Beck?

Ok that's me settled. Whatever it was, I've slept it all off, and it's a brand new spanking girl writing now. Although still feeling weak, I started the morning off with something which made me smile. This Facebook thing is an awesome thing. You get to meet the people you liked and haven't met for 20 years, you get to meet new people who become your friends, and you also get to me funny, ridiculous people who think a lot of themselves but are just blown up with hot air. I wonder where they get their hot air from. But it's so funny! What is funnier is that they have regular columns in newspapers, think they are cool, write in what they think is tongue in cheek, when it really is all about tongue being stuck out in rudeness. And that makes it all the more funny. Think of a pompous old ass who thinks he's so bright and clever. The same ass who wants to drive a point home with me, the point being something he invented in the first place. And what do I do? Fuel his tongue (and old one too) and mind (the little he has of it) and never answer. And it makes him all the more heated, temperamentally heated of course. It's such a laugh. It's so nice having the upper hand with people who think they are really God's gift to human kind. As for his newspaper contributions... well, seriously, my bloggings would put them to shame, crush them in seconds. His musings are after all his penis extensions. But I don't want him to know, so he can continue making a fool of himself and his heavy breakfasts and keep giving me a jolly good old laugh. Because if someone's back, I have been there before.

Still hung up

Good very early morning. Extremely early too. I have woken up to a very strange world, that of half six in the morning. I haven't seen this side of the world for many years. And I haven't been very glad to see it now. What a hell of a night. In the very hellish sense. So I said we were out to dinner. Of course, we did go out, park, then I just felt sick, very sick. Something like big evening sickness. So it was back here with a couple more stops for obvious reasons. Being sick doesn't come in single file for me. I hope I never have to feel that sick for a long time. I thought I'd sleep it off, but I just didn't. Kept getting up rushing to the loo and stuff. I have always wondered how bulimics live, it just cannot be a comfortable life. And it doesn't feel any better either. Another and.... this time I've done nothing to displease the Gods? So Why? I'm not sure why. I am only sure that perhaps it's a tough one for me to handle seeing people in pain and feel so helpless. Now I wish I hadn't chosen such a date for an appointment. Very selfish I know, but being this sick isn't helping anybody. At 35, I've been round the block quite a few times, the block of mental health. But yesterday just threw me back so many years. I am not quite sure whether it was because I looked straight into the eyes of a very sick woman. Mad perhaps, but I hate that kind of madness. I like the shoe-shopping kind of madness, the diamond kind too. But that's about it. But what really clinched it was one sentence coming from a man who should have known better. I said, she was crying poor thing. He said, u iwa loads of people cry. And that shocked me more than anything. And no of course it wasn't my Mister, he was shocked too. How can I not feel for someone in terrible pain? I cannot, this man could. Big shame on him, he should have known much much better. And I can take although never understand the mind of a girl living in a totally different world, and yes I know a psychotic mind creates twisted versions of truths and untruths, but that was totally out of order. Even if coming out of a dominant's person mouth. Because dominance and medicine do not mix well.

Doctor's office

I am being hurried my by grand old Mister because he wants to go out for dinner. Fine, that will happen after I write my entry here. Not before, because no this time it cannot really wait. I am thinking... do I have a 'I can help you' sign sprawled over my face our what? Why do suffering human being seem to suddenly fall into my lap? Why does it happen to helpless me? So I was at the doctor's office, which type of doctor I will not specify, waiting there so happy with my new hairstyle. Up comes this woman who looks as me and instantly starts crying. Geeze am I terrifying looking or what? Have I done something wrong? She was a complete stranger. Yet she suddenly broke down completely. Now I do not have an MD degree, but really it didn't require a degree to figure out this woman was in a hell of a lot of pain. Through her incoherent tears she was coherently saying she was extremely sad and she wanted to die. Oh hell no, this wasn't happening. But it was, and as if on remote, I just got up, took her by the shoulder sat her down, took her hand and hugged her. And this is reserved me. But I could not be unmoved by her sheer pain, she was shaking. Yep there it all was, she was severely depressed, severely agitated, severely frightened all in the same amounts. How was she alone? She just blurted her whole life story, seems life has treated her very very badly. But I looked into her eyes, and there it was a hint of the psychotic. Whatever it was, this poor girl was in pain, so I could only hold her, reassure her. And since she cried because she wasn't sure if she had enough money for the doctor, I just gave it to her. Now I know, scams are all over the place, but this was no scam. Nobody could be in that much pain for money. It was all too real, and let's just say she was at the correct doctor's office too. It hurt me, so so so much. Because there was very little chance of calming her down. I just talked, cuddled her, hugged her did whatever came to my mind. And she finally relented and became sane for a moment. And it hurt me more, because this wasn't a case of it could be me, but rather she was the I eight years ago. And I tried telling her, look look, I have been there and it gets better, it really does. I don't know if she believed me, what she told me would have made people scurry off as a frightened mouse. Not me. Because I've seen it all, heard it all, felt it all. And it made me stop for a moment, oh God this was me, this is what I looked like and it wasn't pretty. And I suddenly understood why people were scared of me. They weren't scared of me, but scared of the pain which was in me. As it happened, I kept her talking, till my appointment time was in, then realised I'd better give her my place and wait some more. She was even scared of the doctor. Now this doctor is nothing to look at, but so so kind. And I tried telling her that, you're not going to see Brad Pitt, but you're going to see a kind man who will not ill-treat you. What a strange thing to think, going to a doctor you're scared of. But everything is real in a depressed world with psychotic tendencies as well as suicidal thoughts. I led her to the doctor's room, gave him one look.. he understood. I winked and told him, you're going to be kind and be extra careful with this girl right? Right. He totally understood, I was saying nothing to him but saying something for her to calm her down. And I sat down, and cried. I couldn't stop. So bad was the hurt. Pretty blond green eyed girls shouldn't be in that state in the first place. And I waited for her to emerge, she was visibly better and by that time her boyfriend has arrived, a good boyfriend whom I talked to, a good kind man. I don't know what else happened to that girl. I gave my number to her boyfriend just in case. Because as life would have it she lives so close by. I'm not sure what I would have done if I had been the doctor, not sure if I would have taken the risk. But I'm still thinking about her. I hope she has calmed down, I hope her pain will be not too big to bear. I hope for a lot of things. And it's still hurting me. I know that Doc has done the best he could. It still hurts. Because today I looked into the mirror and went down memory lane. And it has been a shock. And a bigger shock, because I have healed so well. I hope the girl heals as well. Because she is God's daughter too.

Weddings

Weddings. How I hate them. I hate them so much that I haven't even gone and carried out my own. That's as much as I hate them. I do not hate the commitment part per se, although I have my reservations, but I hate the white white white hustle and bustle with a vengeance. I hate the all things virgin, white flowers, white nails, white dresses. When really why is it so important to be virgin? Does virgin deserve such a lavish wedding party? If so, then my party will consist of hobz biz-zejt, which really sounds very attractive to me. And then, the worst possible most unattractive thing of all, a groom all in white. That sucks. I would never want to marry a Holy Communion Boy. Not that I have anything against Holy Communion, but I want a man man man, not a man in a pageboy outfit. Oh but that's because the groom is a virgin too. I didn't think of that one before. Now that one really sucks. Now that is so dishonest. Are there any virgin brides left? Any virgin grooms? I sincerely hope not. My first time was nothing to shout about, but at least that's happened 20 years ago and I can put it behind me as part of my childhood (yes it is childhood, because that's what I was, a child back then). But putting it as a start to married life? Oh hell no. Just as I'd have the wedding rehearsal then I would have the sex rehearsed too. But it still is supposed to be virgin, well at least for your first marriage. What I just cannot imagine is, suddenly sharing a bed with someone, suddenly having sex with someone. God, just imagine all the fumbling about. Is it here.? emm no, here? No. Here? No, Here. No again. Forget it. But then that's what you would expect out of a white wedding. Thing is, why all the glee about virgin? It's not as if it give you a feather in you cap, but better still a feather in your thingy? Would I have loved to marry my first boyfriend all in white? Thank God that didn't happen, he's in some cell somewhere. Really. But then I could never have married my first boyfriend as a virgin because....yes I loved the bad ones. Second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh... I have lost count. And I couldn't have married most of them because they were already married. Yes I loved the adrenaline rush of doing what you're not supposed to. I'll always have to admit that being a mistress is something every woman should try. Do not fall in love though, so you will not end up broken hearted every time his missus has a headache. Now thinking about me, that means that I know all about married life, from the other side. I will have no trouble sleeping with the man I marry because he'll be then a married man and I have plenty, plenty, plenty of experience as sleeping with married men. True I sound like a bitch, but then I will always recommend that it's good to be a bitch as least for one time in your life. Now, I'm no bitch anymore, although there is perhaps some residue of the past. Weddings again, maybe I will spare you mine, and you've got to kiss my feet for that (mistress residue).

