laugh, which is one big laugh as in fortissimo. That's life.

The Fat Tax

Ryan Air is thinking of charging a 'fat-tax' for overweight passengers. They say because us big people will touch the one next to us. Go on I say, I wouldn't mind buying two tickets, but then just because of the fat policy I would never go on Ryan Air anyway. How about charging a 'stinky-tax'? Because some passengers reek of onion, I've had to sit right through a flight to London with a passenger whose body odour was so bad it made me retch. Or how about a black and white tax? Perhaps I do not want the passenger sitting next to me to be black or white for fear my arms would be touching them. Or a retarded-tax policy? Or a baby-tax policy? I would hate having a mum change a diaper right next to me ( and yes I've seen it happening) while I'm having my coffee. And what about an ugly-tax? A frumpy-tax? A priest/nun tax? A Jew tax? A Libyan tax? And about the fat tax, are Ran Air about to employ people with a measuring tape to measure people before they go on board? Or are they weighing them? And what if one big man or woman decides to introduce the 'smash-your-face' policy? We would only be throwing what is legitimately ours... our weight. Because it's ours and we carry it and it's none of your fucking business thank you very much. RyanAir actually rhymes with... BEWARE!

Belonging

Should I feel excited about tomorrow? Yes, I should. Am I? No, not really. Why? Because some people are silent kill-joys. And that's the hardest part of it, the fact that they are silent, unobtrusive and smile as if they were your best friend. Tomorrow will be nothing as difficult in comparison to the countless things I've done in life. But somehow days like tomorrow make me feel good, excited and so so satisfied. I am not talking about the Prosit tal-programm kind of comments. If I had it my way I'd do my stuff and just scurry off before the people start coming out and go home. That is antisocial me and I don't take kindly to change. It is an actual feat for me to know that I will be getting to meet people. But I try. It doesn't come easy, but I still try. Because although I turn social in the kingdom of little people, its difficult in the kingdom of adult people and all their accumulated baggage. Tension will also run high, and I am not about to become the one who people dump their tension on. Somehow, tension is a word I can never understand because I never experience it. As antisocial as I am I do not get tense, I only get afraid in a big gathering, but never tense. I guess the music underworld helps in that respect. You get tense during your first concert, when you've done some 400 of them, they become so very normal. And I am happy to perform, but I am not happy to stay for the praise. So like my mum. And so not like my dad. I could be the ostrich which drowns its head in the ground. My dad would be the colourful peacock who struts showing off all his colours. That different. But I must keep trying. And I must keep trying to learn some lessons off the school stage. Because the world is not very different to a jungle. And yet we must belong.

Red

I don't know what it is that makes a man angry, but my frail brain thinks that a lot of it is fuelled by suspicion. It was the same in the time of Adam and Eve, Napoleon and Josephine, Adolf and Eva, and ... today's man and woman.Some things never change, or better put; the world may have taken giant steps in so many spheres, but mankind remains the same. I have no answer as to why, it just is. And many a time it is unfair, yet it holds just the same. It is impossible for any man, as fit as they might be, to climb a flight of stairs in less time needed to say 'oh fuck!', well I know one man who can actually do that, but he is not in my picture as I write. And perhaps sometimes we should calm down and try and see it as it is; not as we think it is, and certainly not as we have made to think it is. I may look funny, seem weird and eccentric, but I do not fuel a man's anger just to bask in the glory of what? And there it goes again, it's a woman's world after all, the world of a woman who feeds on power but no glory. Behind a man who throws his weight around is a woman who throws her weight around better than him. Watch it because behind a man who barks is a woman who bites. It's all about role play which goes way beyond the safe, thought-free role play in s and M. People who suddenly see red are just the same as the partitarji Laburisti. They also see red. I see my own kind of red and have made my house one towering inferno. So I see enough tangible red, I don't need to see the metaphorical red. And then there are the shades of red. Although alas, they are all red. I'm still thinking why and how. Will get back later.

The Territory

I think that God really knows what He's doing. He's certainly been good at not giving my my own little something. And it's a good thing too. As much as I love little people, having my own would interfere with my lifestyle. And no, I'm not trying to sound like the vixen/fox who couldn't get the grapes. The thing is that being childless lets me savour each grape to the full. And it's possible that having my own little person could make me forget all about the grapes. But I choose the devil I know. I don't want to go where I don't know. And I would be a bad parent because I'd never let go. I cannot even let go of a cat for a weekend break, it doesn't matter if someone comes to feed the cats. The cats know me, I am their mummy, they eat from my hand only. That's only a glimpse into just how territorial I am. So please the next time you look me up and down and wonder in your head, or are rude enough to ask why, now you know why. It's better this way. Sometimes adults confuse me. Sometimes little people confuse me too. But what confuses me the most is the why adults think that little people are going around with half a brain. They don't. Body language, sign language, spoken language, they see it all, and interpret it all. And most times they are right. And sometimes it is also sad that they get to see the wicked side of us adults.....

Sexy Talent?

