Diary of a Lady - 16

The captain of the sinking crystal ship was recently congratulated on expressing his feminine side through the writings of this diary. Now that’s a laugh. The captain of this hole-ridden blog is a misogynist who in his own words would happily fuck a narwhal. I, on the other hand, have standards when it comes to deciding who I want to sleep with. No man or woman has refused me yet, though after 29 years of fucking around, I’m beginning to think that sex is overrated.

I prefer to sleep with men and women I know or even like. Otherwise, as I stare into the face of the stranger pounding me, I think of the lines from TS Eliot’s Wasteland. I summarise: She is bored and tired, he endeavours to engage her in caresses, which though unreproved are undesired. His vanity requires no response.

And at the end of banal interlude, you get up and say, “Well, thank god that’s over.” That’s what it boils down to.

Diary of a Lady - 15

Interacting with people frightens me. Loud people put me off. The overly ambitious leave me quaking in my dirty old shoes. The smug ones need a good smack. The intelligent mind makes me feel dumb. I loathe having prolonged conversations with a group of people because more often than not, such 'sessions' highlight my inadequacies. My thoughts get confused, the noise is disorienting… and the pointlessness of the situation hits me in gut.

The evening before last, I was forced to attend a sit-down dinner. I shrank in horror even as I looked at the shiny, happy faces around me. Why can't I be shiny and happy? My friend who knows my insanity throws me a sympathetic glance and tries to involve me in the conversation, but I cannot talk.

After an hour of nicotine and alcohol, I wanted to kill the lot — in true PS3 style. I zoomed in on the faces that irked me the most. The judgmental prig needs a good fuck, and should then be burnt on a stake. The grating laugher. Bang, bang… you're dead. The arrogant boor. I'm going to stab you with my dinner knife. I imagined their blood spilling on the dinner table. It was satisfying.

I have nothing to say to anyone anymore. Yes, winter is slowly setting in. Yes, 65-year-olds are having sex with nubile African boys. And then… silence. I drag my tired feet home and curl up in bed. I welcome my nightmares — they're not as bad as my reality.

Diary of a Lady - 13

Parents who let their children walk around in squeaky shoes should be fed to a pack of hungry lions (I'll be cheering from the stands).

There's nothing like a spot of afternoon sex on a lazy Sunday to get you all relaxed and happy. What my partner and I hadn't counted on was a toddler pacing outside our window wearing shoes that squeaked. Through it all: foreplay and mainplay, the brat never stopped walking. So we decided to time our responses.

The refrain was rather simple: squeak, oh yeah, squeak, jesus that's good, squeak, I'm coming, squeak, squeak, squeak, yes, yes, yes!

Forty-five minutes later, I was enjoying my orgasm (which I very rarely have), and I could hear the ominous 'squeak, squeak, squeak'.

Diary of a Lady - 11

The ignoramus who runs what he thinks is a tight crystal ship has just rejected one of my entries. The reasons cited included the following words: self indulgent and deluded. The rest I have conveniently forgotten. The only way to survive is to let people yap on. It keeps them happy and gives them a sense of purpose. The captain is at his happiest when he's lecturing me on my many vagrant habits.

But the captain is as deluded as I am. He immerses himself in the quest for knowledge; he assumes it makes him a more enlightened being. But it's a pointless quest, when we don't act on the knowledge acquired, when we settle for mediocrity, instead of competing with the enlightened.

I am happy with my delusions. I see the worms and cobwebs in my head for what they are. And no, at no point did I say that Garth Brooks was a yodeler.

Captain's Log: The Crystal Ship's executive officers mulled over whether Spellcheck should be relieved of her columnist duties, but have decided, in all their wisdom, that even the most banal of writers must be given an avenue. Even if it is only to showcase the other talent on the blog.

Diary of a Lady - 9

(The captain of the Crystal Ship wishes to make it very clear that he is not the author of this diary...lest some nincompoop think otherwise. The Diary is written by a bonafide hussy)

I met an old .. um…acquaintance yesterday. At least I was once acquainted with his penis. As penises go, his was a decent one -- not too large, but not too small either. But in the interests of my newfound purity, I decided against reacquainting myself with it.

I've seen quite a few penises in my lifetime -- not a hundred, but I think 40 would be a nice round figure. And surprisingly, to my horror, I've realised I can remember them all.

This is half an epiphany for me, as I'm not a penis-loving person. I realised that the moment my first boyfriend whipped his 'manhood' out of his pants, and there I was wishing he's just stuff it back it in. Most men like whipping their penises out, given half a chance. It's something I've come to expect and accept.

But the penis that still gives me the shudders belonged to a 39-year-old Scot. I was 17 at the time, and not only would he whip it out, he'd ask me if his was the best I'd ever seen. What can a girl say?

