Orange whores

Holidays start tomorrow and I'm already bored. So I just took one of those silly Facebook quizzes. Or perhaps they're not always silly. This was called... what race should you date. I instantly knew the answer but took the quiz anyway. Seems I should date within my race, it's Caucasians for me. It was just a confirmation, but why did I think so, no, why was I so sure so? I like to think I have no qualms about race, gender or whatever. But do I really? Of course I am not about to say that people who do not belong to my race are supposed to be ill-treated, beat, spat at or anything of the sort. What with the klandestini being a hot issue, I still remain one of those who think we should take them in and care for them as if they were our own. Come on, leaving everything behind, risking your life for a slim chance of a better one... that takes guts, it also shows that they have been in bad shape. I will not go into whether the EU should help or not. I guess it would help if it helps. But every time I pass by the Marsa Open Centre I get sad, too sad. There are black people all over the place and they really don't look rich at all. Not one bit. They don't have airconditioning, they have portable toilets... poor things. Yes I know that some of them have an attitude problem but then plenty of Maltese people have an attitude problem and they're living off benefits which come out of my taxes too. So we should have a heart. But yet in a twist of something which I have yet to figure out, I will not mix with someone outside of my race. Meaning, I will never look to another race for a lifelong partner. I want a partner who is within my own race. It's bad enough, people of the same race making babies and then shuttling off. It could be worse with a mixed race couple. And I can never ever see myself lying down with a yellow, red, blue, orange, pink or black man. They say after black you don't look back don't they? Well, I for one, don't even want to know. My dirty mind draws a picture of some black rocket coming to land inside you. And in my mind, that's not fun. I don't know what happens with yellow men. Or pink men for that matter. Purple men are ok because they're gay and you're not lying down with them, or perhaps you are but you're just going to sleep the night away. But the people I am having an aversion to quite lately stem from South America. Not the men, this time, but the girls. And no I don't sleep with girls, never have, not even in my teens just to gossip and giggle the night away. But these girls have orange skin and it isn't orange skin as in cellulite. I'd have to shut my mouth if it were. No, these girls are just taking our men away. They look very different to us, and they look very dirty too. Not as in dirty minded, they could do what they like there, but dirty as in needing an ammonia scrub. Greasy looking skin, hair plastered over their strange looking scalp, please keep them away from me. They also need Visas which they get probably by batting their greasy eyelashes at whoever. In a matter of months they're also working here, but the work they do doesn't need a permit. They work from home, strip in front of a webcam and see the cash coming in. Some job. And yes I am so less tolerant to these girls because they have a big attitude problem. They think Malta should bow to them. But it's not going to. At least not till I am alive. They do not tolerate me because I'm different, and I am living in my own country. They're shameless, dirty, wicked whores. And while I like whores, I don't like them in orange. And I'm not bowing to any one of them. That'll be the day. No I just don't like them one bit. Let them go back to their jungle.

Malta Post?

I am so hopping mad at... Malta Post, or whatever it's called now. True, I have a habit of ordering 'things' over the web. They might be clothes, jewellery, bags, shoes, whatever takes my fancy. But that shouldn't be a problem because that's what Malta Post are supposed to do... deliver letters and parcels. But the don't. Malta Post? Try Kemmuna Post, or better still Filfa Post, because they really must think I'm as small as some gecko living on the piece of rock. They don't deliver anything to me. I suspect there is one sneaky postman who does it. He probably lifts my letter box very slowly for it not to make a sound, dips a blue or white or yellow piece of paper into it and then makes a run for it. If this is his idea of fun I'm not amused. I am one of those creatures who want something yesterday. So the thought of some of my purchases being so close yet so far, is not amusing. But then it's my fault too, because after calling Malta Post and telling them how infantile they are, I am not ready to file a report and have a postman's job revoked. Because I start thinking, perhaps the postman has a wife and kids and I don't want them to starve. I don't want them to look at their pockets and find that they don't have enough. I know what it means, I've been there. And I don't want anybody else in that situation, not even this sneaky postman. But perhaps one day I'll wait for him to deliver and give him a piece of my mind. He'll say, just as Malta Post said that perhaps my door bell wasn't ringing. But it is, it rings, and how. Funny thing this, when it's a postwoman on the beat, I get everything delivered to my door. I'm not sure how this makes men look. But it's so true, I know the postwoman by name and surname, because poor soul she has delivered so much to my door. And yet when it's a man, he's skiving all over. Shit. It reminds me of Kemmuna Airways. And I thought it was so funny then. Precocious Kemmuna Airways. Demicoli was wise beyond his time. But that's yet another entry on its own. Malta Post doesn't deserve to be au par with Demicoli, because he delivers. Malta Post doesn't.

True Story - The Finale

More Mr. M. This is the final phase of the story and I hope it will remain final forever. But there's still another part. After having giving Mr. M the psychological finger, vowing never to see him again, I relented. With good cause. Mr. M was suddenly orphaned, got extremely sad and called me. He actually called my dad because he was so sure I'd give him an extremely unladylike 'fuck off' answer on the phone. So he cried to my dad, who felt very sorry for him. Thus my dad called me and asked me to call him because, he said, Mr. M was in a terrible state, and if only I could love another as thyself. Hmmm well ok. My mother's words were pounding in my head, do as you would be done by. So I called and was ready to wait until he picked my call. But I didn't wait, it was almost as if he had his phone in his lap. Perhaps he did. But I will forgive him on this one. He really was sad, and I have known what sadness does to the human being, if I had things my way, nobody would be sad anymore and just the 'sad'; word in itself would be kicked out of the dictionary. But I don't have it my way, so the next best thing I could do was listen, comfort him a bit, feel very bad inside, and listen some more. But he seemed content with that. And it didn't stop at that. A friendship emerged, not without the sexual innuendos, but he seemed to have learnt his lesson and his boundaries, and if I could make a person that little bit happier, then I just braced myself. Florence Nightingale was nothing compared to what I had to do, had to say, had to listen to, had to everything. But that was ok, because I was getting results. Mr. M started smiling, then laughing the odd laugh.... he started becoming himself again. That is when he dropped the biggest of bombshells. Because although I had been very firm and clear about the just friendship, I think he was getting losing his hearing, perhaps through old age, perhaps through clogged up ears. So he gave me a proposal which went something like this... since he wasn't getting any younger, and since he had inherited a tidy sum as well as property, then we should throw an engagement party, go to London for a holiday, come back and get married. That simple... to him. I could have thrown up. Me, married to Mr. M and having to live in an old village? And marrying Mr. M would also have meant marrying his family, seriously. The sex would also probably coming as a threesome, and God wasn't the third party here. So I said nothing. No actually I said I wasn't feeling very well (which was true), had him drive me home, told him I'd let him now, closed the door, and never let him know, never saw him again. What a bitch? Well, perhaps so, but no bitch wants to be stuck in an old village. Very simply, no bitch wants to become a wife. Because one that line has crossed than it's be tied to a kitchen sink, slaving over a stove... and I don't know how to do those things, do not even want to learn. Which probably means there is still a bitch inside, although nowadays looks may be deceiving. I never answered to the mountains of Mr M's texts. I always screened his calls, and he wasn't even brainy enough to call from an unknown number. That was it. I never though about him very often, but the sparse times that I do, I make sure I remember him in ugly bermudas having to lift his face to talk to me. Because 5 inches sometimes are too many inches. And size always matters.