Unsettling

Such an unsettling feeling I have tonight. If it were yesterdays I'd have blamed it on the heat. But not today. It's a day (or night) when I know that the lights in my house will be on for at least half a dozen hours more. And it's almost 11pm. Yes I'm going to have to drag myself in tomorrow. Something doesn't feel right. I have just changed all my winter wardrobe to summer and I'm amazed at all the clothing I have. And it's damn pretty too. So that should make me happy. Trouble is it doesn't. It's not the clothing's fault of course. It's the niggling feeling of change. And of course I don't want change. I might also have to make a decision, the hardest one yet, and I don't know how to decide. I also don't want to make myself guilty, because we all have different personalities and I've known about this decision making being very difficult for me ever since I was little. I could never choose something out of a toyshop. So I'd end up getting two. Thankfully dad was the type of dad who would have given me the moon. He still is. I don't want to say things which I will regret tomorrow but it really feels so empty inside. Perhaps I should take a course about decision-making, because it's all so very Greek to me. I keep swaying this way and that. And it reminds me of my dear twin who is off in Spain. He doesn't think twice about decisions that's for sure. I really will never understand the extreme freak of a nature which made us twins. We only have a birthday which is similar. Nothing else. Am stopping here. I just don't have the energy tonight. Sorry guys, I know I'm not very entertaining this evening. It'll be a brand new day tomorrow.

Gay

Gay. The word means happy, without a worry. It's a nice word, so harmless. Gay, let me think what meaning I can come up with. Merry, lively, cheerful, happy, jovial, glad, joyous, gleeful, light hearted, airy, sprightly, blithe, festive, jolly .... and homosexual. How I hate this last word. If I were the one ruling the word I would banish it forever. Because, whether we like it or not, or, whether I like it or not, homosexual instantly draws a picture to me... that of filthy old men in raincoats always living in public toilets trying to ravish some youngster. That's totally bad. I hate homosexual, but I like, no, I love gay. Gay is so wickedly nice. And so should the term gay mean when it is used for people who are attracted to other people of their same gender. I am not gay, but I could have been. We are born into the same dough of a world, so we exit out of the same cake. I am straight, but I could have easily been gay. And it wouldn't have been a problem at all. I like gay people because through my gay experience I find them to be very honest people, since that accepting that they are gay in the first place must have been the most honest thing of all. What's wrong with gay? They pay our same taxes. They too have partners like me and you. What's gender got to do with it? Of course you will find the odd gay one who spells trouble, but then, so many of us straight ones spell trouble even better. Oh... and don't even go near the paedophile thing. Gay people are not paedophiles as much as you and I are. For Christ's (pun not intended) sake, even holy people, the one who choose to marry God have been known to tamper with the little people. It doesn't take gay to do that. It either takes evil, for which I am not sorry, or a very screwed up mind, about which I'd better not give my opinion. That will be a whole very sensitive blog entry which I have to think carefully about. There are a lot of things we do not get to choose, one of which is our sexual orientation. Gay and straight, the spice of variety in life. God created straight for a reason and forget it, it wasn't just for procreation, otherwise he could have created just rabbits instead. It would also mean that childless me was created for nothing, and we really don't want to go there do we, because we teach our little people about being special and unique all the time. We also teach them about diversity, and that shouldn't include just race, colour, size differences but also sexual diversity. So gay people have all the right that you and I have. That means, they should have the right to marry. Come off it, is marriage really just for making babies? Marriage means love, when two people who love and respect each other and want to commit to each other. That also goes for gay people. I would happily attend a man + man wedding, and a woman + woman wedding. Why ever not? It makes so much sense. It makes a couple happy and they are not interfering with anybody. And then comes the post-wedding. If I, the straight one, have married my male companion and been left childless, I can always adopt. Although Appogg needs to be burnt on the stake and Sedqa needs to have eye laser surgery. But the possibility is there. It's not there for gay people. Why the hell not? Oh I can hear a lot of silly reasons, because then the adopted child will grow up to be gay. And... so what? Gay is not bad. And anyhow, plenty of gay people have grown up in heterosexual relationships, and they still were brave enough to come out of the closet. I have yet to see this closet which has housed millions of people. I know plenty of gay couples who would do a much better job at bringing up a child than a straight one. Plenty of serial killers can get married and have babies in the process. Even paedophiles can. Is leaving children in care really a better idea then placing them in same sex loving families? Britian does it's utmost to keep their kids out of care. And yet we continue playing God and keeping our foot down. If only I were the Pope, but then I could never be the Pope of course because I am a girl. So much for the Roman Catholic Church based on love. It preaches love but not diversity. Shame on it. What is the difference? It's the difference which is making all the difference. And it really shouldn't.

The Bush

I'm getting all sentimental tonight while the rest of the world is watching football. Because I think there is a match, although I couldn't be bothered. I'm no footsie fan. I'm a love fan right now. Not the smoochy type mind you. But I keep remembering and digging up the memories. Because I have happy memories, and it's a lot coming from a girl who had lost her smile. If only we could see into a fast forward of our lives. If only we could, then we'd never despair and think about drastic sudden solutions which solve nothing. A permanent answer to what is always a temporary problem. With me, it is always better knowing one devil. But then I resist change of any kind. Place one cushion in another place on my dear sofa and I instantly feel unsettled. Such is the fragile core of this big girl. And then people think I'm strong. Well we never think we're strong at the moment, it is through hindsight that we look back and marvel at our strength. And I marvel too. Where is the girl who took so much on her shoulders? I've no idea, the only thought of changing my brand of cigarettes sends me into sheer fear. I am not very sure who will be reading this entry, the only thing I am sure of is that plenty of people will be reading. That's what my computer says, it's what blogspot says, So it's through no boasting but evidence. And I go with the evidence because evidence never lies. I also think there are no coincidences in life, we have our life mapped out from the moment when we are brought to see daylight, or even before that. Because if we are in God's plan, then that is a plan, and a plan is thought out beforehand. I don't know what is making me write this way. Perhaps someone out there is lacking hope and seeing all things dark. I was once there too. But I fought it out, waited it out. I thought never a smile again, certainly no laughter. But I've smiled enough to put Colgate ads to shame, and laughed till my sides were about to split. You see, it's not all bad in this world. Yes sometimes it seems so. And sometimes there is no ray of hope, I cannot write with rose-trimmed specs and say that there is always a way out and that we should always keep hoping and trusting and having faith. It does not work that way. Sometimes it's all black. And it keeps on being black for quite a while. The one word which got me through was perhaps. I used to think, perhaps it'll be better next week, and when it wasn't I'd say perhaps it'll be better next week. And when weeks pass and nothing gets better, then yes you lose hope. But hope is not the last to die, it never is. It's an exhausted mind and an exhausted heart which are the most fragile. Somehow, with all my eccentric ways, both my mind and heart got tired, but never exhausted. But then perhaps it was all in God's plan that I should never be exhausted. If there is anyone out there feeling all lonely and broken hearted... embrace it. Do not try denying it. Trying to swear at the thorny bush which stands between you and the road to life will not help. Working through it will. You'll get all scratched of course, but then the path to life is about scratches and bruises and nursing them back to health. So... work through the bush. And I'm not talking about any sexy bush for once.

Amphibians?

