It's in the eyes...

My poor Mister is not well. And he's got the Doctor title, and he still isn't well. One would think that Doctors of whatever sort never got ill. Miskin, this one is. And what's funny is that he's not the kind of stay-in-bed ill, this time he's got a red inflamed eye. Kind of Cyclops, but no that's not quite right, Cyclops had only one eye poor thing. I remember being a little child playing with monster cards, and this Cyclops would come up time and time again. And I felt so sorry for him, at 6 years of age I thought it was so wrong to call this otherwise tame man a monster. It just wasn't right, it's not as if it was his fault, poor monster. And now for the Mister, he's got a really red eye which is making me think that his going on a mission of political transformation is after all very true indeed. So he's not waving the red flag, he's being very original, and going about with a red eye. Of course he's been to check (hypochondriac men!) and everything's fine, just a little inflammation behind the eye which could have been caused by a multitude of reasons. First day, I cuddled the Mister. Second day I avoided him. Third day I got sorry and disgusted by myself. Miskin, I think many men love that word when it comes between them and their female (or male) significant other. So what is it that's making it so red and rosy, perhaps, as my mother used to try and scare us, he's seen something he shouldn't have seen. And now God with his hand of iron (I don't think so) has punished him. Just as he did in the Bible's Old Testament, God liked punishing people then. He seems to have softened quite a bit now. And I recall that somewhere in the Bible, God or Jesus (they're separately one) say you should take your eye out if it means not sinning. Ok, my Mister would never have the guts to take it out. Me neither. So maybe it's a compromise, and it's all in the eyes. The family regret to announce they are unable to receive visitors at this time. No flowers by request but donations to AM's bank account will be greatly appreciated. Praise the Lord.

Diva-ish

As much as I like queens and divas (the male kind of), I hate other queens and divas (the self proclaimed female type). I cannot stand anymore Diva-ish behaviour from people who weren't born a Diva, didn't become a Diva and will never be a Diva. That title is hard to get, I have one of course. Bring royal is very akin to being Diva. But Diva does not mean having your boobs falling out. Neither does it mean having a very purposely VPL (visible pantie line), nor sitting in the most provocative of manners making sure to show off your new underwear. That's no Diva, that's common trash. I understand that the female figure looks very very hot to some, perhaps even to me, but I choose classy over trashy. And while being a bimbo absolves you of your not having brains, being a Diva is different. Divas have brains you see. And I do admire the lengths some women go through to get the title, I also pity them as they stare in panic over the silver cutlery, I also marvel at the way they think that having their tits on explicit show. It's damn ugly, a bit of cleavage, that's well done, but not so far as to juggle their own nipples off their own aureole. When will I find a Diva to match me, so that I could perhaps bask in the glory of Diva sisterhood? I am not exactly on the look out, but I have found none to match my quality and degree of Divahood. No, not boasting my butt off, just the solemn truth. But somehow these Diva wannabe's are getting commoner and commoner. I am not interested in seeing nipples thank you very much. They are not nice while you are trying to eat your lasagna. And id some wannabe Diva like this thrives on the fact that all eyes are one her, well, whose eyes wouldn't be when the boobs are very painfully trying to defy the law of gravity? It's like a whole circus up with acrobat boobs. Oh dear girl, that's so far from being a Diva. You have to walk the walk, talk the talk, think the thoughts... and support your tits. Otherwise, please stay at home, or cover up. Take it from me, I'm *the* Diva.

This twin again

Still praying. I'm somehow convinced that there is a God somewhere. I'm not sure if it's a He or a She. I don't mind, He could be a transvestite for all I care. Because transvestites also have a heart, hence they can also love. And I have been brought up to think that God is one who loves. There was one time I was so angry at God that I decided there was no God in the first place. Because you have to have balls to be angry at someone like God. But then again, in hindsight perhaps God was there, only I couldn't see him, probably tragedy makes you blind to God, so yes I am letting myself off the hook for that one. Tragedy is a bad thing. Especially when it's so sudden, but then probably most tragedies are sudden, that's why they are called tragedies in the first place. Anyway, I'm digressing as usual. Sometimes I surprise myself, I always have so much to say, and then in real life I'm no chatterbox, rather the wallflower who says nothing and everything just by her eyes. My eyes! Oh God how misinterpreted they've been. People think I'm a witch and will curse them. I have had crucifixes pushed into my face , I would have burned at the stake were it not for the millenium. Me, a witch. If only that were true. If only I could curse the baddies and send them rotting in hell. No worse, I'd put them naked without sunblock for a day at Ghadira Beach. That's hotter, in the sense of temperature, because none of the baddies are hot as in the sexual sense although some think they are Casanovas, and some think they are Casanova's Playboy Bunnies. Yeah right I can just about see their thingies on a Page 3. The wouldn't even make it there. So back to God again. I hope God is not confusing me with my twin, yes I know He sent us as a package, but heyyyyy God, it's not the twin of Arani Issa fame, it's the twin of the twin of Arani Issa fame. And I need Your help. I do not want to go back to the hellhole, to that disgusting brothel where all things are copulating and probably swallowing too since it works in such bad taste. I am no prostitute, that is where the trouble is. And yes of course I talk a lot about sex, I have lived in it for a whopping 16 years, that's why I know so much. I want little people to be the order of the day, not a sycophant fuck on the menu. It tastes vile you know. It's not Straight Street, but it's close, it's two streets paralleled down. That's how close it is, just a one minute walk. And it's worse than Straight Street because Straight Street has a bit of Marks and Spencer to liven up things a bit decently. I know there is a God, although my shrink isn't very impressed about this information. Yes I have a shrink and I'm not mad. My shrink thinks a lot on the principles of Arani Issa, he has to see and touch, and smell and probably also eat to be convinced. But I am not him, perhaps because the idea of God is something which I want to believe in, otherwise everything would seem so bland. It is a comforting idea, so even if that idea isn't true I do not want to hear. Because when my nearest and closest are gone from this life I want to think that God is doing all the looking after. And that is a lot of comfort. I don't know why God has not helped me enough to bring the baddies to justice. Perhaps it's my fault for not wanting to prise open the can of worms. But now the worms will be starting to see daylight, hey God, won't You see them? Won't You help the scared twin, the one who was always backstage, the one who shied away from the limelight in the hope of a better future? Again I repeat, it's this twin, the one born first but declared the younger, the quieter twin, the one locked up in her own (very sane) world of little people, and in case that isn't enough... it's not the male twin but the female one here. Because God You made me a girl.