The Pope

And now I'm worried. I think maybe a priest will have read my blog, and told the Monseigneur, who will tell the Archbishop who will tell the Pope. And of course my mother too in the process. The Pope. I don't like this Pope very much. I liked the other Pope because he looked so kind. And I cried when he died. This one looks likes a Nazi, and anyway he's actually hailing from the country of Nazis. And I don't like him because he doesn't like gay people. I'm not gay by any means so that wouldn't bother me. He doesn't like 'pogguti' either I think, but I am not losing sleep over it. But this anti-gay thing bothers me, because it'll be anti-overweight and anti-obese next. And I don't think I'm being silly. Gay people are gay not out of choice. I'm big not out of choice either, although yes I could do something to help myself a little bit. But there is a valid reason why, a reason which I will not state in here. I will state everything else, but not my big reason. I remember there are rats around and I'm not feeding them Parmiggiano Reggiano to make them feel even bolder. I wonder if someone had to hold an anti-fat (oh dear there goes the f word) rally somewhere. We big people would probably also attend and crush them to death. Because they would deserve it. If I were gay I wouldn't really be affected much by what the Pope thinks. I'd just lead my life regardless. But there are gay people who really want to be good Catholics and the Pope is making their life difficult. And I cannot like a Pope who singles people out like that. God created everything, including gay people, and as long as nobody's getting hurt who does the Pope think he is to condemn it. He thinks he's the Pope of course. But he's not God and should just shut the f*&^% up. When I was young I thought the Pope was so special that he never even needed to visit the loo, but then I always saw the kind Pope. Now I know that this Pope not only uses the loo, but farts, shits, and does whatever else in the bathroom. I don't think that some nun is going to do him the favour of lifting his habit-skirt up and waiting while he does his business. That only happens in jokes. Or maybe not. There is just a very small part of the female population who think that priests have a sexy something. I think that priests have a sexy nothing. They are the men of God. And I have been a mistress and had married lovers who had wives, but cheating and being a mistress when the man in concern is married to God? Oh no, that's too scary. And although the Oh God exclamation is heard a lot in bedrooms, I really don't think people are seeing God every time. I can only speak through my experience, I've said the Oh God too, but I've never seen Him. I've never seen Him and his angels descend on me and give me a blessing. But then maybe it's because most times it's been illicit, and because of the 'pogguta' thing, God cannot give me a blessing right during the 'Oh God' because God doesn't have double standards. It's just that whenever we're getting good sex, somehow the Oh God slips out. I don't know why. It's like the Oh Yes or something of the sort. And thus I started this entry being worried that someone would spread the word, and my mum (God forbid) would get to know and get a big shock getting to know what her daughter was thinking and doing. But since mum thinks I'm a 'pastaza' then I guess she just would confirm her thoughts. And I'm not worried anymore. Yes, they can go and tell the Pope... seriously.

s and M

Since I'm still thinking about candles and cumbersome cucumbers and feeling sorry for the blessed Catholic Archbishop Curia, now my wicked seated personality is thinking about something else. Why did a St. Francis of Assisi whip himself silly? (or maybe it wasn't him?) Why did a St. Chiara have to chop her lovely hair off? Why are we given the impression that physical hardship is a purifier? What the hell does it purify? Why are we made to fast and pray, we are we given the warning that as good Catholics we have to fast and refrain from eating meat. Is God going to love me any less if I decide to get a Whopper from Burger King? And about the fasting, it's just like any other form of dieting. Millions of women do that every day, so what's so special? It's so masochist. Totally like s and M. There is no masochist without a sadist somewhere. An actual very good example of s and M. So to those leading an s and M type of lifestyle, have they actually got it right? And if they have, why does the majority of the population look down on them and call them mad. Come on, I think a lot of people would love to try a little bit of s and M, maybe not the very hardcore. But my guess is that a million women in this country (yes I know we're less than a million but it's still a million) have been tied to their bed with silk scarves and have found it exciting. A lot of men who usually hold dominant positions in life have been blindfolded and made to serve in the bedroom and loved it. And a lot have progressed to real handcuffs, bullwhips, scarificators, gags, clamps.... It is a statistic rather than what I think. My friend Ranier who runs a Maltese online sex shop knows exactly what he sells. So are all these people very saintly people? There is a very fine line between pain and pleasure. It's not called "le petit mort" for nothing. And talk to anybody who is familiar with the big Oh Yes. You'd get the same answer. Ok now I think I'm going to be driven away from the Church with sticks and stones. And I might like it.