After giving pleasure to 40 penises, I'd like to think that I'm good at oral sex. I wish I could put it down in résumé: 'Also gives good head'. I bet the editor of The Guardian would hire me in a jiffy.

Diary of a Lady - 7

Fickle

Pronunciation: \fi-kəl\

Function: adjective

Etymology: Middle English fikel deceitful, inconstant, from Old English ficol deceitful; akin to Old English befician to deceive, and probably to Old English fāh hostile — more at foe

Meaning: marked by lack of steadfastness, constancy, or stability; given to erratic changeableness

She's been judged. Step right up ladies and gentleman, here comes the fickle one. She'll change her tune tomorrow, but that's another day, isn't it? For now, she's tired, restless and sore all over, like she's been tackled by a football team. (Sigh, if only).

She bruises easily, I should know. I'm forced to comfort her, to give her the strength to tackle an unwanted day, to watch out for her, to allay her fears, to calm her mind and discard her inadequacies. I'm there to hold her hand when she visits the dentist, to keep her company when she's feeling alone. I do not judge her, I only protect her. It is my purpose. At least I have one, she has none.

You've read her diary – is she fickle or selfish? Is she inconsistent or is she simply riding the waves? She's spellcheck -- always looking for the ultimate high, but too much of a coward to jump in the absence of a safety net. I'm just her alter ego protecting her from shattering into a million pieces.

Diary of a Lady - 6

Mirrors show us an illusion, the mind's perception of oneself. Whenever the stepmother looked into the mirror she saw herself as the most beautiful woman in the world. When the orphaned wizard peered into the shining façade he saw his family. When I look into the mirror my mind directs my thoughts. I see an angel and a whore, an innocent face with evil intentions. I see the bones and the fat. But I do not see what I want most out of this life. Why can't my mirror show me that.

I once smashed a mirror, just to see my face shatter into a thousand pieces.

Today the mirror showed me my first grey hair. And as the morning sun filtered into my bedroom through my orange curtains, the grey hair gleamed elusively before disappearing. I cannot find it now no matter how hard I look for it.

Mirror, mirror on the wall

Who's the smartest of them all?

Mirror, mirror on the wall

Who's the richest of them all?

Mirror, mirror on the wall

Where do I fit among them all?

Diary of a Lady - 5

Can a person for whom you have no emotional attachment to, make you feel good? It happens sometimes. It happened to me this morning. But there’s a dark lining on every silver cloud; and I foresee a disastrous day ahead. I cannot deal with a bunch of loud, cackling women. I retreat into a shell and look desperately for salvation or redemption. But God does not save or redeem the harlot. Even the beast has more hope than the tramp. Babylon is burning, and I’m lighting my cigarette in the flames.

I'd like to be an Othello who has the power to act than a Hamlet who analyses and overanalyses until it's too late to do anything. Imagine, if Hamlet was in Othello’s place, and Othello in Hamlet’s, there would have been no tragedy. But I’d rather have sex with Macbeth.

The Diary of a Lady - 3

Spellcheck is an escapist, who will do anything to remain untouched by the harsh realities of life. This is her rambling diary, written exclusively for The Crystal Ship

We all have a Pandora's box hidden in the depths of our minds. Over the years, I've filled mine with my fears, memories I wish to avoid in my conscious existence, my limitations, evil, unmentionable thoughts, my inadequacies…and now I've opened it.

Why did I do that?

The ghouls of my mind that I so carefully locked up are invading my conscious existence. My mind cannot deal with this overflow of reality, images and emotion. I do not want to rage. I do not want to rant. I want to go gently into the dying of the night.

There is no hope in my Pandora's box; the fairies forgot to tell me that I had to store some hope in it. It is dark, and voices are buzzing around me. Are they the voices of my past: the parents screaming, the children mocking me, the dog yelping in pain as she was thrown down the steps.

Is that me screaming in agony and ecstasy? I cannot tell.

The darkness will give way to a yellow fog, and then the sun will slowly come back. That much I know.

This is not the first time I have opened Pandora's box.

I can only wait.

Diary of a Lady - 2

Spellcheck is an escapist, who will do anything to remain untouched by the harsh realities of life. This is her rambling diary, written exclusively for The Crystal Ship

Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road bumped into me and my dog. We were running, running fast…wanted to leave everything behind. But we had to return, always. There's no place but home for a 10-year-old and her dog.

Mum wanted more out of life, dad was content to remain where he was.

Dad believed in a good god, mum believed in a good life.

But they both worked very hard, they didn't know what else to do.

Mum was trapped, dad was trapped — in a nice little house, with a garden and a mango tree.

And the 10-year-old? She's still running. Sometimes she looks at the moon, hoping to spot a moocow jump over it.