Lying to a bishop

If you lean towards the light, you’ll realise that everything will be good. I’m glad there are two sides to me. I didn’t only enjoy the time with my parents; I was overly conscious when they were here. I looked at them with so much more intensity than ever. I observed the very surface of my mother’s skin, every single grey hair on my dad’s head. And I suddenly remembered being three, then five, six, ten, twelve and fifteen. I realised that during those ages, I never really looked at them. Except that I found my mother exceptionally beautiful, and I wanted to look like her. When I was young, I probably never listened carefully to my parents. Having spent all these years building and enhancing my ego and preparing for its trip, I’d done nothing but exploit them. And they are the only people who never resented me for it.

Talking about giving, I would give them all I have. It’s just that I have nothing.

The sound of music has dispelled the sense of sadness that had engulfed me since they’d stepped on the plane.

I’m not alone at all like I thought I was. My boyfriend Art has returned and is now after Ellen. But no one is ever going to have her. She might have you, however. This much, I figured.

When my mother asked me what my book was about, I hesitated. She thought it was about her. Although it has nothing to do with my parents whatsoever, I dedicated it to them and that ghost of mine. The only sad thing is that when I talk about books with my parents, they only come up with that “Harry Potter”-writer. They don’t even know her name. It’s funny that my mother thought it was about her and her negative traits. I still hope that she didn’t mean it. If there was ever anyone to blame for my character’s adverse outcomes, then it’ll be me obviously, and my shadows, but it will be my fault for letting them shape me and form my face.

It’s not quite disfigured yet (in the style of Francis Bacon); however, it portrays a lot more pain with which I’m not familiar (apart from Ellen). The creator and the creation never feel the same way. Just like you, and I’ll never feel the same thing or the same way. We don’t understand each other. I can only teleport myself into Ellen’s body to experience the same sentiments. There was a moment in writing where her sentiments exceeded my standards, so I had to change the voice. It was only fair. I know who I’m not.

When I watch people talk to each other, sharing personal details, I realise that they all have a reason to speak, but many times, it’s for the sake of social conventions. They believe they have a reason to talk, a reason to repeat the same words every day. In reality, they are debasing the centre of their personality by adding more and more irrelevant material to their lives. They kept congratulating me without knowing how little I care about it.

The graduation ceremony meant nothing. I used it to lure my parents to come, and it worked, and the other reason was I wanted to see someone, but he wasn’t there.

I’m ashamed to say that I’ve put on 5 kg since I started working, and none of my jeans fit me. Going to the gym in the evening isn’t as effective as going in the morning. I also messed up my immune system during New Year’s. The lump on my arm was an infection, and the cold lasted a week, which is too long. As mentioned before, I was almost experiencing the same thing I did four years ago, except the mid-ear infection didn’t occur, luckily.

I shall run ninety minutes tomorrow. The first time since early summer.

I noticed how much I dread the words, “We should catch up.” Never do I have anything worth telling.

I shouldn’t talk because I lied to a bishop yesterday. He didn’t mean to be rude, but he asked me something that was none of his business. Instead of saying so, I chose to lie, and it wasn’t right. And I’d decided the next thing he asked me; I would tell the truth. Unfortunately, he asked me, “What do you write?” I hesitated. Almost convinced to say romance and drama, I said, “dark stuff.” There was silence, and the bishop’s eyes dug deep into my forehead. I emphasised it was merely fiction and not horror or any of that sort. After all, I’m not fussed about lying to a bishop, but I realised that’s what I’m like with people nowadays.

I can’t sincerely look at them if they ask me things that are none of their business or not of any significance. I continue talking without even looking at them. Therefore the impression you get is I could be lying, but very often, I’m not. I don’t feel like talking. Don’t you ever feel like that?

I hate talking about writing, particularly with strangers. As writing is the only thing, I can’t lie about.

My viewpoint that gynaecologists should be men and men only has been justified. The nurse made my cervix bleed. She had no idea how to insert the speculum correctly, and it hurt. That never happened with my gynaecologist in Germany. Despite the nurse’s friendliness and attempt to prevent feelings of embarrassment on my end, I almost lost it when she started talking about my modesty. Having had two male doctors and two female nurses doing smear tests, the two female nurses have, by far, been the most incompetent ones. The first nurse came up with abnormalities (which weren’t true!), and the second one made me bleed!

Now my smear is covered in blood! Thank you!

Apparently, if the blood has covered up too much of the smear, I will have to do another one.

Why are the hands of women so nasty?

And why do women have to go to NURSES for smear tests in England?

I have no more comments to make here.

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