Gossip huh?

Sometimes I feel I am an Arab princess married to an Arab prince. No, better than that, I am the Arab Queen married to an Arab King. No, that's not even it, I am the Queen to whom the King is married. There, that's just it. Sometimes I also feel that I am the President of the world. Not because I am becoming narcissistic, or because I am starting to have grandiose ideas. I wish I did sometimes, it would be lovely to think of myself as the best possible form of the human race. But it's not I making myself sick. It's just people trying to ask so many questions about me. And no, I repeat, I am not even getting paranoid. Some people want to know how I am, not really to be pleased with a positive answer. Others are curious. And some others want to know about low-profile me. And yes there have been rumours about my death, my coffin and my grave. It could be sad, but it ain't, because the day I die I will make headlines, Chanel will design a beautiful shiny ebony coffin with diamonds, I will have an open Cavalli casket of course because I'll still be looking good, and my grave will have a Versace epitaph complete with the finest Gucci granite. Oh and people will be queing for weeks just to get a glimpse of my grave. Gross. But that's how it is. I can talk about these things so easily because I have stared at death in the face and I am not scared now, although I am not waiting for a death letter in the post either. I love life now. But all this gossip... about me? It used to upset me at first, now I just smile. No, my time is not up yet, and I've stayed against all the overwhelming odds. But if a tortoise and a hamster have the right to hibernate, don't I have the right to stay dormant? Dormant doesn't hurt anybody. It doesn't hurt me, and it hasn't hurt my neighbour. I have had so much applause, so many bright lights, so much drama, sat on so many red chairs, teased my hair into operatic curls, worn so many evening dresses that I've lost count. And sometimes we need time out. The stage is a tricky thing, you have to be so careful so as not to turn into a performing monkey. And I have learnt to love my low-key profile. I don't need the harsh light anymore to feel fulfilled. Harsh lighting does nothing for a girl's complexion anyway. Stage make-up isn't very good on the skin either. Too many lights can be blinding, and I can sit on any other chair, it needn't be red. And I'm happy on any other chair, under any other kind of lighting, with a squeaky-clean face and without a stage. Yes, I know, all the world's a stage, but my world isn't. But it's one happy world nonetheless. And that's all I care about. So there... now you know.

Praise?

I am a girl with high expectations, but I do not expect anything from anybody. And I have finally got the grasp of being sweet natured, well, at least sometimes. However, I'm not stupid. I may drag myself around as if I were some loony retarded woman. But appearance is not always what it looks like. I have a problem with people who try to put me down, only to praise me the next second. Let's get real, I know I'm good, I do not need praise. Yeah I know this is being terribly big-headed, but I'm not scared of big, and I am just saying it as it really is. And since I know who is reading my blog, who incessantly tries to turn his monitor on which my blog is plastered, away from me the minute I pop up, I'm saying it in here. Informing me that I have a way with little people will not make me stare in wonder and be so grateful that I suddenly turn into an obedient puppy. I know all about that. It doesn't take genius to see that little people like me for some reason or other. But do not try putting me down on something which isn't my fault then praise me as if to put soothing lavender oil on my pretty skin. I don't need the oil, my skin is pretty enough already, I'm 35 and my skin could pass for 25 (that you dad for your genes). Trying to stab someone then put Elastoplast on it is nonsense. And no I will not allow the perpetrator to kiss it better. A kiss? Hell no. You see, a kiss is so personal. A kiss could be so soft to the touch, or sexy to the tongue, or so foul tasting you just want to puke into the other's mouth. It can be that good or that bad. Because although most times I look as if I haven't got at least half a brain to save my life, think again. You don't need to get so excited. Although I can understand that I do not look the part. And I never will. And I don't aspire to look the part, but rather carry out the part nonetheless. And that is confusing. To you. Because you're probably a bad bad kisser.