Today's been good. I got to meet a couple of my ex colleagues, the nice ones for a change. I wasn't too sure they'd recognise me. One didn't in fact, as soon as I talked I could see hew jaw drop. And so happy was she to see me. I like this girl, always have. But I got to see an ugly part of my past, although perhaps greatly reduced. What is it that makes me call it ugly? Well, what people might see is that when you have a bunch of musicians all playing together they look so cute, so elite, so professional. Dig deeper. They're no cuties, perhaps one or two, that's all. Admittedly, through no fault of theirs, all musicians seem to have different personalities, none match another. Not even if there's a thousand of them together. It's not their fault. They make harmony, loads of people think we're so happy as a lark making music all day long. Yeah. Dig even deeper. They're hoodies, gangsters, with one mission... to kill. To kill the music perhaps? They do manage that. To kill each other, I have a very good feeling they would too if it weren't for the idea of jail. What sets these people off? It could be a little thing like a smile, it could be a big thing as suddenly wanting to smash whatever instrument they play on another's head. Sometimes it's just like the KinderGarten classes I see. No better, no worse. Other times, it's like seeing something that only happens on TV. They're also very horny guys who would probably do it with panties hung out on a washing line. It's dingy in there and the heavy air smells of sex, illicit sex, far more illicit than the married man/woman-having-an-affair sex. This goes beyond. Because it gets dirty, not as in sexual dirty-talk, oh no, much much worse. Musicians also have their own penis extension, and that is whatever instrument they play. No wonder they call it an instrument. And yet there were many happy times, I have so many happy memories. Until... that's when the fairytale began, the one of the prince and the toad. Because so many turn into croaking ugly toads. It's all so reptile like. Because then you get snakes. I think they'd also best have a pond, all these reptiles crawling about. Yes that's a fantastic idea so that musicians could also have a good wash seeing that some smell of onions. And just when the curtain's up, you'll see everybody in evening attire making music. One would think it's a big happy family. It is, it's an amphibian one, with all the slime and all the scales, the latter not necessarily always in tune.

Madam-hood?

It's getting sad these days. Well not sad as in sad but sad as in another type of sad. I hit the shops and get sad. I go to fill my car with fuel, and it gets sad. I go to a pharmacy I've never been to, and it gets sad. I try a pair of brand new shoes with a take-me tag on and I get sad. Then I go to work and get happy. One big difference. At school I am Miss-ed. Otherwise I am Madam-ed. Can you believe it, me a Madam? People are actually having the audacity to call me Madam? I'm no madam. I'm not that old surely? How arrogant and downright rude. Who the fuck do they think they are, who the fuck have them the permission to Madam me? No thank you. Just a Miss will do very nicely. After all I do not yet know the big world of Mrs-hood. So I should rightly be called a Miss. Although when I translate that to my native Maltese I cannot help but laugh. Sinjorina. Oh God that's so funny. I fit into none of the two categories of sinjorina, it evokes the image of a sweet 16 year old girl.... or a young man who walks, talks, eats, flicks his hair effeminately. A very messed up ex-colleague of mine once actually said I looked very gay, (as in male gay), because I behaved like a woman. Ermmm, I think that's quite obvious. So I am a gay man in the body of a woman. That sounds ever more desperate. I don't know who is the crankier of us two. But I had one good laugh, plenty of laughs with this colleague. Strangely enough. Perhaps it's the more eccentric people which make it easier to get on with life. People who remember me, the me of three years ago would right me down as the best world's eccentric. I still have my goth clothing, my goth make up. Because although it's hard to believe I was once a goth, and it felt good. Because nobody dared call me Madam back then.

Forest?

Feather Theme. Forest Gump. Tom Hanks. Alan Silvestri. This is talking about jaw-dropping amazing music which goes straight to the heart. And the only person I know who has snubbed this movie can go and take a hike to put it very politely. But then this only person really would be the only one to do just that, since he thinks he's so high and mighty and will choose a war movie over this. What a shameless man to say so, what a complete shame. Sophistries Feather Theme is what kept me going through the darkest of days because such a simple tune evokes so much hope. Each note is strategically placed to go hit the high notes of a human's heart. Don't even ask me, I don't want to hear about it. Because the man who shakes his big head and purses his lips at Forest is no man at all. And there are no misunderstandings, how could someone like Forest Gump fail to move you? Well, it could, if you're some statue made out of concrete, not even a marble statue, because probably even marble could be moved. But now it's so clear. He doesn't like Forest. He probably doesn't even like me very much. But I like Forest, and I probably don't like him very much either. So it seems the score is evened, if I can call it a score. Every man should have a heart, macho here flies out the door, I'm just interested. I could remind the haughty man who laughed at Forest, that Silvestri is also the composer of the widely-acclaimed Polar Express. But I'm not sure he would love that either because that's for kids, or is it? I have no place in my life for such men (hopefully they're not too many), because men who are not moved by such touching and heartfelt scores are... robots. And I like the real thing. Thank God for my man who is also touched by Forest and together with the music he brings along with him. Because it's through things like this that one can really see their intrinsic loveable side. And I like loveable.

Ugly?

It's dear old Susan Boyle. I am totally fed up with hearing how bad the British were and how good she was. It wasn't just the Brits, it was all of us. Plenty of us have youtubed Susan during her first audition on BGT. It's mortifying, all the people in the theatre except for Susan of course should have burned at the stake. First, we get Ant and Dec interviewing her, because they probably thought she looked quite a character and that they would be needing the interview to give it to the tabloids so that people could roll in laughter. Then, this very harmless-looking woman walks onto the stage (with big steps may I add, not with the teeny weeny steps expected out of a woman), She is dressed in a gold dress two sizes too small for her and the crowd goes wild, definitely not in appreciation. She is also asked a very impertinent question to ask a lady... how old are you? Probably Simon Cowell figured out he could ask the very impertinent question because it was not a lady on stage. She is asked about her ambitions, and Thank God does not falter, not even when someone decides to be so stupid and wolf-whistle her. Simon rolls his eyes in despair, I would have like his eyes to roll out of their socket and bang into a car. Piers, the ever good guy winces, shame on him. Amanda.... she's coy, she says and does nothing. So the first strains start... and the audience goes wild, this time for a very appreciative reason... you see that thing can sing. Shameful. And sing it can. When her song comes to a close, Piers goes so far as to insist that before her performance everybody was laughing at her... nobody's laughing now. Why on earth was she laughed at in the first place? So harmless-looking, definitely not the look of a hitman or woman. Simon is now uncomfortable. And Amanda of course can splash her praises. Of course Susan gets three yeses. Second time round is different, nobody's laughing then. And all three judges think that they have to make a sort-of apology without uttering the words, I'm so sorry I was an idiot, or I apologize for being the world's biggest dork. And she, so humbly, waives that off as... me? I know nothing. Incredible. I would have made them feel sorry, very very sorry. I'd have called them nasty, stupid and all the bad words in the book. Yet she doesn't, or perhaps it's because she knows she could probably win this. Whatever it is which has sent the world into shock is bad. We have been sent into shock because we never knew that a humble, 47 year old, not fitting into today's stereotype hot chick looks actually has a lot to offer. It's not Susan who is ugly but us. We are ugly for making this into a circus. And now, we have a guilty conscience. So we will hit Susan's number when voting, just to make ourselves feel a little less ashamed. Well, it's all we can do now, not that Susan doesn't deserve to win at that.

Fairytale wrongs and rights

I'm thinking fairy tales. No, not the Eurovision kind. This time I'm thinking of real ones, some of which can be quite frightening. I hate Alice in Wonderland, the dizzy spell down the hole doesn't give me happy memories. I hated Alice, her rabbit, her everything. At 5 I didn't want to go down any hole which had never seen the sun. Now, well now that statement could take on an entirely different meaning. But I still don't like Alice's hole, someone else's, maybe. I do not like Pinocchio. I don't hate it, it's just that I don't like it. Pinocchio was a brat, and Geppetto should have forgotten all about Appogg and Sedqa and given the brat a good trashing. But no, Geppetto was too kind for that. And as a child I felt so sorry for the poor old man, I'd imagine him walking on his own, tears streaming silently down his face just because the brat he loved so much turned on him. Poor man, I'd love to meet him, sit him down, make him a cup of tea and tell him he needn't cry because I already knew how it was going to end up. And I'd tell him he might as well take a big vacation until the brat came back into his life, because I don't believe that brats change. Nobody changes. People, brats too, only develop. A leopard never changes its spots, and neither do we the rest of the so-called intelligent mammals. I also side with the witch in Hansel and Gretel. No, I'm not moved the the two in the cage. It's not fair. So there was this woman who had built her house out of sweets and sheer hard work, and these two other brats come along and begin to eat it all up. Why do we have to feel sorry for them? What if someone came along and decided to knock a bit off our porch just because he was hungry? So arrogant, you'd say he should have rung the doorbell and asked. So should have Hansel and Gretel. And what is this about simple girls wearing a shoe size of 36 that allows them to marry the prince? So that leaves me, a size 41 where? Marrying the toad? I do feel sorry for Cinderella, for having to go through all that half-sister bullying, but the fact is, we get treated the way we allow ourselves to get treated. She could have left home together with her nice network of animal friends. But of course not, Cinderella wanted to play poor me, since she knew that her shoe size would make it all well at the end. Not fair. Why a glass slipper, and why in a size 36? There goes the stereotype, ever since we're born, Cinderella was small, nobody could ever come up with a big Cinderella could they? And oh dear God, who the fuck thought it reasonable to come up with a slipper made out of glass of all things? Do we really want to wear the glass slipper and risk splinters of glass getting embedded into our poor soles? I don't. But then do I want to marry the prince who looks as gay as you can get? Noooooo. Did they really live happily every after? My guess is that Cinderella spent thousands of frustrated nights trying to work the old boy up but of course never succeeding. What about Belle? This is one exception. The only one. I applaud Belle for taking care of her dad. I think it's a girl's duty to take care of her dad who has been a wonderful dad. I also think that I would never give Gastone the time of day either. And I think she must have made a damn good sacrifice to accept living in the Beast's castle so as to protect her father. Prosit Belle. This is one fairytale where the stereotype small and little and beautiful flies out of the window. Good for the old 'ugly' woman who cast the spell on the Beast. That's the way it should always be, try and fit into the other's person's shoes for a minute. Only, this one got plenty of minutes. And Belle being always the one to give others a chance, not the one to be moved by money and machos, also gave the Beast a chance. And they lived happily ever after, Belle, her Beast turned prince, and her dad. And I believe they were the only ones who really lived happily ever after. Because justice was served. And I think Belle had a many a happy satisfied night....

