Scary

I'm taking a break from Eurovision what nots, what if we's and fairytaling. Back to real life, and with that, back to research. And I've unearthed something which I feel I have to write about if only to warn my fellow sisters, girls and boys. If I don't I will not be able to put my head on the pillow peacefully. Diloes. Ok that's an old one. Dildoing has been around probably since very ancient times, the only difference being that back then dioling was very much a green matter. The green thing is probably still practised in places where people do not have much access to the outside world; I'm thinking convents and buildings with high gates. But something else has caught my attention which even I with my brazen personality, with the wicked danger-loving streak has made me think twice. Dildoes, ok, as long as it's hygenic past-time, each to her/his own. But glass ones? Actual glass, in all colours? Who the hell would want to tamper with something like that. And I keep thinking of Ta Qali's craft village glass blowing centre. Now I know why they call it glass blowing, shame on them, psataz and they make us think it's all an art when it's really all an act. But I would love to know who in their right mind would be sticking glass up their orfices? Oh God what if it got stuck in their and broke in half? You'd have splinters of glass attacking your organs. But the scariest thing is, we talk of shattering orgasms. What if (we, can't help it) an orgasm like that shattered the glass in the process? Geeze, what a thought, horrible thought. Even a seasoned pastaza like me cannot take it. I'm taking something else, merci.

The Fat Language

There is a secret word out there which runs ruthlessly through races, religion, cultures, gender, sexual orientation, age and everything else. It is the same for all of us, well the best of most of us. It is a word which is a noun which has been transformed into an adjective and an adverb, and we've stretched it so far as to mimic a feeling mostly of desperation and always of disapproval. It's the fat word. It's the norm now, we say, I feel fat. Pardon? Since when fat was declared a feeling? Anger is a feeling, an emotion, love is another, happy, sad. But fat? And yet it's true. We have blended in this secret word to become part and parcel of our every day life. And for some reason which I have yet to fathom out, I never hear anybody say, I feel thin. So then, thin is not a feeling, but fat, it's opposite becomes a feeling. So let's not just skim deep it. I feel fat means I feel lonely, I feel ugly, I feel rejected, I feel worthless, I feel frightened and overwhelmed. I think I'm going to beat the famous Oxford English dictionary by my numerous definitions of this, but then I've been round the block, plenty of times, and yes I consider myself to be an expert. What doesn't help? Something like us girls bonding over the hatred of our thighs. Someone like me, who with the intention of scurrying around unnoticed ends up falling and drawing even more unwanted attention. The fat language is a language which I wish I didn't know how to speak. I speak French, Italian, English and Spanish... oh and the fat language. Some people would rather be seen than heard. Some would rather be heard than seen. And some others would rather be both seen and hear. I would rather not be seen nor heard. Which is difficult when you have a job like mine. But then when you have a job like mine, it's easy to lose yourself in a surreal life where little people (they're awesome aren't they) do not speak the fat language. They speak a totally different language, take it from me, there is no f word involved. Ok so maybe sometimes there are f-words involved but only ones which have been heard from adults getting mad and which do not include fat or any part of the word. I'll stop here, I do not want to sound self loathing. That is so unattractive. I just feel locked up in a time warp. I should have been around during the Stoneage when I would have been revered as the Goddess that I am. Or at least during the 18th or 19th century when thrones of queens were made wider than those of kings... for a fat purpose. Failing that, I hope to live to see the day when big is considered beautiful again. Then I will take to my throne and live as a Queen, better still as the Goddess there is inside me. It will be my time to shine, a time to celebrate being curvy, because right now, the world's all topsy turvy.

Some story!

I am still in a Eurovisional haze. It doesn't feel good. Because although I keep myself to myself (mostly) my ears must be the most excellent ears in Malta. Firstly, they're small and so damn cute. Secondly, they listen too well sometimes. I do not want to hear nasty comments about my friends. And if my friend happens to have gone Eurovisioning, I still don't want to hear nasty comments. Why are Maltese people so fickle? Why don't they stick to their guns? But then, we (at least I) all know that opening yourself up to the world of entertainment is opening a big black door to your private life. My twin brother seems very happy about it. Some people seem to know things I never did. One time I was shopping at the grocer up the road. Now I hate grocery shopping with a passion and must have been there because I couldn't do otherwise. People who know me and my twin know that we do not look anything alike, so I can roam the streets in safety, at least most times. There were two other women blabbing about in the store, and of course my ears picked it all up. One was telling another that the lawyer-violinist of Arani Issa fame had knocked up a girl. He had knocked her up the duff. Hey hey hey I was going to be an auntie and didn't even know. Then the woman decides to specify whom my brother had knocked up. Oh, he'd knocked up one of my best friends, the one of Chiara fame. Cool, not only was I going to be an aunt but my best friend was now my sister-in-law. I could see the store owner looking at me and getting pretty uncomfortable. I wanted to laugh so bad. But I wanted to hear more of the story. So my twin and my best friend were having a gunshot wedding it seemed. And I knew nothing about it. So I just shopped and listened and went to pay the bill. And I couldn't help but laugh and say, ermmm hi, this is the twin sister, and nobody is having anybody's baby. They froze. I laughed. And so said all of us!