Therapy, opera and cashmere

People keep asking how and why I keep writing and writing and writing. How.... that's easy, because I am an alone person in my thoughts and since I cannot be described as outgoing I pour it all out in here. Why? That's more difficult to answer, but I like to answer it like this... it is therapy. If I didn't I would suffer from mental constipation. It is really therapy. Had I to book the couch I would firstly require a very solid couch, next I would need many years, and worse still... I would need to book a therapist. And I get stuck there, not on the couch I mean, stuck on looking for the right therapist. Because therapists are a lot like shoes, you don't just want one your size, but it has to fit comfortably and not pinch. It's also got to be the right colour. And if they are so much like shoes, where would I find a red-stiletto therapist? I don't know how to answer that. Because red stilettos, as sexy as they might be don't spell comfort. Meaning... I would need a running-shoe kind of therapist? No thank you. That would be so boring. I guess I'd settle for a pink ballerina style kind of therapist, one with a purple handbag even, like Tinky-winky. And he'd listen and listen until I'd make him deaf, which isn't a very good idea because then he wouldn't be able to come with me to the opera and hold my hand when I cry because the two lovebirds on stage are about to be parted somehow. And then it wouldn't do to make him go blind either because it would stop all the hilarious cashmere cushion shopping. No, I'll stay put and make it very easy for him. Because in therapy, you first have to love yourself...

Papa Beeeeee

Pope Benedict (or Papa Beeeeee as I call him) has broken his wrist in the bath. So it's not just me getting clumsy. I did the same thing once, but I did it in a more dignified manner... not in the bath. And for a minute I forgot that the news headline says it happened in the bath and thought that perhaps he just got muddled up in his skirt. After all he is not a teenager, he's 82. The new report also said he's 82 and has got no health problems. It makes me envious, but then of course God wouldn't never allow such a prized one of the flock to have health problems. Pope John Paul was a fine man, I so liked the guy, such a kind face. This one isn't. Every time I see his picture plastered somewhere it's a man with a grin, the type of ... I'm so fabulous kind of grin. Perhaps he needs to change his perception about himself. He isn't so fabulous. He thinks gay people are sinful and is always talking about how God made a man and a woman. I agree, but God also made gay men and women. And although I'm not gay, I could have been. I had enough problems growing up totally straight. Why doesn't Pope Be put himself in a gay shoe for once? Imagine how harrowing it must be to watch the world function as man+woman while you have feelings for people of your same sex. The least Papa Be can do is be kind. He's not, but hey he's a Raztinger, so it's a kind of, what do you expect sort of thing. The man will never win my sympathy, and it's ok because my sympathy means nothing to him. Still, it means a lot to me. How would he feel if we suddenly started to generate the idea that since man was born to copulate with a woman, then he's also wrong, seeing he chose his chastity vow and chose to deny God's greatest gift of sex in the process? I was brought up to accept gifts politely and say thank you. This man probably wasn't. And I keep wondering what exactly broke his wrist. We'll never know.

The dotted line

Not much happening today. Well to much happened yesterday, so I guess it Yin-Yang's everything out. Just like ironing, something I am so good at but also something which I don't like. Somehow I cannot cook to save my life, cannot even clear up my kitchen table, and yet when it comes to clothes I become a wizard. Talk about the women who have nothing else to say except for how to wash whites brighter than white. I am one of them, minus the talk. And talk about the expert ironing, I am one of them also. And it didn't take University. I just had to do it one day since nobody else was around, and hey it was so easy. Then women complain about being chained to the kitchen sink, the ones that put 'housewife' on the dotted line when it comes to occupation. Complain? About what? They don't even have a boss. They can sleep in if they feel like it. They can watch Jerry Springer shows back to back. So I don't know how to cook, but I see my Mister and he does it like a pro. It also doesn't take all day. Housewife? Are they really married to a house? Or married to a couch more likely. I would love writing 'housewife' on the dotted line. I wouldn't cook, I wouldn't waste time at all, I'd get my beauty sleep in shape. I mean a woman is entitled to that at the very least. But we unlucky working women cannot afford that. We have to drag ourselves up (at least I do), go and face a boss, a workplace with all of it's pluses and minuses. I have yet to see the day when I can put 'housewife' on the dotted line. But then I'm no wife. Girlfriend one day, mistress another, mother, daughter, sister..... that's what I'd write on the dotted line. Too bad it's such a short dotted line.