I am still working, of course having had a lot of breaks, smoking breaks, diet coke breaks. I just have to finalize my project, well actually it's my Mister who's finalizing things. He's good at that and don't I love him for it. I'm good at running my polished nails through my hair and working myself in a state. Have had to re-write the National Anthem and that got me bored, but it had to be done because little people have their own vocal range. And that's ok. It's not as if I'm tired, it's night-time, the time when I deliver my very best. I still cannot for the life of me remember the lyrics of this Innu Malti. I sort of know them but I keep getting confused. Still thinking of Susan Boyle and also thinking of how shallow a world we have become. We love her now, we say she's got the voice of an angel and yet call her a hairy angel. I always think of an angel as something pretty, so it's either an angel or hairy. But we suck, we human beings just suck and we cannot even give a good sucking at that. We expect the sexy kitty to perform well. Humbug. If we want sex we should go to places providing the sex and not to Britain's got Talent. People working in the sex industry look sexy because that is their job.... to look sexy. Talent is something else....

Happy

My house is so full of instruments that I'm glad they don't have a mind of their own and start playing in a mad jig. I also hope my cats will not think they are toys... at least until tomorrow. So far, so good. But it's always on my mind. Well, I've taken the risk. I gone so far with the risk by giving my little people the instruments to try out at home. And I've been called slightly insane for that. But these little people have so far been good with them. Motivation. That's all that is needed. I could have locked them up couldn't I? But I didn't and I won't. I only hope I will find someone to help me carry all the instruments to my car once it's over. They must weigh some 50 kg or more together. Well, here's hoping someone will volunteer, and if they don't I will ask for the help. But I'm happy with the way things are. And happy is one very nice word. They thought I'd lay down and die. And no, it's not the little voices talking to me, although I have plenty of those. And perhaps I was very close to lying down. But I didn't die. I just got resurrected thanks to the little people who never thought I was a freak. The little people who are sometimes naughty, very naughty and who are as mischievous as you can get. It's not all plain sailing. But when I get out of bed in the morning, no matter how late, I just remind myself that I'm off to meet little people. And that always makes me smile. I had lived a life of grandeur, with grand people and grand concerts and grandiose ideas and behaviours and presidential what nots. So many people with so many different temperaments most trying to work the sex instead of the music. I now live a life where the sexual innuendos have all gone, a life filled with little people. And perhaps I do not have the plush red seat in front, but the love of all the little faces full of excitement and wanting to do their best. And I love this life.

Susan Boyle

I wonder what all the fuss about Susan Boyle is all about. Yes, she can sing, but then so do many other thousands of people. So what is is that has made people tick so badly? Is it the extreme shock she cheekily gave the public? A 47 year old virgin (geeeze that's some 30 years of missing out on good old sex), a 47 year old virgin who is not shy to admit she's never been kissed (how is that possible?) a 47 year old virgin who's as frumpy as you can get. I honestly thought I was about to have the laugh of my life when I youtubed her. As it was, I got the shock of my life, and she was no laughing stock. The 47 year old is crying out for a makeoever, please someone wax her facial hair! And this frumpy thing gets a $1million offer to lose her virginity. Cool, nobody offered me anything when I lost mine. And what's more, she gets the offer to do it on film! I had no cameras during my first sex do. And at 47 and never having had sex, she must be really horny. Or maybe she's already lost her virginity to something else, these church mice have a habit of striking a very good friendship with the veggie monger, and they don't buy candles just for church worshipping purposes. Good for them, say I, but please do not announce yourself as a virgin. And let's assume Susan is a virgin, then her hymen must be as thick as the internet cable running under the sea bank from Malta to Italy. It will take more than a prick to break it. It could also lacerate somebody's shaft. And, are there really men out there, men who can get it up by the image of Susan? I'm not so sure but a $1million deal is no joke. But then she's a meek churchgoer so she's probably refuse. I wouldn't. Not for a $1million deal. Get those cameras in here....take 1, take 2, take...whatever you want. And I'll take the $1million thank you very much.

Verona

I am planning a holiday. Which is very not me. I don't plan anything at all. And I'd be a very bad planner anyhow. And, wait for it, at 35 I am planning a holiday... with my dad. It'll be just me and him. Perfect. I know he will grumble about my smoking. But I know that otherwise, it will be fine, no, not just fine, it will be fine. It will be my dad's dream fulfilled. And mine too. I cannot complain, my old man who doesn't look a year older than 40 footing the total bill. Poor dad, he really is a sweetheart. The love of a dad for his daughter is really something. I don't know why he loves me so much. He just does. And I'm not sure I deserve it except for having branched out in the field he loves... music. Otherwise, I've given him a hard time. I haven't been a model daughter although I love him very very much. But a dad forgives and forgets. At least my dad does. I guess he still thinks of me as his little princess. And that makes me cry. Because my dad is not a tough one. He's not like one of those patriarchal dads who govern the house with an iron hand. He's always been like a puppy. I am so so proud of him. I have never ever heard a word against him, and of course, one might argue, a daughter would never hear hard words against her father. But really, people love him. And that in turn makes me jealous because he's mine, all mine. It's a good thing he never had any more daughters. I am way too territorial. And I know what's pushing him to push me into accompanying him on a trip of a lifetime. I know it's because he's got a health scare and is trying to do everything he has ever dreamed of. And we're off to fair Verona where we lay our scene. In fair Verona where we will sit next to each other to feel the drama of opera. And we will need no spoken words. And we will book just one room for two which will raise plenty of eyebrows. But we don't care. It'll be just like little kids enthralled by the drama, the music which only opera can provide. Thanks dad, you're one in a million and I love you so.

