Claws

I have brand new nails. Well, actually they're my old nails but prettified with art. And somehow they feel good, and it feels good typing here like a mad hatter on my keyboard. And this is going to sound madder than the hatter but I think I've just realised that my nails give me one hell of a power trip. It's just as if they were claws, although I haven't clawed anybody's face... yet. Perhaps that is why I identify with cats so well, because they have claws, I have claws, so that makes us happy. I can talk to anybody with my nails in place, they just give this good don't-mess-with-me feeling. It happens when I'm driving too which isn't very good I suppose, although I really am road-rageless. But drumming my nails on the steering wheel... well I feel so powerful. I can go with a squeaky clean face but not without my polished arty nails. Maybe I'm something like Cruella the witch. The fact that I've always been drawn to Medusa and clairvoyants who clutch their crystal ball with long long nails; that's the dark side of me. I would love to have a haunted house where I could perhaps talk to people in a supernatural world. But then I'd probably scare the shit out of them with my odd ways. I see a lot of clawing in everyday life, and most of the clawers (not sure if the word exists) do not own long nails like I do. They dig their claws into the person they've just said a beaming hello to and tear at their flash like hyenas. So, perhaps I'm the better one here. At least I just wear my keyboard with my claws, and not other people. And since they look good, yes, I will flaunt them.

Reunions

I read that a high school reunion is planned for Eastertime. And everybody is so enthusiastic. Not me. I hate reunions. Especially girly ones. And I don't get excited just because it was 20 years ago. My schooldays cannot be described as happy. I was always a sad little girl, I didn't like going to school and I hated school hours. And I wasn't a bad student at all, I scored top marks in all academic subjects although my heart was never in them. I wanted my dear old music, and it wasn't there at school. I hated my school uniform, it depleted me of my artistic nature. I didn't like listening to teenage girl gossip, they talked about sex a lot, and I knew nothing about it... back then. We were just 12, they knew it all, I knew absolutely nothing. And it sounds silly because I had Biology as an option, and I just stared. I'm not sure now that their tales back then were completely true, but they made me feel so inferior and were probably also one cause for starting an early sex life. Because I wanted to know, first-handedly since Science books and their diagrams did nothing to the imagination. I was so young desperately wanting to grow up so that I could choose to go to school and not be forced. I wanted to grow up so that I could smoke at my leisure. I wanted to wear what I chose to wear. And most importantly of all, I wanted not to go to school, this grey old building with a mean nun as a headmistress. I wanted to run away from all the myths they were imposing on me. Myths such as, never-let-a-man-have-his-wicked-ways, because otherwise the man will be using you and will dump you in the process. But I have done the same, had my wicked ways with men, used them and dumped them too. It works both ways. I had to wear socks in freezing temperatures, my shirt was not made for breasts which were already existent at 12 years old. And my summer uniform was something like the cat dragged in. I couldn't wait for holidays, I just wanted to get out of there fast. And I never went to all the teary farewell things. Finally I was getting out of there, and that was a reason to rejoice and not cry. And I've never ever been back there and never will. And now, twenty years later, the girls want to reunite. Well, I don't. We've probably all changed a lot for one. But the main thing is I do not want anything or anybody to remind me of those years because I was so unhappy. Schooldays should be the best days of one's life.... not for me they weren't. And I've closed the chapter on schooldays long ago, and am in no hurry to open it again. It's done now, very thankfully. And that's it, it's over, in a very distant past.

Freaky

I am wondering what it is that brings people to my blog. I do no advertising. I have never even spoken about my blog. And yet people make references to it. And it's ok, because although I write for myself and the whole blogger thing is therapeutic, I wonder what brings them here. And I really wonder how in the first place they have come here. Did they Google me? Did they Yahoo me? I know I have my blog address as an email sign off, but I have never sent emails to a lot of people who come here. I know why they read it, it's because it's in the form of a diary and people have an intrinsic curious streak. Or perhaps because it's interesting (big big smile). But I cannot understand how they came to know that my blog actually existed. So why? Is it because I'm such a strange creature that people Google me to see if they can find something to connect me with mankind? Am I, to them the girl without a past, that odd? Or do they want to know something about my past? Am I really that queer in the eyes of people? Is it because I keep myself to myself a lot and that has evoked curiosity? And now comes the other eternal issue; do I so look not human that people want to check out if I'm a freak or not. Well, perhaps I am. One doctor said that bluntly to my face in these words, "You were never meant to be born, you were the second freaky egg who accidentally got loose in your mother's womb and who happened to be fertilised by a slower sperm than your brother's. " Freaky, perhaps not the kind of thing a doctor should say. But worse of all, it is biologically true. A slower sperm who met a freaky egg. Nice one. I do not know if I were meant to be born or not, I had no hand in the whole process. I do know that at the time, I made my dad exuberantly happy, seeing there had been no girl for five generations. Now, I'm not so sure. My mum says that having us was the best and the worst thing that ever happened to her. Perhaps not something a mother should say either. So it seems I've fought against the odds to feel normal. I try my best and yet I still feel freaky. But I'm still human, perhaps just freakishly human.