Lanyards... again

That's it. I think all lanyards have vanished from the island for good. The remaining ones are not even sturdy enough to hold my Rothmans Blue let alone my mobile phone. So I've opted for a pink fufu (sorry no better word). It's a shocking pink fufu which will at least enable me to see my phone in the darkness of my bag. Bu again, there's the uncomfortable question... where have all the lanyards gone? I have been to so many cell phone shops and have felt as if I were a bull in a china shop, just because I asked for a lanyard. For one, these people do not know what a lanyard is, I had to show them what I was talking about. For seconders, I have been given a mystified look. It really felt as if I were asking for tampons at the butcher's. So strange. I remember they came in an array of colours with cheeky words slapped on them. Now.. they're dead. But they can't be dead, they must be stashed away in someone's house. And I keep thinking, they're doing a job they weren't made for doing. And my wild guess is that they're having a whole lot of fun seeing things they weren't made to see. Take the leather lanyard... just like a leather riding crop. Take three of those, and you're in business. And no, they won't be found in stables. As for the other coloured cheeky lanyard which used to be all over the Monti; they're now being used instead of silk scarves, seeing they;'re too small to be used as blindfolds. And they're not being blindfolded. My other wild guess is that these poor lanyards are in dire need of therapy. Sex therapy. Because they've seen XXX rated shows, all unprotected.

Broken

I keep hearing news, not the kind that goes on TV or newspapers. It does sometimes find a place there too, but only rarely. It's death again. An obscure silly kind of death that doesn't make it even to the Obituary section because it's best hidden and forgotten. And every time, I just get so sick inside that only an hour of throwing up can cure. And suddenly I feel broken again. I feel naked, alone and it gets suddenly dark. It makes me think to the time when I was a broken woman and it's so painful that for a couple of hours I am broken again. Perhaps this broken thing stays with us forever. We just become good at showing the unbroken side. Because we've long given up trying to find someone who will understand. They won't because they haven't been there. And it's so not nice of me to sometimes wish that if the only way to get them to understand is to make them face a little of it, then so be it. But then it all goes to see that I'm not a nice person anyway.

Skeletons

I haven't been here because I've been catching up on my really well-needed beauty sleep. Too many late nights school-projecting have taken their toll. So I've been sleeping a scary kind of sleep. It's the sleep which resembles anaesthetic sleep, that deep dark sleep which makes you blurt out all your closely-guarded secrets. Quite thankfully I have been talking about figolli! Not really a secretive subject to go to the Times of Malta about. So far, so good. I've always shied away from anaesthetic. For one, I smoke too much, and the only time I was under the damn drug I just could not stop throwing up. A second reason, there is too much hidden inside. I do not want it to come out to anybody. And although I really write truthfully here, my closet is overflowing with skeletons. I like skeletons, I like seeing them. They make me feel safe, because they mean that under all that, we are all the same. Kate Moss might fetch thousands on the catwalk, the truth is that her skeleton would fetch just as much as mine. Perhaps mine would fetch that bit more, I like to think that my brain is a little more developed. And that means big shit, I'd have the big issue even in skeleton form. And my closet... it's a walk-in closet which is brimming with skeletons. And no, I'm not gay. That is one skeleton which does not exist in my closet. But there are so many more. The big skeleton. The small skeleton. The brainy skeleton. The stupid skeleton. The sad skeleton. And the happy skeleton. Because after all, we're all skeletons waiting for our turn in the post.