It's in the eyes...

My poor Mister is not well. And he's got the Doctor title, and he still isn't well. One would think that Doctors of whatever sort never got ill. Miskin, this one is. And what's funny is that he's not the kind of stay-in-bed ill, this time he's got a red inflamed eye. Kind of Cyclops, but no that's not quite right, Cyclops had only one eye poor thing. I remember being a little child playing with monster cards, and this Cyclops would come up time and time again. And I felt so sorry for him, at 6 years of age I thought it was so wrong to call this otherwise tame man a monster. It just wasn't right, it's not as if it was his fault, poor monster. And now for the Mister, he's got a really red eye which is making me think that his going on a mission of political transformation is after all very true indeed. So he's not waving the red flag, he's being very original, and going about with a red eye. Of course he's been to check (hypochondriac men!) and everything's fine, just a little inflammation behind the eye which could have been caused by a multitude of reasons. First day, I cuddled the Mister. Second day I avoided him. Third day I got sorry and disgusted by myself. Miskin, I think many men love that word when it comes between them and their female (or male) significant other. So what is it that's making it so red and rosy, perhaps, as my mother used to try and scare us, he's seen something he shouldn't have seen. And now God with his hand of iron (I don't think so) has punished him. Just as he did in the Bible's Old Testament, God liked punishing people then. He seems to have softened quite a bit now. And I recall that somewhere in the Bible, God or Jesus (they're separately one) say you should take your eye out if it means not sinning. Ok, my Mister would never have the guts to take it out. Me neither. So maybe it's a compromise, and it's all in the eyes. The family regret to announce they are unable to receive visitors at this time. No flowers by request but donations to AM's bank account will be greatly appreciated. Praise the Lord.

Diva-ish

As much as I like queens and divas (the male kind of), I hate other queens and divas (the self proclaimed female type). I cannot stand anymore Diva-ish behaviour from people who weren't born a Diva, didn't become a Diva and will never be a Diva. That title is hard to get, I have one of course. Bring royal is very akin to being Diva. But Diva does not mean having your boobs falling out. Neither does it mean having a very purposely VPL (visible pantie line), nor sitting in the most provocative of manners making sure to show off your new underwear. That's no Diva, that's common trash. I understand that the female figure looks very very hot to some, perhaps even to me, but I choose classy over trashy. And while being a bimbo absolves you of your not having brains, being a Diva is different. Divas have brains you see. And I do admire the lengths some women go through to get the title, I also pity them as they stare in panic over the silver cutlery, I also marvel at the way they think that having their tits on explicit show. It's damn ugly, a bit of cleavage, that's well done, but not so far as to juggle their own nipples off their own aureole. When will I find a Diva to match me, so that I could perhaps bask in the glory of Diva sisterhood? I am not exactly on the look out, but I have found none to match my quality and degree of Divahood. No, not boasting my butt off, just the solemn truth. But somehow these Diva wannabe's are getting commoner and commoner. I am not interested in seeing nipples thank you very much. They are not nice while you are trying to eat your lasagna. And id some wannabe Diva like this thrives on the fact that all eyes are one her, well, whose eyes wouldn't be when the boobs are very painfully trying to defy the law of gravity? It's like a whole circus up with acrobat boobs. Oh dear girl, that's so far from being a Diva. You have to walk the walk, talk the talk, think the thoughts... and support your tits. Otherwise, please stay at home, or cover up. Take it from me, I'm *the* Diva.

This twin again

Still praying. I'm somehow convinced that there is a God somewhere. I'm not sure if it's a He or a She. I don't mind, He could be a transvestite for all I care. Because transvestites also have a heart, hence they can also love. And I have been brought up to think that God is one who loves. There was one time I was so angry at God that I decided there was no God in the first place. Because you have to have balls to be angry at someone like God. But then again, in hindsight perhaps God was there, only I couldn't see him, probably tragedy makes you blind to God, so yes I am letting myself off the hook for that one. Tragedy is a bad thing. Especially when it's so sudden, but then probably most tragedies are sudden, that's why they are called tragedies in the first place. Anyway, I'm digressing as usual. Sometimes I surprise myself, I always have so much to say, and then in real life I'm no chatterbox, rather the wallflower who says nothing and everything just by her eyes. My eyes! Oh God how misinterpreted they've been. People think I'm a witch and will curse them. I have had crucifixes pushed into my face , I would have burned at the stake were it not for the millenium. Me, a witch. If only that were true. If only I could curse the baddies and send them rotting in hell. No worse, I'd put them naked without sunblock for a day at Ghadira Beach. That's hotter, in the sense of temperature, because none of the baddies are hot as in the sexual sense although some think they are Casanovas, and some think they are Casanova's Playboy Bunnies. Yeah right I can just about see their thingies on a Page 3. The wouldn't even make it there. So back to God again. I hope God is not confusing me with my twin, yes I know He sent us as a package, but heyyyyy God, it's not the twin of Arani Issa fame, it's the twin of the twin of Arani Issa fame. And I need Your help. I do not want to go back to the hellhole, to that disgusting brothel where all things are copulating and probably swallowing too since it works in such bad taste. I am no prostitute, that is where the trouble is. And yes of course I talk a lot about sex, I have lived in it for a whopping 16 years, that's why I know so much. I want little people to be the order of the day, not a sycophant fuck on the menu. It tastes vile you know. It's not Straight Street, but it's close, it's two streets paralleled down. That's how close it is, just a one minute walk. And it's worse than Straight Street because Straight Street has a bit of Marks and Spencer to liven up things a bit decently. I know there is a God, although my shrink isn't very impressed about this information. Yes I have a shrink and I'm not mad. My shrink thinks a lot on the principles of Arani Issa, he has to see and touch, and smell and probably also eat to be convinced. But I am not him, perhaps because the idea of God is something which I want to believe in, otherwise everything would seem so bland. It is a comforting idea, so even if that idea isn't true I do not want to hear. Because when my nearest and closest are gone from this life I want to think that God is doing all the looking after. And that is a lot of comfort. I don't know why God has not helped me enough to bring the baddies to justice. Perhaps it's my fault for not wanting to prise open the can of worms. But now the worms will be starting to see daylight, hey God, won't You see them? Won't You help the scared twin, the one who was always backstage, the one who shied away from the limelight in the hope of a better future? Again I repeat, it's this twin, the one born first but declared the younger, the quieter twin, the one locked up in her own (very sane) world of little people, and in case that isn't enough... it's not the male twin but the female one here. Because God You made me a girl.

It's this twin...

