Looks

Sometimes I get to know something new. Most times it's welcome. Today's something new wasn't. Now let's put this straight, I have no problem with gay people, because why should I anyway? I actually like some gay people because they are nice, polite and decent. Same as are some straight people. Gender issues and sexual orientation issues don't make people less inviting. I believe in all of that and more. I go as far as believing in gay marriage, gay adoption. Why not? Again, sexual orientation does not make anybody less loving. Gay couples could make great parents, or bad parents, same as us the straight ones. But, I am getting treated to gay bitch shit, which I will not tolerate. Because if a gay man has the right to love another man, then I have the right to do so too. If gay men want or need to me feminine, then I have the right to be so too. It basically goes down to the basics, if gay people have the right to eat an apple, then so do I? Apparently not. Because I'm not gay, I'm not black, I'm not diverse in those ways. And after all we say about diversity, there still seems to be one chapter which has been lost along the way. I am also diverse. Because I'm big. And being big does not make me less of a citizen, it does not deplete me from my rights, and it certainly should not be a one way ticket for abuse. Now big old me will not hurt an ant. Big old me will love little people. But big old me subjected to the fat-intolerance-abuse can get scary. One does not need to wear shades and inform me that they are wearing shades because they cannot tolerate the sight. Because their D&G shades are then at an aggressive risk. One does not need to change their place and go eat in another place, preferring the view of a refrigerator while informing me it's because their intestines cannot take it. Then, their intestines are indeed in deep danger. I like all kinds. So I expect to be at least tolerated. It's sad, how size can affect people. I see so many ugly people dear Lord. But I don't look the other way while giving the information. One can be discreet. And careful there, because what looks good to you might be blasphemy to me, and I know what's best. Always.

Unplanned

All people can be put into two categories. It might not be true, but as long as it makes sense according to me, then it’s true. No I don’t think beyond my box, it’s too big. There are the planners and the unplanners. I belong to the latter group. I never plan anything, nothing, not even my forthcoming wedding. I cannot even choose a date, I keep putting it off and off and off, and it’ll happen on its own because Mister will take care of it. He’s a planner. He’s a good care taker. That’s why it works. I don’t even plan where to go, most times I’ve started my car engine and I still don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t plan what to eat because quite simply I don’t cook. I don’t plan what time to get up, I do set alarms, but I know I’ll just be ignoring them the minute they start. And I suppose at my age I should start planning things, seeing that the biological clock is not exactly on my side, but then, what clock? I’ll never make a clock my master. Chocolate perhaps, but not some tick tocking boring old thing. But it’s not all my fault. I started life like that…as unplanned. Nobody was planning me. They were planning the other. I know that for a fact because it’s been told to me a million times. One cheeky doctor had the audacity to say that I was a freak of nature, to which I answered; well it’s a beautiful freak innit? So many things do not make sense about what happened for me to come about. Firstly, nobody was expecting me. I was born first but conceived last. And I was conceived last but born first. It says on my ID card too. I am younger than the All Mighty Adonis prancing about the beaches right now. Good, it means he will age faster. So unplanned me just had to fight harder. My dad, God bless him, always said I was the best surprise in his life. Mum said nothing. But at 35 it doesn’t take a genius to realise how the female and male bodies work when copulating and conceiving. I was the freaky second egg which decided to make a statement and freakishly appear during one menstrual cycle. That’s what made me. Quite cheeky too, kind of gotcha! So perhaps when born unplanned you just get to live unplanned. It’s a nice life, Bohemian, gypsy type of life, you never know what you’re going to get because you never know when and where you are going to start. It’s a laid-back lifestyle, very laid back because you tend to do things at your own pace. You also tend to accumulate a lot of clutter. But then it’s not my fault. I was never planned. So I’ve done the best I could have done. Because just as the thickest of thorns grow unplanned, so do the scented roses.

Demicoli

I’m writing this for a variety of reasons. There seems to be a massive power cut, so that has left me with absolutely nothing to do in the heat. The only thing I can listen to is Joe Demicoli’s version of Chiara’s What if We. Which isn’t such a bad thing after all. I like Joe Demicoli, yes I know he can go hamallu, and yet I still like him, because his wit is what makes me like him. I keep dreaming of going to some dinner dance which is held every Saturday evening at il-Buskett Roadhouse where he is there for the entertainment. Mister smiles every time I request this. He’s a crafty one, he smiles way too much! And yes I know there will be a lot of garish outfits to compliment the hamalli at Buskett Road House, but I still want to go. I can take hamallu, I don’t take nasty, but hamallu is not nasty, it’s just letting your hair very very down and laughing at a lot of jokes which involve sex and lack of it. So what? It’s a small price to pay to enjoy Demicoli, and I might just enjoy the hamallati too. Being a hamallu isn’t that simple, Joe Demicoli is not simple, there is a great mind behind all of that. But he knows where his money making lies, so he goes with the flow. And there again I think of my mother, and now it’s my turn to smile. Oh dear Lord, if she knew I was intent on anything like that, she’d be mortified. She would never go to a place with women whose arms are in camouflage four inch thick solid gold bangles. Myself… although I do not own any of the bangles, I actually like them. Because they’re so big and I like big. Again my mother would never venture to a place which seems over-run by an epidemic of bleach blondes. Myself… I like watching them. Am I a voyeur? Could be. I like watching a lot of things. I just stay as quiet as a mouse, say nothing, and watch watch watch. I’ve always been that way. But I don’t think I’d behave that way at the Roadhouse. I’d probably even join in and be as loud as the rest of the other people. My mother again, she wouldn’t go anywhere where she’d call no uplifting. Sigh. I’d like to uplift a lot of things I will not mention here. But where’s the fun in uplifting? Nowhere. Mum, it’s time you grew up a bit you know and didn’t think that a dirty joke meant queuing for confession the next day at 6am. Sexy, dirty jokes exist for a purpose, and that is either to make you cry or to make you laugh. I choose the latter. Even if they are so soppy that they could pass for a laxative. I sometimes wonder where I really came from. My stoic mum? I can never ever imagine her having sex, and even if she did, she wouldn’t have undressed from top to toe. How did I come about? Did she shoot it through a syringe in private or what? And perhaps she wasn’t sure it went in so she gave it another shot, hence producing unplanned me. Or perhaps behind the most straight-faced of people lie sex vixens? I’ll never know. Mum’s not telling and dad keeps mum about it. All I know is that I just have to go and see Joe Demicoli before I die.