The stuck-in-the-80's man

I met a man. Nothing spectacular about that. I don't have much choice, I either meet men or women, there are no in-betweens. But this man is reminding me once again, the joys of blogging. Thanks to him I could have got arrested, because he makes me want to hit him till he is unconscious. And I am not a violent person, I do not have one violent vein in me. But this man gets under my skin, so yes I could slap him silly, smash his face into glass and kick his torso so hard as to break his ribcage. His torso... one thing he thinks is amazing. I know all about torsos and the turn ons they can provide. But this torso is as silly as its owner, it's so short, shorter than mine, and it's not sexy. This man is also stuck in the 80's somehow, with long unruly hair which smells as if he urinated on it, which I am fully aware is not possible. So maybe someone else does the urinating, then it's some kind of water sports or something. The hair probably needs a dozen washes to be able to qualify as human hair. That's not all. This long irritating, foul-smelling excuse for hair is also turning grey. And yet this man somehow does a pirouette sort of thing by flicking it as if to say, Oh man, ain't I cool?! No he's not cool. And I don't usually go by appearance, but this one's speaks volumes about him. The attitude. It sucks. He knows it all. He knows everything. He meddles into every sphere. Because he is professional, or so he thinks. He's not. But he walks in jeans which are sweeping everywhere clean (because he's short haha), and thinks he's so cool. But again, he's not. And for some reason, I'd like to kick his ass.. his physical ass. I have been kicking his ass metaphorically, because this girl is not left in awe by these short men who puff up their chest and walk with a swagger. Sorry Mister, if I tower above you, that is a sign you should stay away. Because he has tried to meddle. And I have kicked back. No such wanker interferes with me and my work. Because I might have loads of shortcomings, but can safely say that I do a swell job. And since I do not interfere, then nobody will interfere with me. Period. Yes, I can be quite heavy (pun not intended) and I can throw my weight around (another pun not intended) beautifully if someone so much as tries to step on my tiny (there *is* something tiny in me) toe on purpose. And yes I am professional, it is even written on my income tax return... professional musician. So there. And I have found myself swearing under my breath until I remembered I could pour it all out in my dear blog...

Excited

I am excited and I'm trying to hide it. I am trying to behave in the way that a lot of my colleagues behave, i.e.,composed, without a hair not in place, authoritative, and cool. But I'm not sure I will manage it. Because little people bring a lot of contagious things with them. And while we keep grumbling about colds and re-colds and re-gastric influenzas and what not, I will not grumble about excitement. That too is contagious, at least for me. And while I look and actually x-ray my colleagues to see if there is a shred of that excitement, which in reality means my trying to fit in somewhere, I see very little of it. That means they are either very grown up or that I'm a classic text-book imbecile. Or, perhaps I haven't grown up very much... on the inside I mean. There could also be another thing lurking my subconsciousness. When I was a little person myself I remember feeling so sad about school projects involving the stage. I was made to sit down and watch. And no I had done nothing bad. So there was I left out while my twin always had the main role. When I asked why, I was told that I had dark hair and that it was a problem. In reality, my dear twin had learnt a very good art, the art of licking arse. I, on the other hand, was a quiet little girl who had books as her companion. I wished someone would let me take part, but it was never to be. And I have carried that to this very day. And so, this day, I try and make sure that everybody is happy, dark-haired, blond, redhead, whatever colour of the spectrum. Because everybody had feelings. They start from the moment of conception... probably till the day we die. And if I can help it, I want every little person to remember schooldays as the best days of one's life. I want them to look back and remember the excitement. At least I try.

Facebook and the anthropologist

I have been lazing around on Face book, and watching what must be the most interest anthropology ever. It actually sucks, but is still interesting. Yes it makes me into a big eavesdropper wanting to know another's business. I will not hide that. It is what Face Book is all about after all. But really, some people's stupid flirtations are the perfect excuse to keep throwing up. One says, hi, you're lovely, you're so smart, you're so good. When he is actually meaning to say...I want to sleep with you but I know your boyfriend is also on Facebook so I am writing in code. Another says, oh you're so brilliant, you take my breath away with what you do, I cannot wait to see you again. When she actually means... I want to sleep with you but I know other people can see this so I cannot just say it as it is. And it goes on and on and on. All the lovey-dovey things which are illicit. Because Face book also has it's illicit lovers, mistresses. Women who swoon at the slightest hint of a man's fame and power. And hungry man who would fuck anything resembling the slightest version of female.. or male. Like it or not, Facebook has become a real world. There is nothing more virtual about it. It is perhaps even more forward than real life because people are behind a monitor, and monitors are somehow very good at helping people to lose their inhibitions. Cool. And then perhaps people are getting caught up in the raw heat of the moment and do not actually realise that there are people like me out there, people who like to 'research' a lot of things, mainly what's going on with this one and that one. all me an interfering curious meddling brat. That's what I am. But at least I'm not making anybody throw up. I am just the essence of humankind that's all.