I'm in no lighthearted mood. That doesn't make me sad or angry either. Perhaps a little apprehensive. I need all the strength a big girl like me can muster. Trouble is, looks are so deceiving and a big girl like me can also feel so fragile. I am about to finally open a can of worms. It's not my can of worms, so that somehow makes me feel relieved, it's another's can of worms. So it could never go both ways, only one way. And that makes me wickedly happy. Because these worms aren't even good old happy worms, they're sad old bad worms which have been breeding and festering for four years. Four years is a lot of time. Try four years standing upside down with your head in the loo. Four years is also the time I'm supposed to have the bad eating at me. I don't think it has. Physically, it doesn't seem to be the case. As in metaphor, I don't think it seems to be the case either. I resist change with every inch of my body (some infinite number of inches). I thought I had now way with anyone least of all little anyones. Not true. I have come to love the little ones, I have no clue as to how and why, but I think I've done all right. Little people are a big part of my life now, please God, do not let me ever enter the incestuous, festering environment I lived in for so many years. I do not want to see ugly sagging breasts and ugly butts all over the place. I am fine now. I do not want to work in a sexual harem again. I want to live this clean life with the little people. Because I may have a lot to say about sex, but that's not my fault, I've lived the life for so long. And I don't miss it one bit. I am not going back. So please God, You are supposed to know what is going in my heart and mind, but just in case you mistake me for my flamboyant twin, I'm the other twin, I'm the one who was born first. Just as a reminder You see. I am the twin who is not going back. The other one is doing just fine. Help me tomorrow please. And everything will be just fine. Because I am Your daughter just as the other twin is Your son. And yet we're not the same, and You know it because You made it happen.

Love unconditional?

I have been sleeping for the greater part of the day. I need to catch up on my beauty sleep. No that's wrong, because if it were true then my beauty would depend on my head touching my lovely pillow. Do I need beauty sleep? Of course not, I am a royal after all. But catching up on it doesn't harm anybody, well except for my bed perhaps, but then my bed loves me unconditionally. My pillow too. Strange thing this, inanimate objects love us unconditionally, but that is perhaps because they don't know how to swear at us. My big bath also loves me, as does my sofa, again unconditionally. My keyboard pc really is the patient of them all. I regularly shower it with cigarette ash and ditch it once every two months, and poor things they don't even voice their opinion while I'm stuffing them in a garbage bag. My jewellery is another thing, it's probably swearing it's head off but since it's in a drawer I can't hear it. I guess it's dying to come out, but most days I really do not feel one inch bothered. Oh and my shoes, I think those swear in silence. I love my shoes but I abuse them terribly. If there were an Appogg for shoes I would be behind bars by now. Strange thing is, they all love me unconditionally, but then I love them too. I'm not sure it's unconditional love though.

Price Tags

It's so late. Facebook is quiet right now. I seem to be the only insomniac person with the energy to talk. Having nobody to talk to doesn't deter me. I'll talk to myself, have been doing it for ages. It is more successful than a zillion years on the couch. Although I still believe that everybody needs the couch sometimes, even if it is just to laze about on and drink hot chocolate. There are some pleasures in life which come without the price tag, only we don't see them as such sometimes. And in a material world, I am no material girl. Well, just sometimes, but then I'm human, although a royal kind of human. I think I could open a diamond-lover anonymous. Because just as heavy gamblers love the rush of adrenaline not knowing if they're going to win or lose everything and more, I feel the same. I guess I was a crow in a past life, which is nothing to brag about. I am just so turned on by all things shiny, I could pass out from the excitement. So diamond jewellery is another price which comes, this time, with a hefty price tag. I see my cat asleep and dreaming. My cats, balls of fur which didn't even have a price tag and which yet have given me so much love. There it goes, the l-word. Love should also never have a price tag. But if I believe that then will I be considered naive? Love as in sugar daddies, now that makes sense. Haven't seen one around for a long time. Maybe they've all got so old that they've died now. Which means, am I so old that I couldn't get a sugar daddy? At 35? Well plenty of sugar daddies are at least 60 so the opportunity is still there. What about my own price-tag? How much do I think I'm worth? I don't know, it depends on the customer. It also depends on my own self worth, which is something very difficult to tackle. I will let another put my price tag on. Better that way, because nobody gets hurt.

Monahhhh Lisahhhh

I have a wicked friend. Well not wicked in the bad sense of wicked. She happens to have the best sense of humour ever, and that is what I call wicked. And she has indeed inspired me to write about Leonardo Da Vinci's Mona Lisa whose smile has puzzled so many people for so many years. I cannot take the full credit for the following but here goes anyway. So what was behind Mona's smile? Plenty of people have come up with as plenty of answers. My kind of questions, why is this enigmatic woman without eyelashes and eyebrows? Why the faint smile, which makes her look like the cat who got the cream? It is just a half-length portrait of a woman who isn't even pretty. And yet she looks as if she's got something up her sleeve... or down. According to my wicked (although I love her to bits) friend, the Mona Lisa gracing the Louvre is only part of a whole portrait which was censored. I love the idea. I wish I could draw. Since I can't I will have to draw in words instead. The half length portrait of a woman sitting down with folded arms.... that's because she was just lying there with another doing the job. What job? A blow job. Think about it, try to imagine the lower part of the portrait conveniently cut and stashed away never to be seen again. Mona is sitting with her legs spread wide open, her skirt is lifted giving access to a young girl who is intent on pleasuring Mona. In other vulgar words, some girl is licking and drooling over Mona's private parts. And she seems to be doing a swell job too. Otherwise why the cynic smile? Leonardo was genius hence Mona's no stupid bimbo. Her smile says... I've fooled all of you, because not one of you ever thought I had a lesbian lover. blowing me down there. But I had, and got away for it for the last five hundred years. Oh I got the cream all right. Big big sigh ahhhhhhh!

Strolling at Mater Dei?

I have just had to make an emergency visit to Mater Dei, although I did not actually visit it's Emergency part where people wait for an average of 7 hours. Thankfully, it was a visit to the ophthalmology unit, and it was over in an hour. Good doctor. But what caught my attention were the number of people all dressed up in their Saturday best, couples holding hand, mums and dads not holding hands but pushing pushchairs. What the hell? Has Mater Dei become the new Sliema front. I think so. No, I am sure so. Which sounds wicked. What is there to amuse people? Just a few stray trees, and good roads. Nothing to see, not my kind of fun. I can understand the people jogging round the block, a track is a track even if it is a hospital track. But taking your family out of a Saturday stroll in hospital grounds? That is unbelievable. But true. And I go back to the joggers, they could even do their thing if it's raining. Because the corridors inside Mater Dei could do the trick. I think I've walked for two kilometres in that building today. And it's tired me out. You see I'm used to travel in the royal coach complete with white horses and glass slippers. But they don't allow animals at Mater Dei. They only allow animals like rats which come in ready-made salad meals. Pity that. Bigger pity, what is the nation coming to? In a few days I'm sure hot-dog vans will be sprouting around Mater Dei. I'm surprised that some couples stay together. Firstly, a stroll on a Saturday evening is not fun, because you cannot wear your brand new high wedges without getting blistered. Secondly, wouldn't you divorce the man whose idea of fun was walking around a hospital? I would.

