It makes me cry...

And so the articles are ready. Finally. How I've come to hate writing about Arani Issa. I don't hate the candidates. I am not so sure what I feel for them, but it certainly isn't hate. But today, while I was on a high because I'd finally managed to write two articles decent enough for publishing, I set my PC on Arani Issa. And there it was staring at me in the face again; the battle of the bulge. And it was all about this young man whom I've met about a year ago. Good Lord, the transformation. The man lost half his weight, a 104kg to be exact. And it's made me cry. Out of happiness because it will now change his life. And it's also made me cry because of this constant sadness I feel. I'm ok I guess, I come here and vent the bad feelings off. Sometimes I just remember and remember and since I can remember a whole lot I also remember what was happening in my time. And then I cry some more again for things cherished and lost and for things not cherished and gained. And then the sadness goes straight to my brain, tightening my neck, making me gasp for air and making me feel so terribly unwell. And I look for something to console me. And I find there isn't. Just the looks, the whispers, and the constant cat fights back at my mother's home. The constant putting down in everything. And I try to convince that it's ok because I have my own house and family where there are cats but no cat-fights, where nobody looks at me in disgust and puts me down for a reason which is not entirely my fault. Sometimes it works, most times it doesn't. So I then turn to my cats, because they know and they don't stare or whisper. And I go back again to today's Arani Issa and remember the loving mum who thought the world of her son at a 202kg. Which makes me go back to my mum, a loving mum in her own obsessive way, who could learn a lesson or two when it comes to the unconditional. I can never understand, I suppose, what it feels like to be a mum. I can only get close and know what I feel towards my cats. If one of them had a problem, then I'd help it, nurse it back to life. I'd never say I-told-you-so. And I'd never blame it on having left the mummy home. I do not deserve to be looked at in disdain just because I knew I had to make an exit from my mum's home in order to survive. Survival is not just about finding dinner ready. And I think that now I just want to call her and lash out and show her all the things she's been bad at. But I know it's useless because I do it a lot and it never works. Everything is just because I left home without the blessing to be wed and screwed. I left anyway and I'm not sorry. And there she goes thinking all would be well if only I'd go back. Go back? No, because I do not sign death warrants, least of all my own. And I'm not about to be controlled by another woman anymore, it doesn't matter f she happens to be my mum. And that also makes me cry.

ASAP

I come here today with a total writer's block. A blog is not the best place in the world to come to if you're suffering from a writing-jam like mine. But I still come here for inspiration. I have to, need to, must write a couple of articles for dear old Arani Issa, and it has to happen asap. It was already and asap job at 3pm. I couldn't write then, and it's not any better now. Pleasing the press, the public, my dear old twin is difficult. Pleasing just me is also difficult, but no as in blog wise. I keep thinking about my female anonymous, how she mentioned the Bible, Jesus and the rest of the things. Then I remember what I usually write about in here, sex, affairs, bondage. And suddenly I'm shy although not ashamed. I behave in an ashamed manner enough during the day, and it's not because of the sex or the affairs or the bondage. It's because of another thing called me, which I shouldn't be ashamed of, and yet I am. And here I go, no writer's block at all. It's so safe here, but the minute I'll open a new word document I'm going to be screaming in frustration. I wish someone would help me out but I've got no writer friends. I'll just have to do it asap. And I'm stretching the asap as far as I can.

Re : Death

Someone who stays anonymous has just commented on my blog entry entitled Death. I think it's a woman, it's got to be the brain of a woman who is thinking in such a manner. So let's call her a she. She has said that I should not think of death as six feet under because while the frail decomposing body lies there, there is afterlife and we are all responsible for whether it goes good of bad in this afterlife. And this makes me tick. I do not want to think about my decomposing body. I go to great lengths to preserve my body, that's what Dior and Estee Lauder are piled up not very neatly on my kitchen table. Yes, I know they are not kitchen things but then I'm no kitchen girl either. I also have a morbid fear of roaches and I have seen them all over the place at the cemetery, and that was six feet above. Imagine what's going on six feet under, it'll be like the Roach Kingdom. One roach didn't stop me visiting the grave of the one I loved, but one other day it was a whole colony. That didn't stop me either, but on my next visit I found Comtec, so I was right to think there was a roach infestation. And that stopped me in my tracks, putting flowers for roaches to party on wasn't my idea of why I kept going to the grave, and that was it, I never stepped in there again. And not going there actually made me heal faster. Perhaps coffins and graves give closure, but I'm not sure it did me any good anyway. As for afterlife. I like to believe that there is afterlife, if only to go there and kick my dead lover in the butt and ask him the rhetorical why. Yes, I know, there is still some anger lying underneath, but I've come a long way. I like to believe I'm going to some perfect place, with a perfect body. That would mean in some Bahamas haven wearing a white bikini on a perfect body in total contentment. I don't think I'm going to qualify for the white wings and the white baby doll outfits. And I like to think that I really believe in a good afterlife, and that we are just on a journey towards it. But I have no proof. Perhaps it's the end there and then. The anonymous she who has left her comments says that Death is not a punishment. Cool, why do we go to all lengths to avoid it then? Why does it make me cry? How the hell can anybody expect a mother to rejoice of her dead son? How come it made me cry for three years, why didn't I just make myself up, wear a feather in my imaginary cap and go out to party? Better still, why didn't I just hold a massive party because death struck in the most vulgar of ways? Death can be so rude, it's language is dirty, and I am not talking about the occasional Z-word here. It's a creepy hitman who strikes when you never are expecting it. My anonymous she has also said that 'by dying we are born to eternal life'. If that were the case we should party around the coffins and dance on the graves. I have no proof of eternal life and yet I like to think it's true. Which makes me a total moron. A silly girl relishing her stupidity?