Monkeys

I see a lot of uninteresting people who try to be interesting. Their resemblance to monkeys is frightening. They talk in a half pigeon English, half broken Maltese. I hate all that. Give me good old Maltese anytime. But I'd win hands down with these people in any English competition. And no, my mum, if it's the only good thing she did, never brought us up on English. I cannot even imagine myself talking in English to my parents, or to my brother. Oh God, he'd die laughing, because we just don't do it. And yet English comes as natural to me as Maltese. Probably the tons of books I have read in my lifetime, mostly good, some bad. Some screwed with my mind and still remain my favourite. Take Hardy, he screwed me with his Tess, at 11 I couldn't imagine why D'Urberville took her behind the tree and her innocence in the process. It was only when I was admitted to hospital a few months later, nothing special, on suspected appendicitis, that a surgeon spotted my property (my book) and said perhaps I was way too young to read that? But at the same time, doctors gave me a pregnancy test to rule that out. So if I was old enough for that, then I was old enough for Hardy. Then it suddenly made sense. Somehow something went wrong in my love for books. Today, we badger little people to read, read, please read. Please read and I'll buy you a computer. When I was growing up it was a stop reading, stop this bullshit reading or else. But I didn't stop. I never do. The worst thing anybody can do with yours truly is issue an ultimatum. Because I just love breaking the rules. It's exciting as a night of basic instinct with a married man. Those were my wild days. Single men? No thank you. Bring over the married ones, bored to the core, because I was young and about to rub their ego to ejaculation. So easy. And they will in turn rub your everything, eager to please. Perhaps we are all like monkeys, and some of us are quick learners and get to perform wicked tricks in the bedroom stakes. And perhaps we are really monkeys because it's all a jungle. But, I prefer to be the lioness.

Celebs

How is one supposed to feel when they see an email in the inbox, and it's coming from a local celebrity? Surprised at the very least. I actually was about to delete the email because I thought it would be some spam from someone posing to be the local celeb. But I didn't, because curiosity will not just kill the cat, but me together with the cat. And I'm glad I didn't. Because it was all true. I'd have thought that having a local 'celeb' brother with so many local 'celeb' friends would make me immune to it all. And it does. Except for one man. He makes me laugh, and opinion-forming me already had an opinion. A very wrong opinion. A 'normal' man who is perhaps very sensitive too. Plenty of insight, but then I guess you have to have that sort of insight to woo audiences. Once a man is on stage, he probably has to size up his audience in seconds first, then work from there. Brilliant stuff. Try making people cry, that's easy. Try making them laugh, not so easy. People like to laugh and cry not necessarily in that order. And in a credit crunching society, it's even more difficult to make them laugh and cry, again not necessarily in that order. The British are well known for their one of a kind humour. Malta... I see nobody, except for one man. He's on his own, wether it's a good thing or not. And because he draws people by the crowds, then I, for one, decide that I am royal stuff and remove myself from the rest. Or maybe not. The rest are loud, vulgar, ignorant. I'm not of course. And yet I harbour their same thoughts with a vengeace. I like, no, love, the same thing precisely. So does that put me into their same net? Ir probably does. Because then again, I love garish, loud, flashy. But convent school leaves it's dire marks on any girl. I have come to hate most local 'celebs' because their manhood probably doesn't work anymore seeing that it's their heads which swell and not their private parts. They love the attention, they lap it up as if they were lapping up the sun in Ghajn Tuffieha. They say it's too much, and talk about how lovely it would be to go about unobtrusively. All lies. They're all the same. But for this one man. And there is probably an even better woman somewhere edging him on. Good girl.