My friend

This is my blog. Sometimes I talk to people through my entries. Sometimes I'm mad at them. Sometimes I feel they are pathetic. But on days like today I need to talk to my dear dear friend. No names of course, but she'll know. I know she'll know because I just know. And I want to tell her that she's worth such a lot. She's worth the sun, the moon and the stars. It's not everyday that you come across a woman of substance, such a worthy friend who doesn't know her worth. Because she's good, you don't get any more good (yes I know it should be better), than her. How can I show her the way to go without threatening her. I know she's scared, that's because she's in pain, and pain feels so much like fear. I know she's at the crossroads called... how am I going to make it? And I want to take her hand and tell her, that it'll be tough for a little time. But it's tough anyway right now. I want to tell her that I will be there every step of the way. I will cry with her, curse with her. Because I've also laughed with her. And she with me. I wish I could make the pain all go away, but we're going to have to work through it. And I want her to know that I don't think she's a failure just because she thinks she never learns. Being good inside is not a flaw. It makes you cry sometimes, I know. But what about sharing the tears? I'm willing, every step of the way. And I mean it dear. Let's half this fear. Please.

Bunnies and Jugs

I'm cooking. Yes, cooking for the first time in 2009. Well, actually I am just watching potatoes swirling around in boiling water. But there is a hob, and heat, so I think I'm cooking. Not that I am very proud of myself. I don't like housewifely things. I certainly do not want to be nominated for 'Housewife of the Year'. And it's a good thing too, because I'm never going to be nominated anyway. Well it's not as if I would put it in my C.V. either. I don't think that a 36 year old who can be a splendid housewife is really an achievement. Or perhaps I've convinced myself so well so that I don't have to worry about my skills, or lack of, again. I will never understand why there are so many cooking magazines at stationers. Why bother, when you can get Vogue, or Cosmo instead? And no I'm not even interested in the magazines on the topmost shelf. Playboy? Now why would anybody want to be a a bunny for goodness sake? A bunny, as cute as it may be, is a rodent after all. Rodents do nothing but breed all the time. They live in colonies and then when you get rodently old, they kick you out. Oh no. I really don't need the mags. I have imagination and real life as a substitute. Books with pictures were only interesting when I was one year old. Older than that, and I want my own imagination to work. And do I really need to see 'Jugs' when just the word makes me go pale? Is 'Jugs' really a good name for breasts? Come on, men can do better than that. How can a word like 'jugs' make anybody horny when it spells milk and demure tea parties? I wonder why women accept to get photographed in such magazines. I guess it's nice showing off your stuff, but not on something which is called like that. Jugs have a handle, breasts don't. They have been well crafted so as to have the ability to be handled by whoever. Jugs and bunnies are two things we can live without. I have lived without a jug for 36 years, and I've never had a bunny in my life. And I've not really suffered for going without. And yet there is a whole mansion of bunnies somewhere in the States. They like dressing up with ears and even a fluffy tail. And that's supposed to be sexy. Oh dear.

No revenge

I am told I am being cryptic. So I'm going to write in plain English. How can someone who made you happy suddenly make you sad? How can someone you give your heart to break it into one million pieces? How can someone who is your world just flush it away? That is what I cannot understand, although it's in the distant past now. And intense love can change. You just want to kick the son of a bitch to the kerb. Because he really was the son of a bitch anyway. But another question pops up. If someone says they love you, then how can they make the worst and most dramatic of exits? Why? For God's sake I might not be perfect, but I know of less perfect girls and they make do. And all along I though it was my fault, my fault because when it comes to men, reason just flies out of the window and suddenly comes through the back door. And now it comes to, how can I be so angry at someone I loved? How can I be so livid as to call him a bastard? Because that's the way it is. I cannot even get revenge. Revenge is sweet, yes that's probably not what contributes to diabetes though. Because I've never got my revenge. I'll just have to let go. It's already late in the day, but I'll try. Let go, forget, and move on. For my own sake.

Rational?

Just when I thought I have been living on the moon and loving it, I am brought down to Earth with a bang. Someone thinks I rationalise too much. Two someones think the same. And I don't like it one bit. I have never seen myself a woman of reason, and I've got proof. If I'd gone with the reasoning, I'd probably have saved myself quite a few scrapes, and knocks and scuffs too. Where is the rational within me? Probably nowhere. I cannot even rationalise about shoes. I think that 500 shoes are not too much. And yet when that subject comes up, it makes people laugh because they don't think it's very rational. Perhaps where a couple of people are concerned I am no very bright. And that's ok because mentally-challenged me should have the right to live.. and to love. But it is exhausting trying to cope with the brainies. And perhaps I suddenly understand what it is all about. I was once in love with love. Not very rational. But that suddenly all changed. And although I still have my house on the moon, perhaps it's time I bought a one-way to Earth. That is difficult, and I like to blame it on the credit-crunch.