Punishment?

I've just been out on my balcony for five seconds. That's the maximum amount of time my body was comfortable with. And I see a sight for sore eyes. If I had timed it I wouldn't have got so lucky. I have just seen something very mad. Mad in a bad mad way. It's a 6 degrees outside, and in the same outside are two men with sleeveless vests and shorts. That's mad. I can understand the good things about keeping a svelte figure, but at 6 degrees? Oh come on, that's pushing it too much. Haven't these guys heard of gyms where they could enrol and keep their figure at room temperature? I think some men (and probably women too) have a masochist streak. Are they running in the cold almost naked, just for health reasons? Because at any rate they're going to screw up their health in another way, and that is pneumonia. Or do they like being punished? Hmm. Punishment and men and naked and cold and ... it's almost a dungeon description. Unfortunately I do not own a dungeon. I wish I did because my dark side would absolutely love it. I'd mask it and call it a wine cellar in front of my mum. But it would still be a dungeon. And it would be a place where all these male masochists could come to exercise their body in a different way. What the hell, exertion is exertion, I would make sure they'd have sweat dripping off their faces, perhaps for a different reason than running around in the cold. It would be a place for men who love punishment to hang out at. Oh I can just see it, candles all the way, the dim light, the gore. And of course the stocks, the cross (no black magic here), the shackles, the chains, the cuffs. Which would then give way to the sticks and stones and whips and paddles and crops. And then I'd need just one thing. A bitch to deliver all of these. A real bitch to dominate whoever it is into submission. So I'd need to employ a bitch, though I wonder, perhaps I'd be good at yet another form of D.I.Y.? OK, now I have to have a dungeon, because it's a need and not a want. And some black patent leather to look the part. It'll all be just like a gym, my kind of gym.

Hair hair hair

I know it's so cold outside, but it's so comfy in here. And I fee a restored woman. Nails in place, hair in super place, Nigel's been. I love Nigel. I hope he will always be there even when I'm an old an wrinkly woman in my 80's. He would then be in his 70's so he will not be dementiated like I will be. I have discovered a new way to make cash, a new way which isn't for me. Since hair extensions are all the rage, hair stylists are on the look out for clients with waist-long hair like me. They want to convince me to sell my hair. And Nigel has told me to beware. And I will be very aware. There is no way I'm selling my natural beauty away, if it doesn't get me 1 million of course. And even then, I would have to think it over. I have done the unthinkable once, and let a stylist cut one whole foot out of my hair. But it made sense then since it was going to a child with leukemia, as apparently one foot of hair makes a whole wig of natural hair for a child. And I still had long hair anyway. I didn't do it because I'm a good girl, but because if I were a little girl suffering baldness because of leukemia treatment I would desperately want someone to give me their natural hair. But doing without my hair for some dumb model to walk on a catwalk with? Or for some housewife who wants an immediate new look to excite the husband when he comes home seeing she is in urgent need of a sexual makeover? No. They can do with artificial hair or look elsewhere. That's not good enough a cause. And now I'm suddenly thinking, what if the sorry spies needed hair for a good medical reason? Would I oblige? Hmmm... no, of course not. Because I'm not donating my crowning glory to anyone who has tried to damage the spokes in my wheel of life. You see I'm not a good girl. They can get their own. I may have been slapped once, but I'm not about to turn the other cheek and pose for another slap. Worse still, I might as well get even. Because I've seen the spies on Face book, and Hola`, Hurray, they have horrible hair. And they're so full of sass oh dear. I could safely say it's because they have no Nigel, but I'd rather jump up and down in glee and say they have been robbed of this kind of crowning beauty. Because nature sometimes has a way of getting back at things itself, without me even lifting a manicured finger.

Why, oh Why?