Dignity

Some things are best left dormant. Some others are best left 'forgotten'. But then, it's a heart over mind thing. My heart is scared it will not cope. My stubborn mind says, go for it. No I am not talking about a love affair with a man or a woman. It's the love affair that started very very long ago, I was perhaps 4. I will always believe that since the moment of conception, that foetus is already shaped not just with it's skin colour, eye colour, hair colour and texture, but also with it's own special mind and heart. Yes I believe that people are born intelligent or less intelligent. Some are born stupid of course but I am trying to be nice. I also believe that people are born good or bad. Perhaps good or evil sometimes too. And I am not about to go into the discussion of, if that is the case then are they really responsible, because I don't need it right now. Because that would mean that Mother Theresa was born good and Adolf Hitler was born evil. It still doesn't let Adolf get away with it. And I could probably argue that he was flipping mad too, but that still doesn't let him off. I know plenty of mad people who aren't evil. So what is it I am chasing, what is it that makes my heart scared and my mind not? It's the opening a four year old bomb which left me almost devastated, I say it again, almost, in its wake. It was enough to send other people mad, and although I love the royal me, I am still not special enough to not have gone mad. And yet I didn't go mad. I cried buckets, but that was understandable, somebody, or a lot of sombodies hitting at my dignity made me sad. Hence I cried, because in a democratic country I have the right to cry. But I didn't go mad, perhaps there was some pretty angel cuddling my brain. Fact is, my mind stayed healthy. I was not about to succumb to the enemy, I am a fighter when necessary. I know I have disappointed plenty of enemies (yeah I have loads of them), but then was I about to let them dance on my grave? Of course not. I bet they would have given me a lavish funeral for free, with all the music and musicians shedding the tears, some of genuine sadness, others of genuine joy. But my time is still not up yet. It takes more than all of that to wear this girl out. I'm not big for nothing. But why all the hatred, hatred so bad that it made them lose their mind and provide me with plenty of black on white proof? That I know not. I can only say that there must be a love at first sight thing since I am so certain that there is a hate at first sight thing. Why the hate at first sight? Perhaps weighing 80kgs at the time clinched it. And yet the hatred came from a pompous asshole who weighed much more than that. So I couldn't show him my butt crack, but then I am not a fan of butt cracks anyway. Dirty dirty idea. But I could show him his wrong choleric anger towards people who were blameless, and show him I did. I feel no hatred now, because I am selfish and I know that if I had to harbour any it would make me sick. But it still makes me retch. The baddest baddest man I know. But then during the last two years I have also known a fair, kind man, with brains and a heart and endless amounts of patience, and he's a perfectionist and he's not big in size, and through him life made me think twice. I write about this man from time to time because he makes my day a good day. Life gave me that to make me see straight, to convince me that not all men are hateful. The thing in question here is morals. Being big doesn't mean you're big on morality, take it from big old me. Being small doesn't even mean you're small on your morals. So I will have to drag up all the filth which has been lying dormant for four years. But this time round, I have faith in some people. I talk a lot about this perfect man. It's because he's made an impact on my life and through his behaviour shown me respect. I met him when I was a big girl stripped of her dignity. And he gave me back my dignity. And if only I could nominate him for the award of the bestest man. That means that life again has given me opposites to think about. I could have turned bitter because I'd known the baddie. But then I couldn't have turned bitter because I came to know the goodie. The baddie has always puffed up his chest as if he weren't big enough already. The goodie does nothing of the sort, he's a small big big man. And when the dirt and filth will be dragged up, I won't be the scared little big girl, I will think of him, him who did the biggest thing of all.... restored my dignity. Thanks Sir.

Voting, a duty?

I cannot say that I have been waiting for this time in earnest. I usually do. Any mention of voting for whatever reason normally sends me the good adrenaline rush. Not this time. This time, my voting documents are in one of my kitchen cupboards. And they are staying there. The only crack of daylight they'll see is if I somehow get absolved of being a victim of gross misconduct, abuse of power and a shitload of other things. Because somehow this is the time when I finally finally get to be listened to. And I have. Three cheers mum, sometimes you do something right. Perhaps she does love me in her own way. Because in support my mum's voting documents are staying not in a cupboard but in a drawer. Still locked away from the daylight. And as pre election voting goes, we get door to door visits. And my mum, who is worse with people than I am, suddenly opened her door and voiced her (her daughter's) hurts. And somehow I get important calls from a ministry. Cool, I never knew that quiet mum had so much power, or maybe it's the fact that 4 voters are about to abstain. Last time round, I was promised things would change. So I went to the voting polls. Things changed, for the worse. This time, I'm not about to be so naive. Things have to change before I give my vote, and things have to change for the better. I am still awaiting justice. Had I killed someone I would already have done my time and be free. No I didn't kill anybody, and perhaps that is my mistake. Because some people being killed will not be a loss to a nation at all. And no I don't want revenge, I want what is mine, what should have been mine for a long time ago. I don't care if some pompous old fart with his playboy bunnies think they rule the world. Because nobody rules the world, not even royal old me. We talk about duties, what about talking about rights, my rights for a change? I am so so sure this is just a pre-election stunt, where people with a lot of letters after their name will try to convince me. One went so far as to tell me.... ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country. I was livid. I've done enough. Because I too have a lot of letters after my name, but I don't flaunt them. This time, convincing will not do. I have to have cash in hand, literally, because I am owed all of that and much more. If my country does its duty towards me, then I will due my duty and vote. Otherwise, I'm staying put. Period.

The Queen Bee

I just have to type this in because I cannot contain it. The Queen Bee, I don't like bees, and I do not like the way bees live their life. They have a Queen who does absolutely nothing, while all the rest of the lower class bees are called workers because they work for the Queen. Not fair. And this is coming out of the royal me, the Diva me. But still I cannot stand queen bees. One in particular. Oh dear God, this one is quite a character. Not pretty, or as pretty as Susan Boyle, which I say with discomfort. I don't think Susan Boyle is mean. This queen bee is very mean, all the more so because she tries to give the impression that she is so loving and caring to her workers. Far from it. She is the one to hand out executions.. that is for people who are so fickle that they do not stand up to her. I did of course, because we are both professionals (I'm a bit more professional too), both principals, both women, both with the weight thing (although I'm prettier too). So do I or did I have to live in fear of such a queen bee? I never did, fear was the last thing on my mind, try challenging, I loved that. So, this queen bee and some gossip, because she lends herself beautifully for some gossip. The queen likes married men, and only married men. Now I myself have been around the block of married men. But not like this one. She has affairs of some 30 years, with other less important affairs running concurrently. Oh la la the stories I have heard and read (don't ask me how) first handed. The steamy words, the lustful vulgarity, and the boo hoos because the wife gets to know and quickly jets her husband to the other side of the world. Oh tra la la, I didn't feel an inch sorry. It's always as if it were one big soap for her, just not soap as in Dove. She tries to give the impression that she doesn't love the spotlight, but oh boy she loves the attention more than Kamikaze Lover's Baklava, and that is really something. It's a queen bee I'm talking about, and I know that there's insect repellent out there, I'm not sure there is one for bees, but I think my body emits anti-queen-bee-bites repellent effortlessly. Because this queen bee, hidden under wire-like ugly hair, bites hard. She will always see me as a mission, the biting target. But she will never bite me, because somehow I'm well protected since I stand up to be spoken. And talking about bees, they are supposed to be the busiest of insects, this queen bee and her workers are not very productive. This specific queen is also supposed to understand the language of music, love, and all things beautiful. Yeah right. And where's the honey? Somewhere in between the numerous sheets of Ms. Queen Bee and her lovers. Oh and they are all ugly lovers.

I have a brain

Most times, as I go about life in my own unobtrusive way, I get so caught up in happy things that I forget big chunks of my life. Perhaps it's my brain which protects me from otherwise getting all caught up in evil happenings. Because I have a brain. I think I've always had a brain. And that for some is scary. Why? Because they are spineless people who have to keep their job by looking pretty, by showing a bit of the butt, or by laboriously licking filthy assholes. The things people do to keep their job nowadays are incredible. Because they have no brains in them. And it's not the credit crunch which is making them do it. I would applaud a family man for going out of his way to do the job properly with the intention of keeping his job and thus being able to perform his duties of a breadwinner. I'm talking people who for some reason (probably a below the belt reason) lose their morals, disrespect themselves and their workmates, and volunteer to do the most undignified things in the book. I remember people like these. They were filthy assholes, whose physical filth probably overtook their brain, that is, if they were ever born with one. Think about roller-coasting headlice, sweat stains that stink and make your intestines sick. And sure I sound so boastful, but I'm only saying it like it is. Once employed I will fulfill my duties, and not house the boss' illicit girlfriend. I will do whatever is required of me, but not if it interferes with my dignity. Nor even if it goes against my principles. Because if I applaud whatever is unjustly happening to another, since I have brains, I also think that one day it could happen to me. And I do not feel I have to apologise for being born with female parts plus a brain. Sorry? No way. People can take everything from me, but not my dignity. And yet, my brain is so awesome and to allow me to forget all the sagas and let me live in peace. Because if my brain is my crime, then I am not giving anybody an apology because I do not owe them one.

What a Marvel!