Il-Gedu`

There is one man who is extremely unique. He is as cheeky as you can get. I have known him for a long time and albeit all the hurtful, incorrect, downright base remarks I have heard about him, he is the one true friend you get in life... if you're lucky. And I'm lucky. His proper name is Joseph, but I have always called him Gedu`. Together we have history, musical history, laughing history, crying history, and loving history. No, no sexual history at all. He is like my other brother. And I trust him just like my brother. He is actually a wise, intelligent chap who will sometimes split your sides with laughter. And... a brilliant musician. He has been there when I cried a lot and when life was so bleak, but I'll say it all in detail tomorrow. I have also had the luck of having this friend working with me within my School College. It couldn't have been better. And he's just been here, at this unearthly hour, to make me happy for my own school project. Gedu`... you're the best. Yes they said so many things, but I go with the evidence, because the evidence never lies.

The dreams

I am still thinking about the really bad night I had and I'm hoping it will be a good one tonight. I cannot have another dream like that. It was like a James Bond film being played backwards. Ok no weapons, but plenty of other action going on. I replayed a scene in my youth (yeah I'm old now), I was probably 22 back then and in real life actually had a lot of action going on. But it was a strange dream where I spoke in French, and although I can also do that in real life, I was constantly trying to avoid and escape another woman's suspicions while getting in on with her husband. Sounds difficult now, but it was very real at 22. Amazing delirious dream where I also had my way and left her stranded. Red dress and heels, poor hubby just lost it, as he did when I was 22. But I am looking at the photos of now and poor hubby doesn't look like a catch at all. He was back then. But I also stranded him, as soon as he stranded the wife. And I've never got over that. My conscience has a habit of creeping up on me, sometimes in these vivid dreams. The thing is it didn't feel bad in the dream. It was all excitement, all plush red velour, all Moulin Rouge style. Me included. I did look like that at 22 anyway. But what hit me so bad, is that I felt so powerful. The world was at my feet and I was about to be a mistress in more than many ways. The world was my slave... in the dream. Not so now. I wonder what dreams may come.

Sorbet?

A friend of mine has just told me about the latest stylish in-thing. Sorbet sex.. She has had me open mouthed for a good minute and deep in thought for a good hour. It seems it's the latest thing. How did I not get to know about it? And it's got our straight from Sex and the City! How did I not know? Am not very fond of sorbets. Frozen stuff with a mushy consistency. Not my idea of sugary delights. But it makes sense. Sorbet sex is just the new term to our old sex-buddy idea. Men have been doing it for years, being a Jack the lad, we almost expect them to have been around the block behaving like that. Finally, we girls have a new word for it. It's for the in-between times of drought when we're over the first course as in a stable relationship. But we're not ready for the main course as yet. However our body physically might not be very much in tune with our pretty heads. So we take a sorbet to wash away the taste of the relationship which might have turned sour and now tastes foul. And we are women enough to admit that yes, of course, we can take our times sifting through the mushy sorbet, and get laid. Just as good as the boys have done. The main course can wait...

Junky?

I have strangely been sick for a whole 24 hours. And it's not been pleasant. It's a funny type of being sick, but a bad one. A being constantly nauseous, throwing up every half hour, splitting headache, shivering, lack of sleep, and delirious dream type kind of sick... during the odd hour that I managed to sleep. Doc says pregnant symptoms, but that is definitely not on. Why do docs keep not ruling pregnancy out even when you know for a fact and tell it to them like it is? Is it because my time window is getting smaller? Don't they realise that some women were not born to bear offspring? Duh, I can never understand this. What I have gone through in the past 24 hours is more like what a junky would go like once he'd come clean. But I am not into drugs, never have been. Perhaps it's the one intelligent decision I have made. Of course I have been offered them, of course I have seen my friends go high. But for some reason, they have failed to interest me. One part of that is that I figured that an addictive person like me would really end up becoming a junky. I am addicted to nicotine, to chocolate. And that's enough. Drugs... no thank you. Life's tough enough. And yes of course I've been laughed at for being a drug spoilsport. I didn't care, I wasn't going to become addicted to another thing like that. So I chose shoes instead, my guess is it's a much healthier option. And yet I am suffering like a junky. Which is so strange. And it makes me angry. I am not one to eagerly await Saturday night so that I can binge drink. I do not wait for parties so that I can swallow something to get high or low. I really don't know much about drugs, all I know, through the info relayed to me by those smart little people, that drugs interfere with your brain. Cool little people, cannot wait to see them again. And since my brain does not work quiet right anyway, something interfering with it.... it would make me go loony anyway. I can never understand why people binge-drink and binge-drug themselves. They are reduced to throwing up people. And throwing up is not nice. It hurts, and it makes me so scared. And although I've missed out on all of this, I am still feeling like... a junkie. Perhaps I am lacking sleep. But I'm scared to sleep because it's bringing on some heavy delirious dreaming. Perhaps I've just got the 24 hour virus and it'll all go away soon. I hope so. Because I'm no junky.