I keep wondering why this blog is having such massive potential. It started out just as a tiny diary, and perhaps an outlet because I needed to write. I could have written on an innocent Word document, but somehow all the pink in the Blog is inspirational. I like pink, nice innocent pink usually reserved for baby girls and good adult girls. But I'm no baby girl of course, it doesn't take eyeglasses to see that. I didn't even have one pink outfit as a baby, it was always white. That's what the pictures always show, blue for the boy, white for the girl. Perhaps mum thought that by donning me in white she would preserve my innocence and virginity all in one and all in white. And I will not be the judge on whether I'm innocent or not. But a 35 year old virgin, well if that were the case it would worry me sick. That wouldn't be normal. And I'm not about to play the game and say that I'm still saving myself and haven't tired myself out waiting, as a friend of mine does, when she's just been as bad as I have been. But I'm digressing, back to the blog. I can understand that some people have stumbled here accidentally, by pure coincidence. And I can also understand that some others have found their way here accidentally on purpose. And that means that they've done a massive Google search, a Yahoo search, a something else search on the world wide web. And I really ask a big why? I don't mind one bit, it's so much naughtier because sometimes I write and ramble on innocently while I'm actually targeting a person in mind. And since I know I have an audience, then, me being a performer at heart, only facilitates my writing. It also keeps me out of trouble. If someone dares so much as tread on my Diva toes I can control myself from slapping them because I know I'll get even later on in my blog. And as much as I try to keep low profile in the world, it seems that I am somehow soliciting, provoking, arousing interest. Is it that I look so funny that people actually have to Google me to see if I'm for real? Is it that I'm so way over the top that people Google me to see if I really exist? Or is it because there is a big diva oozing all out of me that I am effortlessly raising the bushy eyebrows which I would love to wax myself so that I can tear at the wax strip as violently as I think the candidate deserves? I really wonder why. And I've racked my diva brains for a long time and still can come up with no answer. It's funny sometimes, I meet perfect strangers who make references to my blog. What is funnier is that they always smile. So is this blog making me a laughing stock now? Is it a comic relief? I am not talking about the spies, I've known about the spies all along. They read becoming all the more seethingly uncomfortable with every word they read. And it makes me so glad that I also smile in the process. The spies, oh the sorry spies. Did they think I'd just lay down and die? Oh dear me, no way, I have diva fighting spirit, and I know I've disappointed the spies. And no, I'm not paranoid. No apologies. But then the vast majority of people logging onto my blog are not spies, they bear no malice, I think they're just curious. I do not ask why they keep coming here, I know why with a big grand diva smile. I just ask, how the hell did they come here in the first place? I wish they'd answer me, but I never even ask because I might embarrass them, because they might not tell the truth and because perhaps I might not like the answer. I guess it's going to be rhetorical for as long as I live. Because once you're here, you'll be back again and again and again and again. That much I'm sure. Take it from me because I'm the Diva.

www.englishmaltesedictionary.com

I have got to know a certain Mr. Ian Vella. I have never seen nor heard him, but he sounds like a plucky chap who has gone to a great deal of trouble in making certain that we have our own Maltese say on the world wide web. Ever had trouble with finding the right word? I have. And sometimes I use the only thing that has been available for now, that is a normal English Internet dictionary. It still doesn't give me the right word, but it has got to do. Well, not anymore. We now have our own English to Maltese dictionary, and it's free, online, 24/7. You just have to type www.englishmaltesedictionary.com into your browser and there you are. I've typed quite some words in there to see if it really works. And believe you me, Mr. Ian Vella has gone to a hell of a lot of trouble in creating something as vast as a dictionary. And me being me, I've also typed in some naughty words, and they're in there! The slut word is there as are all the other female body words as well as their male counterparts. And sometimes, the dictionary doesn't just give you one, but two words for safekeeping, try putting in the word breast....Yes I know, it's about time I grew up from the teenage graffiti on the toilet doors, although I swear I have never ever vandalised toilet doors, not even by writing anything on them. This dictionary is going to be God's greatest gift to people who are slowly learning Maltese, as well as to us who can talk and breathe Maltese as the most natural gift in the world. This man really set me thinking. Why go to such hellish trouble of creating a dictionary? I mean there are volumes and volumes of words. But then Mr. Vella must not be a lazy creature like me, and has his patriotic side finely tuned. If I were the President, I'd award a big round medal to a man who has gone to so much trouble in making sure we're on the web too. We might be small, but there are people like Mr. Vella who are speaking volumes through a national dictionary. www.englishmaltesedictionary.com I suggest you bookmark it, even for it's melitensia potential. Well done Mr. Vella.

Death

I am still keeping up with all the Jade Goody news. And each time the headlines stand out, "Dying Goody this, and Dying Jade that." She's dying. And I wonder how on earth she can take all the limelight. Then again I can understand that the limelight would perhaps give her positive things to think about. And now she's using a book about a dying badger to explain it to her kids. Death. Something a lot of people never want to think about. But death happens all the time. And it's scary because we do not know what there is on the other side. I make myself believe in the Christian afterlife because that gives me solace. I am not scared of death, although I am not waiting for it in the post. I have stared at death in the face and it's ugly. I have tried to beat death only for death to beat me in the death race by a couple of minutes. It is the moment when I suddenly thought of the Bible, when it says, "It was now about the sixth hour, and darkness came over the whole land until the ninth hour. The sun was darkened, and the veil of the temple was torn in two." It wasn't the sixth hour, but that is how it felt, and how I saw everything around me. I am by no means a Bible fanatic, and yet that is where my mind wandered. I wish I could have been prepared by the book about the dying badger. But I wasn't that lucky. And although all the experience should have made me tough about death and the dying, it hasn't. I am not scared about my own death; I don't want to die, but it still doesn't scare me. My fear of death is if it had to strike the people I love. It's morbid, but I sometimes think who of us twins will go first, and since I cannot bring myself to live a life without my twin, I try to convince myself that I will go first. Call it selfish, but that's the way it is. Death gave me a very hard time, and I never got used to it. And I guess I never will. And for now I will keep reading about Jade whose death will make me cry. I cannot help it.