Hungry

I'm hungry. And nobody wants to cook for me. I think I'm dialing 179. Or 151. But that's only for abuse, drug addictions, alcoholism. Isn't it about flipping time they invented a phone line for hungry people? Isn't that a basic need too? It would be just like ordering a takeout, but it would be so much better because you'd have the right to stay anonymous, and this can order massive amounts of food without anybody having your name to call you a pig. I did go to lunch to my mum's today, but I wasn't hungry seeing I'd only just got up a half hour before. And although I love food, I absolutely cannot take food in the morning, or just as I've woken up. That is the problem. I go foodless till 10 in the evening, I don't even think of food during that time, I see other teachers' lunches and get so squirmy that I have to remove myself from them because it's all I can do not to throw up. Daytime is for coffee. And Diet Coke. Please do not remind me that Diet Coke is also harmful because it has aspartame, because I like it too much, I guess I'm addicted to caffeine, and I don't care because we all have to die some day. My tombstone will just read, Here lies the she who died from Diet Coke... and nicotine. Who cares? Because along these four years I've shaken off a lot of temperamental musician habits, but I am still temperamental and still haven't shaken off the Diet Coke and the strong coffee. My problem starts going into force at exactly 11pm when my body decides it's hungry and so say all of us. Then, I cannot have enough of food. And I know eating late is so so unhealthy, but I am not very healthy anyway. So what do I do know? I don't know. It's kind of early to eat, but I have hunger pangs. This summer time thing always has a habit of ruining my day. Always. I never liked summertime anyway. It'll be even more difficult to wake up in the morning. My relationship with food has never been the textbook one. No that's not fair, it's the classic relationship you find on books labelled 'What not to do'. But then so is my smoking habit. And my Diet Coke. All through this Diet Coke, and I've never ever met the Diet Coke man. Sad. That's it. I'm off to eat, whatever it is.

27

I am still opening up the front page of Yahoo religiously the moment I wake up. But I see no Jade anymore. And that is sad. Too sad. Is it possible to mourn someone you have never met? Yes it sure it. How? Well in the same way that we all mourned Diana. Loads of us never ever spoke to her, yet the grief could be felt in the streets of London. I remember. I was there. One could argue that Diana was a true princess. She had a good upbringing, was far from daft, always played the role of the princess perfectly and died suddenly without anybody being prepared for it. She also left two boys. And I remember Earl Spencer's speech at Diana's funeral, a speech so hard on the royal family. I cried, because I was in total agreement. And I cried because I wouldn't have kept my composure so well had I been Earl Spencer and had Diana been my brother. I would have lashed out, not very dignified. Then there was Jade, so loud, so daft, so boyish, so without manners. She swore, she fought, she laughed, and thought Rio de Janerio was 'a bloke innit?' She thought that Cambridge was in London, and I remember reading about this stupid girl who just wanted to be famous regardless. It caught my attention. I never was a big brother fan, but I'd never heard of anybody so dim on camera. And as her eviction drew near, people were screaming, 'Kill the Pig'. I didn't like that. So Jade was overweight, that was not my issue. And I pursued on reading about Jade, sometimes laughing at the shrewd ways she could cook up something for fame. Then I read about her childhood, and I fell in love with this girl. So she was infamous, so what, I still loved her and her guts. I thought Jade had become a staple, that I would always be watching her from then on, till I was at least 70. I thought that then, she'd have become an old woman like me and we'd have died together. Not so. She died at 27. And 27 is a sore age for me. It is an age where I'd hit rock bottom so much that I really didn't care anymore about life. And no I've never touched drugs, I've never self harmed, I have never been a textbook girl who had a breakdown. I know I should hide my past. But Jade has taught me not to be ashamed of things I had no control over. I had no control over my breaking down. It happened in a flash. Never before had I experienced the anguish I felt at 27. I really thought my body would not be able to take the pain anymore and that I would die of a broken heart. When I remember the long days and nights spent on my divan rocking myself (because it was something I'd taken up to relieve the pain), smoking myself to death, calling 179 repeatedly and getting no help at all, sleeping fleetingly only when my body was too wretched to take more, the sobbing, the crying and the wailing which would cause me to wretch I am shocked at myself for having gone through all that and come out alive. I thought I'd never smile again let alone laugh, and since I was only 27 I thought that I'd had so many horrible years yet to come. Life was misery. It's not called a breakdown anymore. It's called a clinically depressed state. No, better still, it is now called Post Trauma Stress Disorder. It might be hard to believe but it should be called a living hell. I wanted to go at 27. Jade didn't want to but slipped away at 27. 27. Such a harsh age for me and for Jade. Perhaps we should skip 27 altogether and go from 26 to 27. It would have made my life a whole lot easier. And it would mean that Jade would still be around. By some miracle, I climbed out of that dingy big black hole and embraced life again. I thought I'd never smile, but I've laughed myself silly. It is still a shadow I try to run from. But at least I made it. Poor Jade didn't. Fuck 27.

Travel?

I am quite fed up. Fed up thanks to a whole lot of things. Then again, perhaps its angry, and again angry thanks to a whole lot of things. Why the feelings? I just need a break from home, not from my home per se. No. It's not that. I need to travel. If I could just up my house and transport it to somewhere else in the globe, then that is just what I'd do. The problem is I've grown so fond of my house. Travelling would mean hotels, and no hotel in the world is as comfortable as my house. Sure they could be grander, but I like my creature comforts just the way I like them and have installed everything the way I want it over here. I don't care about the Heavenly Beds. My bed is heavenly because there are always a few cats on it. It wouldn't be that way in a Holiday Inn, or a Sheraton, or a Westin, or even a Radisson and a Hilton. Hotels creep me out. I never get to know who's been in the bed before, or who's died in the bed before, or who has had loads of sex (meaning loads of spunk) in the bed. Yes, I am as territorial as you can get. I want mine, mine, mine. And I don't share either. But is it time up for me in Malta? It really seems so. This island has grown too small for me, or perhaps I've outgrown it. I want creations, opportunities, and excitement. There is nothing very exciting here quite simply because I've been around everywhere (yes even the infamous Testaferrata street which is nothing to shout about). This isn't London where no matter how many times I roam about Camden I always find something new. This is not Milan where I could safely wear my real fur. And this is not Egypt where I could look at the Sphinx and imagine it were looking back at me. This not even Libya where I would be the talk of the town the the subject of many admirers. Or France, oh that would be liberating. And I think I could be lured away from my creature comforts for excitement. The only problem is, how the hell would I transport my four legged creatures? Oh yes, they're all micro-chipped, but still how does one travel with a 100kg dog, a 92kg dog, six cats and one parrot? It's useless. And no I will not give them away. Because they're all mine too. And no, I will not get a house sitter because a house sitter does no know the way I handle my pets. I know their every move, I know when they decide to get hungry just to get me out of bed, and when they're really hungry. They're spoilt, I know, I've spoilt them, and I don't care one hoot. I chose to bring them up, so they get the best treatment. I'd do the same if they were my human kids, and no it's not funny. And although I'm talking of travel, I'd miss them terribly. Which leaves me no choice but to stay.