Smokingly Sexy

I'm still thinking Nigel. And it still makes me sad. But I don't want to go to my royal bed feeling sad, and something else has since overtaken my mind. Smoking. Why is smoking so frowned upon lately? If you take one look at romantic movies, the kind where a man and woman just meet and have copious amounts of sex, of course without us the viewers being able to see a bit of ass or a flash of boob, that's what the man does exactly after he's ermmm done it. He lights up. And then he sexily gives the same cigarette to his lady friend to have a puff, with puppy eyes all the while. And that is sooo sexy. But that's old movies. Fastfoward to Sex and the City. Mr Big and Carrie Bradshaw... they do it too. They keep passing the cigarette to each other, then when it's out, they do it (the sex) again, and again it looks mind blowing. It becomes all so misty, either because they're doing it for real and the heat makes the camera lens a victim of condensation, or else, and more probably it's because cigarette smoking creates a special kind of mist. And it seems that this mist makes them horny. Otherwise how could any man perform again so quickly and so intensely? In other words, is nicotine responsible for the man being able to get it up so fast? Because if it is, then that's why men have taken to the little blue pill. It was all a ploy and a scam. All the campaigning against cigarette smoking was not because anybody really cared for our lungs, but because they wanted to make money out of something new. So then, is it a choice between the lungs and the penis, scrotum and surroundings? Don't mess with my privates I'd say.

Why didn't you get married?

I have just talked to my friend Roberta. It is always a pleasure because she makes me laugh. And she understands. After dialling 'her number' for what seemed like ages and getting the busy answer, I thought she had really won some cell-phone lottery. And after that, I made myself see the number. I was dialling my own number. And Roberta would understand that. We're both a wee bit silly, although that is still a royal silly indeed. But I wanted insight for 'research', and she provides it with a smile even though I cannot see the broadness of the smile through the phone. I feel it, because with her, I turn psychic. I think I will be going to light candles next to some Madonna of something, whatever that is. I am so so glad I never made it to the reunion. Somehow, out of a 120 girls, it's just 3 of us who never made it to the altar, Rob and me included of course. So that either makes us ugly, or stupid, or else highly intelligent and very hard to get. We choose the latter. But what is making me go to light the candles isn't that. It's because I didn't actually get to hear the question..."Why didn't you get married?" !!! Somehow, although not in her style, my friend avoided the question and answer. You see, I wouldn't have. I would have made it the topic of the evening and made sure it would have gone down in history. And for just that, I wish I was there. But I will still light the candles because not going probably saved me from being arrested and thrown into a 3x3 prison cell. No that wouldn't be possible, there's no way I'd fit in there. I'd have a grand 10x10 prison cell with a red plush throne, because that is only fitting for royalty. But back to the cause, if someone had so much as dared to ask me an impertinent question like 'why didn't you get married?', then they would have had to hear my impertinent answer. Which would have gone something along the lines of : I didn't get married because I like sleeping with married guys who are not my own. I didn't get married because I like gang-bangs. I didn't get married because I do not want to see the same ceiling every day over and over. I didn't get married because I do not want to crease my own satin sheets, I will crease yours instead. I didn't get married because I do not want to be called the wife, but the lover. I didn't get married because I like variety and three married men are so much better than one. I didn't get married because there is no way I will launder a married man's skid marks on his pants, rather you will be the one removing the stains. I didn't get married because I am allergic to sex. I didn't get married because I am so scared of popping my cherry since they say it hurts. And the best one of all.... I didn't get married because I am looking forward to my being proclaimed the virgin saint. You will be forgotten, while I will be forever revered. Apologies go to all my married friends who have never stooped so low and who have a brain. Thank you.

Sorry Nigel

I'm sitting here on a Saturday night, seething and concocting images resembling war, bombs, swords, guns... all the things which we tell our little people are harmful to society. I don't like guns, or bombs, or swords, or war. I'm nothing like that, but a soppy human being who would like to lay Hello Kitty sheets, but cannot because they do not come in Queen Size. Because of course I sleep in a queen sized bed, that's just how royal I am. I have been let down for the second time in 24 hours. And enough is enough. I'm so sorry Nigel. But I cannot keep letting my hair down (not as in being carefree and happy) because it is also my royal crowning glory. Nigel... the king, no better still, the Hair Queen. There is none like him when it comes to hair. He is the one responsible for having made my hair shine. Yes his hands are magic, but then what is magic compared to being left waiting? Nothing. And it hurts. All the more so because he is my brother-in-law and because I finally fell in love with him. But no, I will not tolerate another prima donna, because one (that's me) is enough. Truth be said, I have been blessed with hair that shines regardless. But then I am obsessed with changing colour as fast as I change shoes. I get bored. And that boredom has cost me a brother and a friend. But it can't be helped. Sorry Nigel, I am moving on.

Enemalta

My good exact guess (which then wouldn't qualify as a guess) is that Enemalta thinks I am filthy rich. Which in fact I am... until Enemalta decides to squash my wealth by sending in one those damn bills. The type of bills which I open with dread because I know that in a second just a tiny envelope is going to change my life for the worse. 765.56 Euro. That's a bill. One bill. And that sends me into the world of, calling my Mister, crying on the phone, telling him we're going to be without electricity, until he calms down things smoothly, as always and says... don't worry dear we'll pay it somehow. And we do, we almost do. There was one time when Mister got very sick we were forking out hundreds for his treatment and we were on just one salary and we couldn't pay it. Best regards to my dad and dear twin who came to the rescue. But I am 35, I should be able to take care of myself. Sometimes, I wish I lived in a perfect world where my boyfriend and I could be able to stay with my parents. But that is never going to happen, they'd welcome me with open arms of course, but not him. Not even if we got married for thirty times in all the Catholic Churches we could find. That's how it is. So pay the bill we must. And clean all ideas of the beautiful ring my boyfriend saw for me. Poor man, he is a dear, he goes shopping to bring me something along. And he will keep insisting on buying the ring, which is sweet. But for me, having paid the fucking bill will provide a better state of mind. Somehow I will try and persuade him without hurting his feelings. I'll try. So right now it's a poor girl writing here in the middle of the night. Perhaps in a month's time I'll be back to little rich girl. I hope so. Because I really would love my Chanel, and my ring. And I don't like waiting. My heart goes out to all the one-breadwinner families with kids. How do they do it? Enemalta... couldn't it at least, once in a while 'lose' all bills even if it's just for Christmas?