I have for some time now, been getting links to buy a DVD which has the word marvel in its title. You'd think (or I'd think) it would be about diamonds, shoes, jewellery. Those are all marvellous for me. And let me try to take a back seat and admire the Earth for what it's worth, is could be about breath-taking scenery, waterfalls, active volcanoes throwing all that red fiery lava in their wake, miles and miles of sand dunes. Those could be marvellous sights. And let me take yet another step back and try to admire actual people not including myself (of course I'm always the royal one), perhaps a damn good dancer, a damn good artist, or a damn good musician. Still nothing similar in this DVD. And yet this DVD promises a marvel something. Whoever is in this DVD has also been so kind as to show snippets of it, probably in the hope of my eyes falling out of their sockets and rolling about till the cat finds them and thinks they're a toy. Marvel? Yeah right, my ass. I have of course (yeah I'm a curious bugger) seen the snippets. I've probably seen them about 20 times. And something which I'd see 20 times in a row should really mean something right? Right, they mean me getting a big big laugh. And me marvelling (there goes the word) at how low some people will stoop to make themselves ''famous''. In this marvellous DVD seeing the crack of somebody's ass is deemed as marvellous. It's all about a thong gone extremely wrong. I mean would you buy a thong worn already by somebody else who has been spray painted and oiled all over? But it's not even an advert about a thong. It's an advert about a marvel, and try as I might, I see only one marvel. The marvel of having plenty of laughs. Then again, the bikini-thong-too-small could be coming straight out of a porn movie, which should be a sexual turn on but is instead a laughing turn on. You just don't stop laughing at something like this, made so amateurishly. What's not also said is that this marvel has gone under the knife plenty of times too. Would I really pay to see a girl all lubed up in the wrongs places, trying to make her legs go a 180 degrees just so I might see a flash of thong? Oh God no. Would I pay to see the same girl grow manly six-packs and muscles you'd think King Kong only had? No. But then again maybe. I'd probably effect the payment, then copy the DVD plenty of times to hand out to my friends in need of a good laugh. And somewhere is says professional...... Really? I might not know my way very well around lubed bodies because they're slippery. But I would know myself very well around music. Professional ass crack sure has nothing to do with professional music. It's not even good old porn set to good music. But the way some girl has gone so far as to make it look and sound like that is absofuckinglutely marvellous!

Sycophant

Elephant, hierophant, tonophant, triumphant, sycophant. Those are all the words ending with phant which come to mind, which if I stay with a Latin derivative, have a big thing in them. I think I could write my name, although it doesn't end with a phant and has a nicer ringing tone of the French AnnMarie. But I am no elephant, I sometimes try to be a hierophant, but i'm no tonophant, perhaps sometimes triumphant and I would rather die then be the synonym to sycophant. Sycophants suck. And the word promptly brings one person to mind, probably the best sycophant ever known to mankind. And... he lives just 5 minutes away. Another and... he could make it to the Guinness Book of Records for being the sycophant that he is. He's that good. Of bad, depending on how you see people like these. They are servile people, who have no moral respect for themselves, for others, they have no principles, they are just so ready to serve as long as their servitude flatters a somebody else who, in their twisted mind, usually is influential and powerful. In two base words, they are the assholes, and in two other base words, they are arse-lickers. They utterly get turned on by being servile. And this is no s and M. They do not like to be controlled, whipped, and chained. They are experts in the art of obsequiousness. Loads of strange words which mean a lot to me. They make me throw up. And my mind goes back again to the sycophant I know. He also is in need of an acetone bath, because such is his readiness to serve, that he gets all heated up and sweaty. A supposed professional who has and will open the sewage when necessary. I have seen him do it. Just to see a spanking smile on his influential, powerful other asshole. Some people feed on being servile. They are called assholes. Other people feed on power, and they are also called assholes. And somewhere perhaps there is a connection, both with arses and throwing ups and loos and sewage. They are the scum of the earth. Both have no morals. But it's worse with a sycophant. He should be beaten with sticks and stones.. and he'll probably thank you for it. I don't see this sycophant anymore. I don't miss him and his stinky armpits either. And I'm not sure if he can stand up straight anymore because after years of being what he is, he is probably lost the little spine he ever had, and is in another word, spineless. May he be wiped off the face of the earth... together with his Master. Parasites, yet another word.

Gods and shoes

And there go the Gods again. As soon as I start speculating about things related to the damn sex, they're at it again. So I decided to be a good housewife and do the washing up that's been piling up. Big mistake. And a surreal one too. Has anybody out there washed a mug only for it to suddenly smash to pieces in your hand? And no I didn't smash it against anything, it just exploded. So I was talking about veggies and slicing and dicing, and the Gods have decided that I need to learn a lesson. Hence I now have a sliced and diced hand, perfect for tomorrow when I have a performance. It's going to be an Elastoplastered pianist. But of course as long as I can still play I can still type. If I managed to play through a whole concert just hours after having my hand stitched up, then this is child's play. I dare the Gods... go on, try harder, there is a tough girl underneath the silly, couldn't be bothered aura. It's not that I'm not bothered about most things. I am just not bothered with plastering myself with makeup at the unearthly hour of 8 in the morning that's all. I am bothered about my work, well bothered isn't even the word, I just try my best that's all. But my best is still my best whether it's delivered through sweat pants and joggers or in high heels. I'm old, I don't have the energy for high heels during the day. High heels were never meant for daytime anyway. High heels scream sexy Lolita, and I am no Lolita, never have been, never will be. I know exactly what I am talking about. I am the shoe guru here, I have more than 500 pairs of shoes. I actually have a shoe room. So, girl, don't you even try flashing your heels at me, because that won't impress me. I have hundreds at home. Now perhaps the Gods will attack my shoes next...

Sex-Casualty

It seems that every time I write apprehensively about something, thinking that perhaps it might be a trifle too wild, someone else comes up with a message that is even wilder. So I was talking about glass, shattering glass and shattering orgasms. Now I get asked. What about the veggies, what about gear sticks? What about the mortified victims who have no other choice than to veil themselves because of the shame and take a trip to the Casualty Department at Mater Dei? Well what about them? It's time I gave it some serious thought of my own. Firstly, why are images like these always akin to nuns and priests? If you were experimenting with, let's say, snooker and somehow got a ball up your arse, wouldn't you at least try to cover yourself up with a robe? Of course you would. So the 'priests' waiting (standing up) may not be real priests. They could be me or you in disguise. And what about the veggies? In a world were healthy eating is so promoted, dicing and slicing green stuff is so acceptable. But who said you had to dice the stuff. Experimenting with them as a whole/hole is also acceptable. Eqqq sometimes it just happens that the phallic looking veggie slips and gets in the way, in the way of the cunt that is. Which lets me off the hook completely (hurray!). Do I look as if I'm eating my veggies every day? No. That is the reason why I am in Casualty for a variety of other things which do not include glass (bottles) or veggies (raw). What worries me is that what goes in must go out, what goes up must go down, so how the hell does something go in and not out? Why are they stuck inside? Is it a case of being very very brazen and another case of getting all big headed down there? But I guess a good doctor could provide immediate relief when it comes to glass and veg as well as broken vibes, although I do not know my way around breaking vibes. I hear of tales coming from very reliable sources, where some people have jammed things such as gear leavers? What the fuck? Don't drivers get to take a driving test before they actually own a car, don't they know that gear levers gather a totally different sort of momentum? Poor doctors working 36 hour shifts. They have studied so hard and all they get to do is remove some foreign body stuck in a body itself foreign. It makes me bland in comparison, and a very very good girl indeed. Because I don't like veggies, I am no fan of gear levers, and I think of glass as in the Diet Coke Bottle. I just dream about the man in the ad. That's it.

Scary

I'm taking a break from Eurovision what nots, what if we's and fairytaling. Back to real life, and with that, back to research. And I've unearthed something which I feel I have to write about if only to warn my fellow sisters, girls and boys. If I don't I will not be able to put my head on the pillow peacefully. Diloes. Ok that's an old one. Dildoing has been around probably since very ancient times, the only difference being that back then dioling was very much a green matter. The green thing is probably still practised in places where people do not have much access to the outside world; I'm thinking convents and buildings with high gates. But something else has caught my attention which even I with my brazen personality, with the wicked danger-loving streak has made me think twice. Dildoes, ok, as long as it's hygenic past-time, each to her/his own. But glass ones? Actual glass, in all colours? Who the hell would want to tamper with something like that. And I keep thinking of Ta Qali's craft village glass blowing centre. Now I know why they call it glass blowing, shame on them, psataz and they make us think it's all an art when it's really all an act. But I would love to know who in their right mind would be sticking glass up their orfices? Oh God what if it got stuck in their and broke in half? You'd have splinters of glass attacking your organs. But the scariest thing is, we talk of shattering orgasms. What if (we, can't help it) an orgasm like that shattered the glass in the process? Geeze, what a thought, horrible thought. Even a seasoned pastaza like me cannot take it. I'm taking something else, merci.