Pogguta

I've just remembered one thing which people could call me and sometimes do. A "pogguta", which would literally mean a seated lady. So I sit, prettily if I may say so, but what's the sitting got to do about it? I don't sit all day long, if that were the case my butt would be twice its size and I've got plenty as it is. Sometimes I sit, especially when I'm blogging over here, sometimes I stand, I sleep, as does the rest of the population. So where does this seated thing come from. I've no idea. It could have been worse, seated isn't such a bad word after all, because since I'm prettily seated then I must be doing all the bad things in the world. Seated in the Maltese kind of way must mean I'm constantly in bed or our of bed doing all the vile sexual acts in the world without the blessing of the blessed, honest, totally transparent Catholic Curia. Because they don't do anything of the sort in there. They just light candles and pray all day long. I wonder why they go through so many candles a year, my guess is that they've found another good use for them, which is why the tales of the 'blessed' and anointed people going to the Casualty Department at Mater Dei are so popular. They must like Mater Dei, because after all it's the house of the Mother of God. And maybe, just maybe, they too sit prettily, on candles instead of on computer chairs. I wouldn't know why, my guess is that my couch is far more comfortable than a candle. And the fact that my couch costs much more than a candle of which you can get 50 for 2 Euro at tal-Lira must mean something. Perhaps it means that I'm so bad that I go for luxury, while they, bless them, decide to live in penitence and poverty and sit on hard stuff like candles from Tal-Lira. God forbid, I really they hope they don't light them up, talk about burning privates, or butts on fire. Then they would have to call the Fire Brigade first. and so while their intention may be good, their wanting to live in poverty is costing a lot as in our taxes; the doctors at Mater Dei, the Fire Brigade. But then the tales have it that it's not just candles. On days when Tal-Lira have run out, they turn to sitting on other things which could be another's culinary delight. Aha, that's why the greengrocer around the corner decides to prioritize nun clients. It's because they can probably make his day as in earnings, and we people who do not sit on candles or vegetables have to wait. Because while we can make do without cucumbers, carrots and bananas, the poor nuns cannot since it's their staple kind of diet. We can make do with mushrooms, peppers, apples, and pears. And we will not sit on them of course. Because we're the bad bad seated ones who decide to give their butt the most luxurious padding coming from Dunlopillo, Windsor, Regina and Hypnos. And because we've discovered the luxury of it all we're ready to pay for the extra difference, and of course always retire to our wicked ways, which are just as wicked as the blessed-art-thou's people, but of course more wicked because there's less penitence involved. Oh dear.

Me the Delight?

I have a name, an identity. I hold a passport in my name (because I have a name all of my own), a driving licence, a car, a house, all in my name. I own a lot more than that but I'll stop here because material possessions is not what this is going to be about. And then I'm no material girl. Yes I am also the lawyer-presenter-violinist-singer's twin sister. But I still have a name. And I'm fed up now by being announced as the sister of Joseph. That is a part of me too, but just a part, and not a whole. I am not looking for titles such as Ms, Dr, or Mrs. I have my name, and I think it's a lovely sounding name. (Mum did one right thing in her life). I also have my life and although I do a lot of things which are connected to my twin and his busy lifestyle, I have a lifestyle of my own. It's ok if you ask me if I'm Joseph's sister. It's ok if you stare in bewilderment when you realise we're the best example of different looking twins in history. It's ok if you say a "Prosit tal-programm". At any rate, that means me since I do most of it. But hey, can you stop and look at me and talk to me as if you were talking to me because that is just what you're doing. This "oht l-avukat" has to stop. The "oht t'Arani Issa" has to stop soon or I'm going to scream myself silly one day and I have no guarantee I won't scream at someone's face. And this has got to die a sudden death, "oht il-Baklava". Yeah right, if Baklava is a Turkish sweet, then am I a "Helwa tat-Tork" or what? And then I don't even like the "Helwa tat-Tork" although judging by the amount of extreme calories present in this "Helwa tat-Tork", I think I can safely qualify as a Turkish Delight. I like that, me a delight. Ok, call me that, I won't get mad I promise.

Rats, lions and one Diva

I set a lovely trap for the rat. And I got not just one, but two. Father and daughter-turned-hooker. And I'm laughing my butt off, so that means I'm laughing a whole whole lot because well, it's the butt word I'm using. I laugh because the dad was so adamant his daughter would never wear micro skirts and pout just like some silly girl who deserved a slap. But that's how it turned out. I never had a doubt, I think I just won myself a wager too. And now I know their exact intentions. And I wasn't wrong. Facebook is a lovely way to get to know everything, especially if you're under some nom-de-plume, which is not illegal by any means, and since it was my brother darling who suggested that I run his Facebook in the first place because he has no idea how it works, I thought I deserved giving myself a little pressie for all the hard labour I went to. So now I know, and since the rat had a head start, the rat also being disastrous as in how Facebook works, I have surpassed the head start and am now winning the rat race. Which is going to be a hellish race anyway. It will still mean that a lot of tears will be shed by yours truly. I'm not sure it will still be called a rat race anymore, because I am so sure it will graduate to a Roman lion's arena and not many will be cheering me on. Because I guess I will not stoop so low. I feel that I do not have to compete for attention because my family should be mine without any extra effort. As to which lion will be cheered on, well I cannot force people to do the right thing, not even if the people are my own flesh and blood. What a jungle. And it's called a Philharmonic. And people come to see us dolled up in black tie and think we're nice, clever, educated and polite. Yeah right. It's an underworld, nicely tagged as a Philharmonic underworld, but still an underworld. An underworld rife with Obsessive Compulsive Disorders, mostly sex mad, power mad, and never musical mad. It's a lot about sex over there, take it from me, it's incessantly sex and not sexy. It's also a dissonant kind of harmony. It's just like any child putting on their best behaviour right before some Parents' Evening. Then it just goes mayhem the second the curtain is closed. And I think how lucky I am to not attend a Philharmonic every day as I did for 14+ years. I now attend schools just as I did when I was 4. And it's no jungle, no underworld; although you do get the odd church mouse, but not a sewage rat. At least that is what I feel, and I hope I am right. The day I discover a sewage rat in any school will be a very sad day for me. Hopefully I won't. I've just got a call from brother darling who is calling me 'pupa'. Yeah right, the things our consciences make us say and do. I just cut off without saying a word. I dislike butt-lickers even if they happen to be my twin brother. He can lick my butt all he likes, which will be a very laborious job both as in physical as well as in metaphor. Actions speak volumes. And I am not about to be sweet talked by a the four letter word 'pupa'. I'm no dolly, I am what I am, and that is one big diva which incidentally is also another four letter word, but one which does me justice. Diva. That is me.