So Silly

Sometimes you are persuaded into/coerced/forced into meeting meeting someone you don't want to meet. At least I do. And it's happened so many times, that persuasion, no matter how sly doesn't work anymore. Nowadays I go by my own hunch and what I think goes. It's safer for bother parties. Safer for me because I don't want to my dark side to make me say things (albeit true) which makes a mess out of an evening. Safer for the other party because possibly they wouldn't even begin to understand what I mean, and maybe laugh instead of cry. Which makes it even safer for the dragon inside me to stay asleep. Because that dragon, always so gentle and calm, will suddenly throw fireballs from his mouth. And I know through experience, that once it starts, it will not stop until it exhausts itself and gets messy. I am actually a shy, quiet individual who keeps herself to herself. I am probably not very exciting because I read too much, smoke too much and I cannot even make myself drink an exciting drink except for Diet Coke. I would love to try out the Margaritas, the Cosmopolitans... but alas I am boring. Boring... up to a point. Boring... until I am faced with a silly individual who thinks I am going to swallow her act, just has her lover, having been deprived of good sex for years, and suddenly intoxicated with probably bad fellatio has swallowed (pun not intended). I like women. A whole lot, probably more than is good for me. And I like silly women too because they make me laugh.. But I do not like women who are playing the silly part just to get their own ways which are most of the time financial. These women can play silly as much as they think it fit, but I have a right not to meet them. And that is just the situation I am in. I have said no. I have said why. The problem is that I am not even being heard. I have vocalised why not very very well, in fact I think I have given a very good speech not withstanding my shyness. The other problem is that a man whose vision is clouded by fresh sex is a strange man who becomes deaf. Not my problem. He actually keeps saying there is some misunderstanding. There are plenty of understandings all of which bad. That's all. But it seems I'm talking in Greek. Silly women. And sillier men who have not yet grasped the concept of blow-up dolls.

Sheep

I'm up again, dreading the fact that I will be at my mum's in an hour. I just called in and although I didn't talk to her I could imagine her expression. Hello dad, Hi, I'm going to be late. To which dad said, ok see you later. He's laid-back. She's not. Which isn't a flaw, but a characteristic I have inherited. I have inherited a lot, perhaps too much. I wish I had inherited her svelte figure, not her beauty, her trim trendy build. As for beauty, let's call it facial beauty, I'm the one who has got it all. Not even my sexy twin has the facial beauty to go with it. So there, I guess it has all been shared appropriately. Yesterday I got a glimpse of how difficult it is to be 11 years old. Nobody understands you at 11 years old. If that is true, then I am still 11 years old because I really feel as if nobody understands what is lurking in this brain of mine. I wish I'd been given a pea-sized brain sometimes; what you don't know won't hurt you. It's when you know full on, full blast that the hurts really begin to hurt and burn. I was actually quite a content 11 year old living in my own world. I saw my twin as very childish when he was just the same age as me. He didn't think, I did, I'm sure I did. It was the time when I read so many many books. I read and read and was very happy locked away in my own world of books. I was a model student, my music awareness was quite terrifying. It was when the world seemed so easy. It was easy being a model student and it was easy being musically precocious. My dad was so pleased, it just never was easy pleasing mum. She'd lock away my dad's library so I couldn't read. True. I swear it's true. She'd lock away my music because she didn't like where it was going. Also true. I also swear it's true. She wanted a 'normal' child, probably one she could control. She's not stupid, she probably could already see the daggers I had for her in my eyes. She also could probably see the love I had for my dad in my eyes, and the love he had for his daughter. Geeze, Freud would have won a million dollar wager had he taken me and my dysfunctional family relationship and written about it only. It was so strange, when all the other mums begged their daughters to read, here was one mum, my mum, who wanted the reading to stop. I admit, I read a whole lot. But it wasn't hurting anybody, it was just making me get straight A's in a lot of things. At 11 I loved Graham Greene, D.H. Lawrence, and Thomas Hardy. She wanted me to read Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte and to read about those infamous Little Women. I didn't. So I became very good at 'stealing' books off my dad's shelf. I'd take one and hide another under my vest for later. At the same time, she got so pissed off at me having my very first female flow. She thought I was too young for it, and probably realized that if there was one thing she wasn't controlling, it was my body. I guess and think, years later that such a tiny woman was not able to cope with her big daughter. It seemed as if I were some kind of threat, sometimes as if I were about to take her place somehow. So so dysfunctional. I think I still took her place anyhow. And if I could look back with psychotherapy glasses it wouldn't take me long to find out why. My mum is what she is; a prudish puritan who must have harboured so many kinky secrets somewhere. And just because her kinky, possibly gory kinky secrets never saw light... that is what I get. It's I who have been on the couch, when perhaps she should have been there before. But she'll never admit to it. She's perfect while I will always be the blackest sheep. And I wonder that says about the ewe.

