Double

Sometimes I feel I'm seeing double, looking double (that's a very bad bad feeling, having double, living double. I suppose I am a living double too, because I am so much in the shadow of my twin nowadays. And that's ok, because I am left to do my own thing. Then when people realise I have a brain they put it down to the fact that of course, she is oht l-avukat. It makes me smile, but it really isn't like that at all. Because had the avukat not had a double, he would probably be street sweeping. Really. Which is maybe not a bad idea either because who the hell would be inspecting the dust gathered anyway? But the avukat had a sister who decided he was going to do well, sometimes at her own expense. So there you go, it's now oht l-avukat and not the other way round. Big sigh, what's a girl gotta do about it? And still this girl hasn't learnt her lesson yet. She's gotta have the double theme written all over her face which seems to get her in deep trouble. I see so much double in people, which is sad. I hope I don't look double, although I'm not too sure about that seeing I am so not keen on taking pictures. I seem to have had enough trouble for two, because I walk straight into the den with my brain placed prettily in the my nightstand drawer. That's the problem. My brain sometimes takes a day or two off, and... there we go again. Instantly it's double. But I'm tired of the double theme. Because only one of the two seems so right. It is so true, we cannot serve two Masters. I never heard anything truer in my life. And yet I try to make it double. Maybe I should take a day off and let my brain do all the work... but there is one problem...I don't trust my brain.

About the arse...

I've just done the thing I hate most... gone to the supermarket. Again. I wish I could go in there with dynamite and explode the whole thing, seeing it gives me such a short fuse to deal with it. I am not very cruel, but watch me in a supermarket and it turns ugly. It always does because somehow somebody has to meddle with my fuse and make it shorter. Why the hell does it always happen to me? Perhaps it's because I expect to go in there, do my business, pay and leave, without comments. Do not talk to me in any of these buildings because I give back the hell that I will be feeling. So I go in, hoping to make it as short as possible, swear under my breath because someone thinks that trolley-bumping is the same as bumping cars. It's not a game. But perhaps it's accidental so I say nothing and I instantly book 2 imaginary years on the couch. Then it's all going to be over soon, at least I think, and I wait in the flipping queue to pay for the damn things. Although my affair with Diet Coke is a solid one, somehow it doesn't look so sex in the trolley. Anyway, I wait, and just when it's my turn this macho, beer-bellied, nit-wit takes my place, because, according to him, he just has a couple of items, which turn out to be more like 20 items. What the hell? He didn't even ask and say the please magic word. Oh no, it's not happening. So I tell him so, no you've got 20 and you didn't even ask politely so back you go. He called me... a whore! Seriously, the Maltese word for it... qahba. And I didn't even try. I was looking the complete part of the mara-tad-dar or so I thought. The only flesh showing was my arms and ankles, I had a bandanna for God's sake, and he calls me a whore? So, since he was armed by 20 cans of tomato paste, I said, yeah me the whore and what are you, the kunserva pimp? He didn't get it at all, but I loved drumming it into him. He had to wait... period. And just when I was handing over my hard earned cash, my small pretty but very functional ears picked up... the Z-word and not in a nice way. He had just sentenced me to an up-the-arse fate. He blew my short fuse completely, and since I was thinking about fuses, I turned back and told him in a really whorey (?) manner, 'yeah right as if, with that short fuse of yours!'. I heard laughter, and I was so pleased. Because he was an ass hole, seemingly an expert in subjects revolving the arse. Makes sense. I am still fuming. But the Diet Coke looks so pretty in my glass... perhaps it was all worth it.