Biskuttelli

I'm at a point; the one which you can describe as a point at which things can only get better, but I know that they can get a lot worse. And I don't know why. I did quarrel with my mother over a water biscuit, in Maltese terms, the classical biskuttell. Incredible thing this, that an innocent biskuttell can cause so much trouble. It can. My mum suddenly thinks a biskuttell can kill me. Because it might have a lot of sugar content, which is scientifically and culinary untrue. And so she has decided that she's found something else to argue about, and I know she will make herself sick with worry. My brother has also called, because he too saw mum terribly worried, but he didn't know it was about a biskuttell. He just blurted out laughing. I think my dad is keeping watch too by sieving through all the rubbish I put outside for the taking. I'm not completely sure but I think he really is. True they don't live very far, just comfortably far enough for me to lead my own life without having to face their speculations, without having to explain why the milkman took five minutes instead of two; the milkman here being used as a generic term for any man because of course I buy milk off a shelf. That makes my dad a tramp, what the hell have we got to now, looking through people's black garbage bags. So now I've ended up feeling terribly sad and guilty because of a biskuttell which is not called a water biscuit for nothing. A water biscuit, not a sugar biscuit, or a fat biscuit, or a cholesterol biscuit. And still that seems to be something to argue and worry yourself sick about it. And I shouldn't be here worrying about that.

Another thing, since I have this gastric something bug, then my parents think it's cancer of the bowels. They think that since I smoke, then a cancer has just decided to embark growing in my bowels. As if any type of cancer would ever have the guts to hear them complain. And since my gastric bug has been caused by a cancer due to my smoking, then they have every right to get upset and point the dreaded finger saying, I told you so. Which makes me want to point another finger, but I'm too sick to go through what the outcome of that would be. So, according to their very nutty and extreme hypochondriac disorder personalities, it then becomes equal that it's my fault I'm sick. So go on lay the blame, as if anybody would choose to feel like crap. As if I like it. Of course I don't. I am housebound with the only little exercise being that of rushing to the loo and back here again. Then it'll all happen again 10 minutes later if I'm lucky, 5 minutes later if I'm not.

And the thing is I've got this bag of biskuttelli which are beckoning. Something like forbidden fruit or sweet. Except it's not sugary. So please leave this poor girl alone. One biskuttell will not kill her, nor will two, or three.

Out of business

I'm not pleased with myself. Not because of my previous post, or because any of my previous posts. It's just that when I am sick and curled up with my laptop in bed, sometimes writing, sometimes surfing, and sometimes writing some more, it's a cosy place for me with fever to be with, and the inevitable happens. I drift off to sleep. Which is perhaps natural, but not for me. Fever gives me funny kinds of sleeps, sometimes nightmares. And it usually is about me trying to crawl out of a big black hole through a ridiculously tiny space. Quite a self explanatory kind of dream. I don't need dream therapy there. Blessed are those who do not, have never been in the black hole, and even more blessed are those who can hoist themselves up of that hole and crawl through that tiny space. My guess is that whoever it is would have to meet Barbie specifications. Maybe smaller. I have no idea why fever induces drugged, groggy sleep. It just does. I marvel at other people who can carry on with their same lifestyle while having fever. And of course one of those would happen to be my twin, even if it's just to have one more thing to oppose me. He'll go on regardless, I, on the other hand, have to let down the imaginary window with a sign that reads, sorry, out of business. In the entertainment business, sometimes we press ourselves because we cannot cancel a performance. That is what I used to think until I performed so horribly wrong that I fainted. I don't know if I fainted because of the high fever or if it was my bad playing that was so bad my ears couldn't take it and fainted. That was a lesson learnt, yes you can cancel because it's not the end of the world. And even if you cannot get yourself replaced, nobody is indispensable. Sitting at home with a stock of Paracetamol and antibiotics is the thing to do when you've been struck by fever. Nothing else. I could manage female pains, a sore throat, a plastered leg even, but not fever. So sorry everyone, I'm really out of business for now. And that would usually mean getting a big dose of TLC with compliments from Mister, the trouble is he's even more out of business than I am at the moment!

Support but not supportive

One day I think I will go out to the world and say some horrible home truths. And they will be so horrible that probably it will take some convincing to believe. But I have proof. And it will probably be quite a battle, but it will also be a very sad battle. It seems that I am not alone. And when you think you're so right, when you really go over and over everything and make sure once, twice, thrice, a million times, that you are really in the right, then that, with a big sigh of relief which lasts for a million semibreves, stops you from going out of your mind. Because you know you're right. And when someone else who has done your same thing understands how it is, then you finally know you're in the right, and nothing but in the right. And does that help the situation? Tragically, no. A big resounding no. And then you so know you're in the right and you can prove it because of the love-word and again you are made to feel bad for it. So then it's easy for the brain to start wandering... But until I keep writing in this blog of mine, I will stay sane. I know that. And if someone is thinking that I keep having crash-crazes about everything, they're wrong. I do not crash craze about shoes, about clothes, about hairstyles, or about men. I have a constant love for them. If I love something, I do, until it hurts. And it is still hurting, no matter how many blog entries (mostly silly) I have typed out here since November. It still hurts. I wonder about the word support. One Internet dictionary gives a beautiful meaning for the word. It says, support : to love, sustain or withstand without giving way. Lovely. Sadly it doesn't have the same meaning in our semitically-based language. The love-word is out. I thought it wasn't. It's just like one of those things you thought was so good, tasted, and suddenly discovered that the glazed red icing was rotten and you couldn't wait to spit it out. But then you couldn't spit it out because of the fear of what might happen. There goes the fear word, snugly, but present. And with the fear, love does a 'press Delete'. No more love. And it is so rotten because it is always done in the name of love. That is so important that it is emphasized in each sentence. Love? Yeah right, love for a paycheck maybe, love for a power-tripping post, love for making things look the opposite way they are which in turn means love for giving the wrong impression. That's all love. But it no possible love-future. No possible love. Because citing the reason of love is getting me nowhere. Now if I only had to walk down four steps, turn to the right, walk three paces, go up to steps and ring the doorbell..... I wonder if there would be support in there...