Blog therapy

If it weren't for this blog I'd be dreadfully poor, homeless and I wouldn't have anything to call my own. It would all go to couch therapy. But I'm a clever (little?) girl, just as my dad used to say, so I've found the anti venom to mum-venom. And it doesn't cost me €100 per hour, it costs me a cigarette, a diet coke, and an Internet connection. A blog is also good for anger management, on the days when you really want to squeeze someone's neck and get turned on by the pleasure of seeing him struggle to live. Blogging is so much safer. It doesn't make you less of a criminal, because the thoughts are there anyway, but nobody gets arrested for thinking. I'm still thinking about the queer title just imposed on me. And although I know that I'm a messed-up kid in many ways, I still don't think it's fair. When I was 7 and going to Catholic lessons, I used to hear all about sinning, and that a sin qualifies as a sin owing to the intention. That meant that Jan Val Jean never deserved his prison sentence for stealing a loaf to feed his family who would otherwise have gone hungry. He stole for a valid reason and for not having any other opportunity. It, in turn, also means that I do nothing wrong by loving cats and dogs. According to the Bible expert in my immediate community; my mother (shit it's always her getting under my skin), I have sinned because I haven't got married and gone forth and multiplied. Instead I have turned to animals (no hint at bestiality whatsoever please). And whenever she hints at that, it hurts. I guess plenty of us would have liked to gone forth and multiplied, but it doesn't happen for some. And instead of getting bitter, we go by the law of sublimation and turn our attention to something else. My guess is that my mother did nothing special in the sack. It just turned out special by getting a two for the price of one bonanza. Trust her to hit gold and get me into the world. If only I could draw, I'd draw special diagrams just for her to see to tell her what I've been doing in the sack. She'd be shell-shocked, and maybe she would just be playing the part of repression and suppression. Anyway here's three cheers to this blog. I've got it off my chest for next to nothing. And no sinning.

Queer?

So I actually decided to make an effort because it's Easter and it should be a happy time. I needn't have bothered. Why the fuck I still bother to make an effort when I know that whatever I say or do is going to be met either by anger or by mocking... by my mum of course. She said something about her neighbour's daughter who is my age. Apparently this daughter has a cat, a very beautiful cat my my mum''s standards. cat who could make it to the circus, because according to my mum she's got a very clever cat who can do tricks. So I, like any other doting mummy, got so enthusiastic and told her that Ding could do this, Dong did that, Tancred did something else, Bagheera was lonely because all the others do not like him, and I also told her that my little cat Mimi` was just like her. She really is just like my mum, she moans a lot until she gets what she wants. And I guess it wasn't a very good idea because I saw her mouth going into a sarcastic silent tantrum. And she asked me if I really was calling cats by their names. Well of course I do. And she called me queer. And I know just the type of queer she was aiming at. Not the sexually queer of course, she would beat me at that. But the text-book kind of queer old lady who, having never known men, turns to cats, giving them lavish attention and making them her world. And I cannot find anything wrong with sweet old ladies like that, they care for cats doing a good job and harming nobody. But I know my mum, she just couldn't resist a kick in my butt, even if it is on Easter Day. And the kick bounced off her. My butt can be hard to kick at you see. I told her that I couldn't be queer in that sort of way, since according to her I am a big pastaza and have slept with one million men. I haven't of course, but that is what she thinks. So disgusted I was with her reaction I decided it was time for shock tactics, so I explained how exciting it is to be at it and being watched by all six of my cats. That isn't true either but it did the trick. She was desperately wanting something to be appalled at, and I gave it to her. Happy Easter Mum. And yes, I'll keep calling my cats by their name.

Like a virgin?

