Drag

While I was looking for the Taliban head wear I stumbled on something so very not Taliban. Drag wear. Really beautiful drag wear. The kind which glued my eyes to the monitor and made me sigh a big big sigh. Why is drag wear so painfully beautiful, so ladylikely chic, so out of the world sexy? And why is it men who can get away with it? I'd love to wear that chic fur, plaster my face in colours, grow my nails an inch longer, wear 6 inch high heels... and get away with it. But I couldn't because I'm female. Such a paradox. A girl like me could never pull off drag wear for the simple reason that a girl like me is a girl. Not very fair. I want all that. I want over the top jewellery, I want massive big hair, a sequined dress with a very indecent long spilt at the front, the same sequined dress to show off big cleavage. But if I had to do all that, I would probably either get arrested or find myself very quickly in the chic Attard area. What's worse is that if I then were a man, dressed in all this finery, with an added feather here and there, and walking the streets of Paceville, or making a big entrance at Klozit, then I would be applauded heartily. So even more unfair. I want all that, but no I don't want to be a man. Not even if someone offered me a million Euro, which will never happen. I'm just happily a girl, but I want the drag, because big is fine in drag, and I just want to be fine. And by the way, for the lurking readers, no, I'm far from being gay. I love men, after all even the ones in drag are all men.

Of Talibans and guesses

There is no sexy Taliban head wear on the web. I don't know if you could actually buy something like that in some back street, after-hours, Taliban-sort-of-lingerie shop but perhaps the synonym of Taliban is not sexy, or not attractive at the very least. When I look at Taliban wives I find myself imagining that I'm a man, and I also find myself what, if I were a man, I would find attractive. Zilch, nothing, rien. If I were a man, and I could see nothing of a person of the opposite sex except for her eyes (a little bit of eye), how on earth could I go forth and multiply. How, in very base terms, could I get horny enough to copulate and bring forth offspring that, if female, are probably fitted with head wear first and not a diaper? Or do they wear extremely sexy clothing underneath all that black? Or perhaps do Taliban men have such horny genes that their women must wear all that unattractive black so as to put a damper on their horniness, otherwise they would be constantly getting arrested for public indecency because they wouldn't be able to help themselves? whatever, I am not going to wear Taliban head wear, I'm not hiding my hair, no way. So that means I only have another choice, left that of shaving my hair which is not happening. Not even if head lice took to prancing on the streets. I'd hide, go into eternal seclusion, and while I'm at it I could apply for cloister nunnery. Or I'd have to risk it. Or perhaps I'll do myself a favour and quit listening to radio magazine programmes. Better idea.

And I'm still unwell. I wonder what type of virus bug is going on. And I would like to find this virus and kick it's ass.It's making me too miserable. I think the word virus is very comfortably said by doctors when they haven't got a clue as to what is wrong. So the definition of virus should be changed to... your guess is as good as mine. Very fitting explanation.

Tales of headlice

No biskuttelli again (I'm getting addicted to the opposite of eating biskuttelli) and I'm none the better. I'm sick of being sick but I cannot complain when I remember how so many people are so very very worse off. My guess is that a person experiencing mental diffiulties would kill to get a stomach bug. And I don't blame them.

Anyway, I slept again, because the fever is making me so drowsy, or perhaps it's the foul-tasting syrup, I wouldn't know. So I slept and dreamt again, this time of something more foul than the syrup. Headlice. Ever since I was a child I was so scared of these things which I never saw, never felt. But my mum had strict instructions; do not ever let your head touch anybody else's. Which was probably a wise thing to do since I had curls touching my waist (where have all the curls gone now). I saw pictures of these nasty little parasites and I thought that although I believed they could fly, it was all one big myth. Unfortunately the man on the radio said they could this morning, so that probably put me into scaredom, hence the dream. He also suggested that teachers cover their heads. Should I be going to school looking like a Taliban now or what? There is no way I am cutting my hair, I like it too much. So now I'll just have to surf the net for sexy Taliban headwear, if it exists at all...

Pain

So I didn't treat myself to any of the biskuttelli, and I'm still no better. In sickness stakes, I guess there are so many people worse off than me. Mater Dei is probably full. But I'm hurting just the same. Although I would gladly trade this type of hurting for another type of hurting. This type makes me visit the bathroom very often, I think now I know the exact number of bathroom tiles because I've been in there so often. But that's ok, because it's amazing, once I'm in there the pain subsides. That is easy pain, although pain nonetheless. And at least the time between one visit and another is increasing steadily, it has now got to fifteen minutes instead of ten. That's progress.

But at times like this I think of all the other people I know and all the other people whom I don't know who are in pain; pain as in real real pain. Mostly head pain. Not headaches, but psychological pain, brain pain. And I am so thankful that my only discomfort can be cured every 15 minutes just by going into the next room. For other people it's not so easy. For them, pain is a journey, and it sucks. And they will be put on one medication, then another, then yet another, until it becomes a cocktail of medications and they're still not any better. And their only relief is pain, that is when they can actually sleep, because then insomnia becomes a very good friend. I am not anti-meds, I really believe meds can help. But with brain pain, it's trial and error. And that's not easy to live with. And it has no tangible signs, so very few people will understand. They will just utter the famous 'cheer up' which should be punishable by law. Cheer up? It's not so simple. It's not as if you've lost some hundreds or even thousands of Euro down some kind of money-sucking drain. That would be simple, so simple. But not the brain kind of pain. And although I look the other way when I come next to the psychiatric sign when I'm just in for a simple routine blood test at Mater Dei, it still stays there. And although I'm bound to get a heavy traffic penalty for looking very far the other way when I come close the most coveted chic Attard area, it's still there. And although I think that looking the other way somewhat makes it disappear, it doesn't. And I have nothing against the area, it's just that it makes me think of things so painful. And I'm so sorry although I know that being sorry is not going to help anybody.

Have to go to the next room again. What a small price to pay though.