Socks

I cannot wait to rid myself of socks. I don't like socks. They make feet look as if they were one complete thing and make toes lose their identity. Socks are so mumsy, frumpy, probably like the bloomers, our ex-headmistress Sr. David used to wear when I was at St. Joseph school. Well, no that doesn't do them justice, socks compared to Sr. David are pure erotica. I wonder if she's heard of laser hair removal by now. My guess is she hasn't. But socks somehow always remind me of her. Bad thought, bad bad thought. And no matter how sock manufacturers try to make their product cute, I really can see nothing attractive about socks. I have ten toes, beautiful ones may I add, so why should they live in such confinement? Poor toes, I think they must hate me during the winter, but I try and make up for it during the summer. There is one thing I like about summer (except for holidays of course), and that is the beauty of being able to go sock-less. And sock-less I go. I do not own one pair of summer shoes which do not show off my toes. Toes can be sexy, and I'm not talking about foot-fetishes. I do not go about admiring other people's feet. And thanks a lot but no thanks I do not like licking or sucking anybody's toes. That idea is a bad one, it makes my stomach churn. I like my own. It's a very Narcissistic type of foot-fetish I suffer from. Because I call a spade a spade, I will never win a beauty-butt competition, but I will carry the trophy off a beauty-toe competition. They are so perfect, and I make sure to give them loads of TLC. I also paint them in all the shades of the rainbow. Because toes might be a tiny percentage as compared to the rest of the body. But then so are the most revered phalli.

History

I've got diamonds. And that makes me a very happy girl. What also makes me happy is not just that the Mister actually produced the diamonds, but that his choice in them makes for perfect comprehension. In other words, it means he knows me extremely well. He got me hooked earrings, with my favourite type of clasp, a chain of perfect length, and the ring... the perfect size. It mystified me, and I asked if he had just got lucky. To which he answered all questions correctly. He knows my ring size, he knows my chain size. Incredible. And I felt lame because I didn't buy him anything. He... he was on top of the moon just because I sent an ecard. If everybody could be happy with such little things the world would be such a happier place. And of course, after promising him a quite dinner at our favourite Malaysian restaurant, I had to get sort of nauseous. So I had to cancel that too, and he was ok with it. Let's get things straight, my man is not a saint. He is into dirty jokes (a whole lot!), will not bat an eyelid at all those X-rated emails, and he has a dirty mind, albeit a clever one. But as much as I try to think about his faults, I cannot come up with more. Oh and he smokes cigars, but then so do I. Other than that... zilch. He does crazy stuff with me, not not talking about the dirty crazy stuff. It's almost as if he is the one taking care of me. He runs my bath, he cooks for me, he makes sure I am well. He is an excellent nurse in dire times. Could I have wished for more? Not really. Six years ago, and a 60kg less, I used to ask myself if the right guy would ever come along. Seeing I had already met a right guy who died, I used to think that perhaps we only get once chance in life. I dated so many men, plenty of psycho ones who stalked me, and some mad ones who wanted me to be their wife. And I turned them all down, because something just wasn't right. Six years also marks the EU referendum, and I had been going to all forza-EU gatherings scantily clad, always shivering, in the hope that I might attract a sex buddy at least. I did, plenty of sex buddies but that's where it all stopped. Until I decided to open a mysterious email I had received three months before. And I replied. I don't know what made me reply. It was a normal polite friendship type email, nothing sexy. But I accepted a date, and bang comes this man whom I talked to until the very early hours in the morning. I couldn't get enough, and so did he. I loved his broad shoulders, I loved his hands, almost child-like, I loved his smile... and suddenly I loved him. It happened so fast I will never know how and why. He was a man with a previous annulled marriage, I had my splendid macabre baggage. But somehow he stuck. I warned him I might never want marriage, I was still so fragile myself. And somehow it was as if he took me on his shoulders (he really could at the time, I'd crush him to death now), and that was that. Of course my mum butted in, her daughter dating a once married man? But it was ok for me, he was as single as you get, no kids, just an annulled marriage. I didn't mind. My mum gave it six months. Now it's been six years and through all the ups and downs, we've just done the one thing which probably is the reason why we made it so far. I promised to hold his hand and walk beside him, not in front of him, not behind him but beside him. And he promised to take my hand and also walk beside me. It's history now, not his-tory but mine too. And that makes it a together-history. Because as much as I rant and rave at the Gods, I think they dealt me yet another lucky card.

Six Years

I do not like birthdays, weddings, anniversaries and of course funerals. I do not like to commemorate things very much because they always make me think (God forbid) that I'm old. Commemorations also change the dynamics of life. But I guess I have reason to celebrate today. OK, so unlike my twin brother who would have hired all of the Westin Dragonara and thrown a party for the million people that he knows, I will light two candles and put them near each other and stare at them and think that at least I was right about one thing in my life. I will stare at their glow and marvel at how that glow never ever was hesitant. And I will be glad that the flame, ignited by so many ruffled things, is still on. And when the flickering wick will give way to nothing, I will divert my stare at another someone's face and see how it all is glowing over his face. Because just as the olden heroes stared at death in the face and lived to tell the tale, I have stared at life in the face and lived to tell the tale. They wanted me to quit on love. They wanted me to quit on one very special man. They wanted me to live my life they wanted to. They were a bunch of crappy idiots. Because I, we have survived against a lot of odds. And it's been six years. And it's so happy.