I have just taken yet another Facebook quiz, partly out of boredom and partly out of being annoyed with myself for not being able to find brand new jewellery which I bought and never wore and probably put in a place long forgotten. I'm always forgetting where I put things. Maybe it's the 'dementia' of my middle-aged life, which sounds so scary but which is true. I'll be middle-aged in a few years anyway. So I just took a rather appealing "Do You Have A Dirty Mind?" quiz. And I was sure I'd score a big yes with the highest percentage. Because I thought my mother was right about me being a pastaza. It seems not. My score reads... You're the innocent one, very pure. I couldn't believe it, I took the quiz again, same answer. I'm pure.. hey hey hurray. That means I am going to have a lot of thinking to do, and perhaps also book the therapeutic couch. I have a bad impression of myself. I always think I'm bad at this and that, and that I am really bad, mostly because of life's experiences. I now finally conclude that I'm not. And it has taken a lousy Facebook quiz to convince me. Because I've been thinking, that perhaps I have been made to feel all bad and guilty when really, it was never my fault. I have come to see a lot of double standards in my mother's judgements. I still try to make excuses for her in the fact that she is a brilliant mum where material things are concerned. Not so in the psychological. When, at 19, I ended my first love relationship which had been going on for 5 years, she approved, but still made it clear pointing out how much time I had lost. When my cousin ended his relationship at 20 she felt genuinely sorry for him. So did I. But why did she never have compassion for me while having loads for her nephew? She said it was my fault for making bad choices. And it stuck. And I rebelled and went on a series of many relationships doomed to fail at the start. I wasn't even looking for love but for power and for things my mother would never approve of. Perhaps to kick her psychological butt. Perhaps because it was all so exciting. But I fell in love again and she blamed me for the relationship ending after another five years. Because of course, out came the classic, I choose wrongly. And then I just played havoc with all the unavailable men I found, who I shrugged off the instant they became available. Somehow, suddenly it was love again, real real love. And of course I kept it secret, because, at 25 I was still scared of my mum. She found out anyway and was a real pain in my ass, I tried to tell her I could do nothing because love is something which grips your whole self. She didn't understand, she didn't even want to understand because I had a married man on my hands again. And once the married man became ex-married she was appalled. I think she got very mad as in psyche. She would trail us, come to my door and eavesdrop. Totally crazy. I was 25, he was 45. It's not as if we were kids. And I knew I had limited time on my hands. I told her so. She didn't believe me. She ranted and raved about how sexually bad I was, when that actually meant I was good in the sack. My mum is a prude, a prude which I suspect tried to curb her longings so hard that she got hard on her offspring. And I remember her fallen face when death came and axed out the man I loved. I cried. I cried because I had lost my love. She should have cried because her daughter cried because she had lost a love. Instead she cried for what the neighbours were about to think. And I remember sitting down and wanting to wipe her face out. Honestly. Perhaps it is not what daughters should think or do, but that is just what I felt. My dad... poor old dad cried because he saw his daughter was sad. My mum just said I had made the wrong choice and had let the sex go to my head. And I really couldn't understand how she could make such a statement seeing that I had never invited her to see me in the bedroom action. We do not choose who we love. But prude mum doesn't understand that. And I flew off the handle and told her that perhaps now she'd be happy seeing my true love-story had really ended. Her silence said everything. She now was content. Hard to believe. But very true. And she wouldn't take my crying saying I didn't have reason to cry for a man who was not my husband. So instead of killing her on the spot, I took off and sat alone. I slept alone, I didn't eat, I did everything alone. And it was hard. But mankind somehow will adapt if there is the will. And slowly, very very slowly, I began dating again, not for the date's sake, but for at least having someone to talk to sometimes. From outing I became ingoing, from extrovert to deep introvert. I always thought that I at least was lucky because I had experienced real love twice. Some people do not have that luxury in a lifetime. That was it. I was on my own. But as fate would have it, love crept in again and the frowns turned to smiles. I loved another man who loved me in return, and this time, there was no flipping way my mum was butting in. She tried. She tried her hardest. But I had swore never to allow her access, and that was it. It's been six years now, and she still tries. She tries and plays on my empty maternal feelings, and uses the classic comparisons to the Jones's. This entry could probably be a classic for appreciating the dysfunctional relationship between a woman and a daughter. People say my mum is a saint. I say her daughter is even more of a saint for having borne her constant putting-down. I know she's not proud of me. Unlike my dear old dad. And yes I am angry at her. She thinks she's done right for having given everything materially. Mums aren't made just to be material. I haven't given her grandchildren to manipulate as she did me. Not all women were made to bear children. Some have dirty minds and say it like it is. Some are pure and innocent and harbour the dirtiest secrets in their heart. Some were made just to be loved. And I am one of them, as innocent or as bad as I can be. Everyone fucks. My mum fucked, I am proof of that. And being a good fuck just not make you bad. It makes you just that... a good worthwhile fuck.

Pastizzi and erotica

Good Friday is almost over. I can't say I'm sorry about it. I've blocked my TV permanently on LivingTV, I have only been over to my mum's so I cannot say that I've seen any Good Friday reminders. Which is good. The only thing is, that some Face Book users have been really staunch Catholics. One in particular seemed to be irritated about having seen people eating pastizzi. Poor old pastizzi. They must be the number one enemy for cholesterol all right, but why take it out on pastizzi just because it's Good Friday? I cannot for the life of me, find anything disturbing or God-disrespectful about pastizzi. They don't even contain meat so why is it annoying? Does God hate pastizzi? I'm not sure He was ever around to taste them, and if he were, my best bet is He'd love them and make himself sickly silly over them. I have also shocked my mum (not intentionally) because she spied my forever Rothmans Blue peeping out of my pocket. Yet again, does God hate Rothmans Blue, or perhaps is he into some kind of other brand? Some people hate smoking. The trouble is the exact minute when a smoker is born. Loads of us (at least those in my generation) have tried at least one cigarette. There are the ones who will hate it immediately, cough themselves for an hour and decide that smoking is bad. Then there are other ones like me, who have instantly taken to the tar and nicotine. My twin is of the former. He hated it. I am of the latter. I loved it, and was born a smoker at 15. I still love it. But will God really see me as hateful because I smoke on his Good Friday? Will God really find people who are eating pastizzi on a Good Friday hateful? It's not as if we're acting like some Kamekaze. It's not as if we're murdering someone or torturing someone to death. Perhaps smoking kills us, perhaps it will make me live 10 less years. But I will have at least have lived the 10 less years pleasured by the tar and nicotine. It's hard for non-smokers to understand, but we smokers love it. It is a turn on, just like any other sexual turn on. Turn ons and fore play and passionate. All can be so not sexual. I get turned on by shoes on display, trying them out is foreplay, and actualky wearing them is passion. And I don't even need a rubber to protect me from all the STD's. The same goes for jewellery. I have just bought myself an Easter present; a massive artistic, stylish pendant in the form of a massive sun set with diamonds. It turns me on, putting the chain on is as erotic as any bedroom scene, and yes it makes me wet with all the passion too. And I still don't need a rubber. And now I really have no idea how this has gone from innocent pastizzi to rubbers and erotica. And oh dear, all of this on a Good Friday. The thing is, God will never love people less for eating pastizzi. He will never ever love me less for my passion of shoes and jewellery. God made people to be turned on. He made people to know passion. And it's a sorry creature he who does not have the ability to experience all of this. Because God made people as people and me and me.