Perfectly wrong

I am back again to write some more. Or perhaps talk some more. I guess if you look at it one way I must look like the loneliest person ever, but if you tilt your head a bit the other way, then I suddenly look like the world's biggest chatterbox, and since I listen to heaps and heaps of music, well let's say that perhaps it's an inspiration. I'm just giving myself a good image that's all. I'm not lonely but I like to talk. It's the thing that got me into a tiny little bit of trouble in class and during parents' day. You see Mr. and Mrs. Chetcuti, she does so well, but talks too much. Big big mega sigh. Well I haven't changed much, I don't talk a lot to people in everyday life nowadays, I talk a lot to little people but that's about it. And yes sometimes that makes me feel lonely during my job, there is little time for small talk and then I'm not very good at small talk, if I talk it's going to be a massive talk. Or none at all. There are not many people I trust to talk to for the simple reason that I don't know a lot of the people, but I trust the perfect man. He was yet another thing I was looking forward to today, but it'll have to be next week.I trust him perfectly, I don't know why, I just think he has a conscience. He is not big like me, I actually would love to be his size, perhaps trade sizes, and yet I just think that because he is perfect in everything then he must be justly perfect in talking to. I like talking to him, because you can actually talk to him, explain and he doesn't expect perfection, he just expects that I do my job, which is perfectly reasonable. And this perfect man has also an inherent knack of listening when he's not rushed off his feet. I wonder where he gets the energy from, perhaps from a lot of good old Vitamin C through good old squeezed oranges. Somehow his energy makes me feel so small in comparison though because I honestly never want to let him down. That would make me sad. Because one day, he explained it in a nutshell; everything is like clockwork (and he is just like clockwork, the type that never needs a battery), if I do my thing well, then that will help him do his well and help me in the process. What a wise head on young shoulders. That man will always have me in awe. Perhaps sometimes what I think makes me look bad, but really I am not one known to suck up to anybody. I hear a lot of things and disagree, just because a man is competent, then that is a virtue and not a vice. It just happens that sometimes people touch your life somehow. Through him I have learnt a lot, not just the perfection trait, or the being able to talk to him trait. I have realised that I am not the only one who is a dartboard for size related comments. So I'm a big dartboard, and he's a smaller one, never the less a dartboard. How mean, silly, and stupid. You really can never please the world can you? I thought that the big issue was all there was as regards size. Wrong. There's also the smaller issue. But at least we are both not stupid. I will always be grateful for the unspoken respect, the things he automatically does to help me even physically and never ever says a word about it. He is probably the only one who never ever hinted at the big thing. And I was never paranoid he might be thinking this or that. And it makes me sick to hear size related comments about people who are smaller then myself just as it makes me sick to hear size related comments about people like me or bigger. How low can anyone get, and oh how stupid. Because people with university degrees are not necessarily very bright. I will never be one to judge a man by his size, brains do not take up much space, and a good heart takes up so very little. The outer shell is what it is, a cover. And if variety is the spice of life, then how come have we got it all so perfectly wrong?

Just not right

Beechams didn't do it, a good night's rest didn't do it, because it wasn't a good night's rest anyway, I kept getting so hot and getting up to drink, drink, drink. I actually almost drank two litres of water. Not good. But then if you cannot breathe through your nose I suppose that's what happens. And still, something's not right. My doctor's been because the something not right gave me a really nice scare to begin the day with. This is always happening when I look forward to something. I remember being so excited in my schooldays, because the teacher would be taking us out on a picnic the day after. So I would have chose my clothes, shoes, have everything packed and just wait for the morrow. Yeah right, then the morrow would come and I'd be sick in bed, because, according to the doctor at the time, I would have been so excited that I'd have made myself sick. Silly explanation but that's what he said every time. So I'd see my twin go and stare at the outside through the window pain and boo-hoo myself to silliness. Now it's not very different. I had my clothes laid out, including shoes, jewellery, right down to my stockings (for the first time in my life), and which eyeshadow to go with what. Everything. And they're still laid out because I haven't a heart to put them on, because I've woken up running a damn fever which is making me think that some little pest is digging at my brains. And I got the scare which probably made my doctor not too happy seeing I probably was his wake up call at half six in the morning. At least this doctor is nice and reasonable, and he doesn't think that excitement brings the fever on, nor does it make the something not right go into overdrive. But it means no pretty little faces today. And that's not very nice. I had everything thought out right to something which would not just teach the little faces a lesson (and that doesn't sound right, I really mean a nice lesson), but something to keep them interested and excited. Because a teacher really makes or breaks a little person. I was once a little person too although it's hard to believe. I think I still am inside, it's just that judging a book by its cover doesn't work with me. You could do that but it wouldn't tally, that's how pretty it can get. Music could get highly boring, yet it could go from boring to enticing in one minute. That is why I love this thing so much, it is so very versatile. And I'm not sure there should be much difference between all subjects. I am no scientific person and yet I did so thoroughly well in maths and biology and physics and chemistry, because I had the bestest teachers on earth and they transmitted their love for the subject. When it comes to music, my dad was the definite jockey, so that makes me a horse? Hmm not very happy with the idea.