My life is a test with multiple choice answers, but I cannot find my number 2 pencil.
I am a sucker for anything sappy and sad and melancholic. I cry at TV ads. I cry in church when the choir sings religious hymns. I cry on the bus if I see an old lady trying to sit down.
In Italian we have a saying "Lacrima Facile" that more of less translates in "easy tear".
That's me. And it's kind of funny because I can be a mean bitch, I judge people and I tend to be super harsh when it comes down to judging characters, habits and dress sense.
I am a bitchy queen in the body of a pretty average looking woman that often gets mistaken for a lesbian.
Now, I do, occasionally, like the ladies, but I am (mostly) a lover of man beauty. Sure thing my man looks more metrosexual than any model covered in GQ (Zachary Quinto anyone?), or down right girl like (Gerard Way anyone?), so what does determine my sexuality?
Is the fact that I do not have any kind of sex some kind of indicator that I am not only confused, but also kind of frigid?
Is sexuality really something fluid or am I just kidding myself and, to quote my beloved mother, I turned to girls because I had such rotten luck with guys? (She is practical, my mum.) I am wondering. I think I have fallen in love once in my life and it was with a girl.
So do I equal love with my sexual preferences? Is the fact that I want to throw Zachary Quinto on an available surface and lick his hirsute body all over, only a reaction to the fact that the aforementioned love dumped my sorry ass, professed undying love and then slept with a man after 2 weeks from the split? I wonder.
I am planning to go to one of Cardiff gay pubs this coming weekend with my friend Richard, and I am wondering shall i go and be the best fag hag I can be or try to pull some girl? Not that I am that good at pulling, cause I am not. Shit I have no idea how to flirt, and I cannot see flirting unless it's spelled in giant neon letters. I am that lame.
So, I think I am going to done up my bets dress, my killer heels (because they kill my fucking feet) and be the best fag hag I can be, pretending to be Carrie Bradshaw and sip a Martini.
I can act my life like a movie if I need to. And I do I ever.
Reality is not exactly exciting around here, and if it wasn't for my imagination I would be dead. Or maybe I would have a life. A real one.
I have been working towards not living in my head too much, but outside my head there is not a great view, I have to admit, while in my head I can live anywhere and be anyone. I want to find a way to write all these stories I can come up with, all of those stories I cannot live but I cannot tell. I want to find a way to free my ideas and give them to someone else, to anyone who is interested, to anyone out there that needs to jump into someone's else world for a while.
I may be a prisoner of my own fears, of my own made up worlds, but they are mine.
Those fantasies and the people who live in them, are mine.
And I want people to see them. People to read them.
I have spend the past hour listening to songs from Glee (Anything with as little Rachel as possible, because I really cannot stand her) and I am in love with Mercedes' voice. I have "Bust a window" on repeat and I am giggling my fat ass on my sofa while typing this.
My choir is learning Lean on Me and Goldigga and the harmonies are similar to the ones on Glee, but the Lean on me is more complicated, with two soprano lines that are just gorgeous.
I am an alto though and one of the weaker ones, but I am still enjoying it so much that I do not care (too much)about my own shortcomings. I try my very hardest and, when we really click, we make a freaking gorgeous sound and it warms my heart. (yeah you guessed it. I do cry at my own rehearsal) And just to blow our own trumpet, our version of Somebody to Love is WAAAAY better than the Glee one. Fact.
I should have been in bed hours ago (I feel asleep during Eastenders), but I woke up and Glee was on and then I had to get all these words out of my head, and now here I am waiting for another load of washing to get done and then who knows, maybe more Quinto surfing/stalking and probably bed. Hopefully bed, because alarm goes at 5.30am to go to the gym.
My legs look much more toned already though, so it's worth it, now I just need to lose the spare tire around my waist. One can only hope. Or save for lypo.
In Italian we have a saying "Lacrima Facile" that more of less translates in "easy tear".
That's me. And it's kind of funny because I can be a mean bitch, I judge people and I tend to be super harsh when it comes down to judging characters, habits and dress sense.
I am a bitchy queen in the body of a pretty average looking woman that often gets mistaken for a lesbian.
Now, I do, occasionally, like the ladies, but I am (mostly) a lover of man beauty. Sure thing my man looks more metrosexual than any model covered in GQ (Zachary Quinto anyone?), or down right girl like (Gerard Way anyone?), so what does determine my sexuality?
Is the fact that I do not have any kind of sex some kind of indicator that I am not only confused, but also kind of frigid?
Is sexuality really something fluid or am I just kidding myself and, to quote my beloved mother, I turned to girls because I had such rotten luck with guys? (She is practical, my mum.) I am wondering. I think I have fallen in love once in my life and it was with a girl.
So do I equal love with my sexual preferences? Is the fact that I want to throw Zachary Quinto on an available surface and lick his hirsute body all over, only a reaction to the fact that the aforementioned love dumped my sorry ass, professed undying love and then slept with a man after 2 weeks from the split? I wonder.
I am planning to go to one of Cardiff gay pubs this coming weekend with my friend Richard, and I am wondering shall i go and be the best fag hag I can be or try to pull some girl? Not that I am that good at pulling, cause I am not. Shit I have no idea how to flirt, and I cannot see flirting unless it's spelled in giant neon letters. I am that lame.
So, I think I am going to done up my bets dress, my killer heels (because they kill my fucking feet) and be the best fag hag I can be, pretending to be Carrie Bradshaw and sip a Martini.
I can act my life like a movie if I need to. And I do I ever.
Reality is not exactly exciting around here, and if it wasn't for my imagination I would be dead. Or maybe I would have a life. A real one.
I have been working towards not living in my head too much, but outside my head there is not a great view, I have to admit, while in my head I can live anywhere and be anyone. I want to find a way to write all these stories I can come up with, all of those stories I cannot live but I cannot tell. I want to find a way to free my ideas and give them to someone else, to anyone who is interested, to anyone out there that needs to jump into someone's else world for a while.
I may be a prisoner of my own fears, of my own made up worlds, but they are mine.
Those fantasies and the people who live in them, are mine.
And I want people to see them. People to read them.
I have spend the past hour listening to songs from Glee (Anything with as little Rachel as possible, because I really cannot stand her) and I am in love with Mercedes' voice. I have "Bust a window" on repeat and I am giggling my fat ass on my sofa while typing this.
My choir is learning Lean on Me and Goldigga and the harmonies are similar to the ones on Glee, but the Lean on me is more complicated, with two soprano lines that are just gorgeous.
I am an alto though and one of the weaker ones, but I am still enjoying it so much that I do not care (too much)about my own shortcomings. I try my very hardest and, when we really click, we make a freaking gorgeous sound and it warms my heart. (yeah you guessed it. I do cry at my own rehearsal) And just to blow our own trumpet, our version of Somebody to Love is WAAAAY better than the Glee one. Fact.
I should have been in bed hours ago (I feel asleep during Eastenders), but I woke up and Glee was on and then I had to get all these words out of my head, and now here I am waiting for another load of washing to get done and then who knows, maybe more Quinto surfing/stalking and probably bed. Hopefully bed, because alarm goes at 5.30am to go to the gym.
My legs look much more toned already though, so it's worth it, now I just need to lose the spare tire around my waist. One can only hope. Or save for lypo.