Damn Eve!

Today is the day I swear with a 'haqq Eva'. And I mean it. Why the hell did she have to drag me into the picture? She wanted the apple, I have plenty of those in here. Oh come on Eve, what difference would it have made if you had a lesser-quality apple. And how lame were you, to be convinced by a snake of all things? It's slimy, looks ugly, and you actually took the time to talk to it. Not very ladylike. I'd talk to a diamond, not a snake. Snakes had better keep their distance because my screaming will render them deaf in a second. How I hate reptiles, except for the playful 'gremxul' in the sun. The others can go to hell, but as Eve did it, she sent me hell every four weeks. So I guess I am allowed to swear at her. And where, tell me, was Adam? Tinkering with his privates or what? It comes across as very strange to me that in the very beginning of the world, Eve had all the freedom she wanted. But then again, of course she had, Adam needn't have worried about her going with any other man or woman because there were none. Walking around naked; I think that's so cool especially in these not so cool temperatures. I would if I could. And I could but I wouldn't. So no other men or women for Eve, but a snake. That's not even close to bestiality, perhaps something I'd call reptilism? Whatever the case, I'm suffering. And swearing. And I'm allowed to, because it's all her fault. Or was it? What was it that Adam wasn't providing, for Eve to be enthralled by a snake like that?

Monkey business

I'm still trying to find my way about monkeys, perhaps some monkey business too. Now I know exactly why they call monkey business as monkey business because it seems that this Alpha/Beta male/female theory keeps manifesting itself all day long, all week long... that's just about as far as I have made it. And perhaps it's not a theory after all, but it's been proved and I was sleeping somewhere all the while. Now and only now it is starting to make sense. But if we are behaving so like monkeys, then will I have to accept that my great-great-great-great-great-mother was an ape? Maybe not. Because maybe I come from a different breed of monkeys, the ones that read books, and listened to music and thought that theatre and films made a great night out. My breed also probably thought that Joe Demicoli was excellent. And yes I will keep harping on about this until somebody out there stops taking the piss. I am no hamalla and neither is Demicoli. My tastes are highly expensive, I am extremely high maintenance, you'd stop the hamalla thing in a flash if only you spent one day with me. My breed of apes were not hamalli, they just appreciated well made nonsense, loved to live and to laugh heartily and weren't afraid to do so. Because again, Demicoli stays. So please stop all the bullcrap and perhaps take time out to listen to what is probably the only decent comedian we have. There are other breeds of apes of course, those who thought that education is also important, that eating is the only past-time in the world, and that culture is something unheard of. And they are proud and think that it's funny because I get to cry while watching Traviata, and that I keep listening to Puccini's 'tre zbirri una carrozza' from Tosca because it moves me. They are proud, haughty, and so stupid because their genre of apes have been born musically tone deaf. And I think they secretly laugh too at Demicoli's jokes but they'd never admit it in public. So while my breed of apes has produced an Alpha female (I will never accept my being Beta even if I am) who is all about culture, seems another breed has produced an Alpha male (definitely Alpha) who brags about music being useless and to whom drama means the way he conducts his life. This breed walks with a shirt so unbuttoned, he'd might as well tear off all the buttons in monkey style. My breed also walk with unbuttoned shirts, but it's done delicately just enough to show off the headlamp assets. How do two different breeds cope? Good question, one I do not have an answer too. Somehow they cope, perhaps through a love for smoking, good food, laughing at each other and instinct. Because I'm not sure any breed of monkeys has a brain... except for my own of course.