The Gore

I love the holidays. Who doesn't? But I hate Easter and everything that's got to do with it. Yesterday I was called a heathen. But really I'm not. I just don't like celebrating the horror and torture of a man as good as Jesus. Because He just didn't deserve all that. And no, I don't care if He did it to save me. That was way too much. Easter statues give me the creeps. I hate looking at them, they're so full of blood and gore. Is the horrid death of a good person really something nice to celebrate? I think not. I don't care if I should at least go and have a look at the facade of some church, I'm staying put. Tomorrow will be worse, because we have a tradition of going to take a good look at all the gore represented in processional statues. Thanks, but no thanks. It's really not my style at all. I will probably be watching Living TV which seems to be a whole lot similar to me in the respect that it too doesn't give a hoot about Easter and the horrible death of a good man. I will of course celebrate happy things such as birthdays, because that is what Christmas is all about. But I will not celebrate deaths, especially when they are made to look so poignant so as to outwit the next village. And I will still smoke and drink Diet Coke, because I don't think God will love me any less if I do. And if I decide to crack open a figolla (which really is the only good thing about Easter) on Good Friday, I don't think I will fill God with wrath. Then again why is it called GOOD Friday if it is all about blood, gore, and crucifixions? It should be called GORY Friday instead. I can see nothing good about the whole thing. And my mum will ask if I've sacrificed something, to which I will answer of course not, and which will assure a lengthy sermon about the possibility of my going to hell. But I won't go to hell, at least not tomorrow. It's also a no meat policy. Which really, in this day and age makes no sense. I am carnivorous, but I also like fish, veg and a whole lot of other things. Stupid policy. There will probably also be a no sex policy, but who cares about that? Does God really want us to be sad for a day? I guess not. I've had enough sad days to last me a hundred lifetimes. And I hope God was there looking on, although it didn't feel like it at the time. I've had my own mourning, my own grief, and if God is really God, then he knows that looking at all the gory statues will harm me immensely. Because I have been crucified myself. And nobody turned up in hundreds to watch and pray for me. And no, I'm not bitter. I just know what would send me reeling back to the big black dingy hole. And if God is love, then He wouldn't want his daughter to be sad just for the sake of being sad. God wouldn't force His daughter to see one image which would turn back the clock 8 years. Because there is one part of the whole story which I cannot take. So I will just pretend that it's just like any other Friday. Because God would want me to be happy. At least I think so.

How sexual are you?

I have been doing brilliantly at wasting time; taking so many FaceBook quizzes. And the results are sometimes so very uncannily correct. But one in particular has had me and my friends in shots of laughter. It's called, "How sexual are you?". And the result is something I never expected; "You have a high sex drive!". Yeah, right. It would have made so much sense were I still in my twenties. But I'm not. What's worse is that this has come just days after my having to buy a new mattress, as a kind colleague pointed out. It's a good thing my mum is anti-social when it comes to computers, and that my dad is computer illiterate. I could care less for my twin, his sex drive is as high as Mount Everest. It's a well known fact. But while I do think of sex as in population sex, I do not consider myself as having a high sex drive. I guess I should at 35, but I just am not. I like to think of the theory of sublimation. Sometimes, well, a lot of times, people with a high sex drive are artistic and tend to branch out their drive into the artistic drive. And thank God for that. It saves the world of a lot of paedophiles and rapists. It truly does. At least that is what the theory says. And it makes sense. And I realise how much I've changed. And I don't know if it's for the better or not. I definitely do not have a high sex drive. I blame it on a little yellow pill which I take for a literal hell of a lot of reasons. One missed pill, and it would turn hellish for me. Of course I do not expect to have the same kind of sex drive as when I started out at 15. Then, the world was so different. We had no cell phones, no Internet, so... I guess we made out instead, or as the in-word was back then, we bonked ourselves silly, ever so fearful that a kiss would make us pregnant. That was what the nuns said. We still went ahead and kissed, and found out it didn't make us pregnant. Things change, life changes and we get older. And suddenly my idea of a good evening is not bonking (oh that word again) in the back seat of someone's car. Not that I've ever done that anyway. At 15, I already knew I was kind of royalty, so bonking al fresco was never on. I always wanted the luxury to go with the sex. The satin sheets (which can break someone's neck), the room service... the works. And getting turned on nowadays does not necessarily mean sex. I can get turned on by Chanel, it never fails. I get turned on by a whole lot of other things, which are far from sexual. If this is right or not for a 35 year old I have no clue. But I als have pets now, and being watched has never been my idea of a good bonk, even if it's the cats watching . Weekend breaks... I hate them. They simply mean that you should actually bonk. For me they mean a really boring time. But back to FaceBook and it's how sexual are you? Facebook thinks I'm extremely sexual. The royal I thinks it's a very wrong diagnosis. I guess I need to book the sex therapy couch... again!