The Fat Language

There is a secret word out there which runs ruthlessly through races, religion, cultures, gender, sexual orientation, age and everything else. It is the same for all of us, well the best of most of us. It is a word which is a noun which has been transformed into an adjective and an adverb, and we've stretched it so far as to mimic a feeling mostly of desperation and always of disapproval. It's the fat word. It's the norm now, we say, I feel fat. Pardon? Since when fat was declared a feeling? Anger is a feeling, an emotion, love is another, happy, sad. But fat? And yet it's true. We have blended in this secret word to become part and parcel of our every day life. And for some reason which I have yet to fathom out, I never hear anybody say, I feel thin. So then, thin is not a feeling, but fat, it's opposite becomes a feeling. So let's not just skim deep it. I feel fat means I feel lonely, I feel ugly, I feel rejected, I feel worthless, I feel frightened and overwhelmed. I think I'm going to beat the famous Oxford English dictionary by my numerous definitions of this, but then I've been round the block, plenty of times, and yes I consider myself to be an expert. What doesn't help? Something like us girls bonding over the hatred of our thighs. Someone like me, who with the intention of scurrying around unnoticed ends up falling and drawing even more unwanted attention. The fat language is a language which I wish I didn't know how to speak. I speak French, Italian, English and Spanish... oh and the fat language. Some people would rather be seen than heard. Some would rather be heard than seen. And some others would rather be both seen and hear. I would rather not be seen nor heard. Which is difficult when you have a job like mine. But then when you have a job like mine, it's easy to lose yourself in a surreal life where little people (they're awesome aren't they) do not speak the fat language. They speak a totally different language, take it from me, there is no f word involved. Ok so maybe sometimes there are f-words involved but only ones which have been heard from adults getting mad and which do not include fat or any part of the word. I'll stop here, I do not want to sound self loathing. That is so unattractive. I just feel locked up in a time warp. I should have been around during the Stoneage when I would have been revered as the Goddess that I am. Or at least during the 18th or 19th century when thrones of queens were made wider than those of kings... for a fat purpose. Failing that, I hope to live to see the day when big is considered beautiful again. Then I will take to my throne and live as a Queen, better still as the Goddess there is inside me. It will be my time to shine, a time to celebrate being curvy, because right now, the world's all topsy turvy.

Some story!

I am still in a Eurovisional haze. It doesn't feel good. Because although I keep myself to myself (mostly) my ears must be the most excellent ears in Malta. Firstly, they're small and so damn cute. Secondly, they listen too well sometimes. I do not want to hear nasty comments about my friends. And if my friend happens to have gone Eurovisioning, I still don't want to hear nasty comments. Why are Maltese people so fickle? Why don't they stick to their guns? But then, we (at least I) all know that opening yourself up to the world of entertainment is opening a big black door to your private life. My twin brother seems very happy about it. Some people seem to know things I never did. One time I was shopping at the grocer up the road. Now I hate grocery shopping with a passion and must have been there because I couldn't do otherwise. People who know me and my twin know that we do not look anything alike, so I can roam the streets in safety, at least most times. There were two other women blabbing about in the store, and of course my ears picked it all up. One was telling another that the lawyer-violinist of Arani Issa fame had knocked up a girl. He had knocked her up the duff. Hey hey hey I was going to be an auntie and didn't even know. Then the woman decides to specify whom my brother had knocked up. Oh, he'd knocked up one of my best friends, the one of Chiara fame. Cool, not only was I going to be an aunt but my best friend was now my sister-in-law. I could see the store owner looking at me and getting pretty uncomfortable. I wanted to laugh so bad. But I wanted to hear more of the story. So my twin and my best friend were having a gunshot wedding it seemed. And I knew nothing about it. So I just shopped and listened and went to pay the bill. And I couldn't help but laugh and say, ermmm hi, this is the twin sister, and nobody is having anybody's baby. They froze. I laughed. And so said all of us!

Don't cry

I'm still fairytaling, and I feel so guilty. My best friend is now here. And I hope she doesn't cry. Because fairytales are not that different from the what if's, and that includes the what if we's. And I love my friend to bits. But I cannot help it, I too am lured by the 23 year old looking like 15 with a violin in his hand. And I am now hearing rumours I'm not sure I want to hear. They go something like.... you see, if it were JC.....! I don't want to hear them because they make me feel again ever so guilty with regards to my friend. Yet another what if which strikes very close to home. I don't want to hear any of this, so I'm staying in home sweet home. I feel split into three. And I somehow think my loyalty lies where my girl goes. Yes, I know, what about the twin bond? I just don't know. I am just sure I want to eliminate women in pink and men doing sit ups. What the fuck were they thinking? Back here again, please don't cry my girl. To the rest of them, please do not utter a what if JC in front of me. Because that makes me guilty. I'm fairytaling enough as it is. So please don't cry sweetheart, stand high and smile... because I love you regardless and it happened anyhow.

Fairytale?

Years ago, when I was younger. I could say that because I'm of the grand old age of 35. But could a 23 year old looking like a 25 year old get away with it? Yes he could, and he has. Norway's boyish looking Alexander Rybak has got away with it and the Eurovision's trophy. And although I thought it was a teeny weeny bit cheesy, I liked it. Perhaps because it's all a fairytale? But why has he scored so high? It means I am among the millions who has found him and his song attractive. What I cannot stand is the two ladies in pink singing la la la. Please shoot them, they do nothing for Alex, I really thought they would be the ones who would ruin his fairytale. But it seems everything is allowed in fairytales, even silly women in pink waving their skirts like 2 year olds do. And it gives me a sense of peace, no upheaval, no excitement, just peace. And that in turn makes me wonder whether to laugh or cry. And there I switch to Jade. I loved Jade. But then again, did I love the Andy Lloyd Webber concept or Jade? And if Jade and her UK decided to pull the Andy trump card, well, what can I say? And I go to Chiara (of course), because Eurovision apart, she is one of my forever friends. I'm sorry for this girl who had no fairytale. If I could be the fairy godmother I would have waved my magic wand, not around her, but around phone lines. But then boyish Alex had the best aphrodisiac of all... hi violin. No matter how ugly a man is, his violin will always draw women (and men) by the crowds. So it's 2009, and we still like fairytales. And that's a good thing. It makes me feel normal, because I too, dream of fairytales and living happily ever after.

Breaking the weekend rules....

I am savouring the best part of my weekend breaking. I'm home! I have seen my cats, my dogs, they're ok, I'm not sure I was actually missed, but I have to take the role of the selfless mum. I'd rather suffer myself than have my kids suffer. It's how the world goes, and I'm none the wiser. I keep glancing at my bed wistfully, my lovely lovely bed. I have missed it. My topsy turvy kitchen, my kitchen table which sometimes is hidden because it's been hit by a clutter bomb. I've missed all of those. But I just have 24 more hours to go, I guess I can make it back there and here safely. I have not been kept awake by bonkers, although someone at the hotel seems to have unbelievable bad manners, he is what I'd call a burper and a constant farter, and no, he doesn't have the room all to himself. There is a lady in there who is putting up with the constant sound and stinky battering. I knew about sound abuse, I didn't know there could be women out there putting up with smelly abuse. How most undignified. I wonder what hotel staff has to go through, the tales they might tale but don't because it's probably written in small print somewhere in their contract not to. Of course the tales would be best sellers but then also of course hotel owners do not want their staff getting rich at their own expense. I would never ever consider working in a hotel. It is stifling, suffocating, and why on earth have gigantic glass panes been fitted never to be opened? And who was the flipping spoilsport who decided who build a smokefree hotel anyway? Then he's complaining about not having enough rooms booked? Isn't it obvious? We smokers are the ones who set the economy running. We're the never stingy part of the population. If we weren't we wouldn't be blowing almost €4 on a pack. For some of us that becomes €8, and for some of us, me included, that's a €12 a day. We spend and never worry about tomorrow. That is what makes a smoker, otherwise we would be terrified of all the illnesses connected to smoking. But we don't think, we go the the moment, the nicotine moment. So, would I ever take my business to a smoke-free hotel? Yes, but only if it was a smoke free hotel where smoking was allowed. Of course I'll still smoke in my room, I don't care about the smoke detector, the sprinkler, it's my room, paid for and I'll do whatever I like in there. I figure, if I can walk about naked (and that's so sinful) then I can have a smoke (less sinful innit?). And if someone is allowed to burp maliciously at all hours, fart invadingly at all hours, then I can smoke. Even if I can't, I will still smoke. It's my party and I'll cry if I want to, and it's my room and I'll smoke if I want to. Yes yes yes dirthy filthy habit. But there's a dirtier one allowed in hotelrooms. I could get a whore in there and play with him/her to my heart's content. Isn't that dirtier than a quick smoke? I will not go into moral issues here, because my morality doesn't necessarily please everybody. But, whoredom could leave rubbers, crabs, lice. Smoking leaves just a stale smell and ashes. What would you rather have?