The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Vermin

Viewership always drops when an FTL round is over. This means that I don't impress, much.

That's okay, I don't return to a lot of journals either. We just don't hit it off, I suppose. And, the thing that makes me slightly happy is knowing that most of the people who read me are people I've favourited also, which hints at an understanding between us, a connection that cannot be made with others. I like the exclusivity of this. I like knowing that the writers I appreciate think I'm worth reading in return. Clique-ish, in a way. Inadvertent, but undeniably clique-ish.

There was a mouse in the house last night. I screamed like a girl, because I am one and because I hate vermin. No matter how much M. tries to warm my heart toward rodents, I can't do it. I also cannot explain my aversion. Childhood trauma? It's possible. I lived in the country and I vividly recall one evening when a mouse lay dead on my bedroom floor, courtesy of my cat Trina, while another was being massacred by said cat in the bathroom down the hall. Traumatizing, yes, but why would I hate the mice?

Why this mouse decided to enter this forbidden territory I do not know. Three cats, all at different levels of savagery. Flynn was the one who got my attention, playing and jumping around in the living room like he had a catnip toy, and only when I heard that terrified chatter did I know it was a mouse. Flynn, my biggest, roundest cat, doesn't come off malicious, though. I truly think that he decided the mouse was a diminutive playmate, and he batted and jumped about like a furry blueberry on springs. Bondi was oblivious to the activities, until M. went to see what the fuss was and the mouse made his break for it, scurrying across the floorboards, waking Sir Bondi from his upside down, spread-eagled nap. Meika slept through the entire thing, being fourteen and largely indifferent to movement. Bondi is the one I credit with the blood lust. He's the one with the claws, and he is the one who has the most penetrating, human stare. We had to lock the two of them in the bathroom while M. tried to capture the tiny beast so that he could release it.

He was unsuccessful.

I shrieked when it ran toward the kitchen, where I was propped up on the counter top, legs flailing and heart pounding, M. ordered me to go to my room. He was serious, too. He said I was making him nervous and that he couldn't concentrate with me carrying on like that. I said I was sorry and welcomed the banishment. Mice. I'm sorry, but I hate them.

So, no cat ventured in for their nighttime ritual of cuddling before bedtime, which I took to mean they were on the hunt. There were the odd thumps and clatters down the stairs, and I had prepared myself to come down in the morning to find a tiny corpse by my shoes (cats tend to do that, leave 'presents' by shoes. I don't get it), only to find Flynn lying on the carpet, drunk on the catnip pillow he'd unearthed in his quest for mouse meat. So far, there has been no sighting of furry things running for cover, and I watched Moulin Rouge! with my wee one this morning, one eye constantly roving the floor of the kitchen, searching for long-tailed interlopers. Nothing yet.

I still feel 'off'. I don't like that I do. Yesterday, I ate a small bowl of Cornflakes, had a fifth of a piece of bread for lunch and a handful of rice for dinner, and I didn't experience hunger at all. Today, things are still a bit funny, but I had a slightly larger breakfast (I added banana to the cereal). As food is important to me, as in I get my love from it when I need it, I am officially untethered from my world right now. Could be all sorts of things, though, not just the incident on Thursday night. Allergy season, upcoming menstrual cycle, the reliable bout of stress, all could be weakening my system. I feel...acidic, both emotionally and physically, and things are definitely irritating me more than they should.

Like, mice.

Like, Lady Gaga.

I'm sorry, but that woman is beginning to bother the hell out of me. I watched a brief snippet of an interview she did recently in which she was deliberately trying to be mysterious, contradictory and pretentious. I am performing every minute of the day. What the hell is she going on about? What you are is someone taking Madonna's lead, someone who has understood that people are easily manipulated by reinvention and illusion. Is Gaga's music good? That's hard to answer as one person's version of good is different from another, but sure, it's dance-worthy, if you're into that sort of thing. Is it inspired? Deep? Original? Not really. First off, her look is basically a rip-off of Donatella Versace. Second, she sings about dancing and sex. How evolutionary. What bothers me about her, other than the extreme over-saturation in the media, is that it's all such rubbish, this whole act she has going. I hate all of them, if you want to know the truth. I hate manipulation and false glamour. I hate being told that I don't understand her 'art' when all that she represents is a clever marketing idea. Please don't try to tell me that you're so much deeper than I am because you have decided to call yourself 'Gaga', and that you like to wear ridiculous clothes. Performer? Sure. Artist. Hmmmm...I can't stand that sort of thing any more than I can handle Gene Simmons in his demon costume, the consummate business man, the wheeler-dealer in war paint, the opportunist in clothes that look tragic, now. Illusion. I want the real magic. Sit down, Gaga. Just, sit. For the record, though, I always bought Cyndi Lauper's craziness. I think she's still a wacky spitfire despite aging some and calming slightly. Maybe I'm just picky, though. Could be that Lauper appeals to my sense of nostalgia while other the second-rate Laupers seem like an insult of some kind.

You probably wonder why I care about these things. All I can say is that I'm tired of being lied to. I want authentic talent. I yearn for women to look like they used to, with real breasts and real teeth and flaws that enhanced her overall beauty. I don't want to compete with people who have stopped looking human, and I don't want people telling me that I'm not as beautiful because I opt to look like myself rather than an unsuccessful science experiment. It's unfair, that kind of manipulation, and it's damaging. I want a real voice to record real lyrics. I want convention to take a backseat. I want movies that deliver real magic rather than special effects and predictable dialogue. I want the singer to write his/her own music, I want the writer to actually be the person who writes the book. I want people to stand up and say 'Sit down fake demi-gods, pseudo poets, artificial authors and phony painters! Go away bogus beauties, plastic princesses, with your surgically enhanced whatevers. Fade away cocaine-sniffing skinny girls who profess their love for pilates and seaweed. Take off corporate monkeys with your projections and your business plans and your empty shells for bodies. Leave it all open for the people who have talent, the ones who are too good for you, the ones who willingly keep their passions far away from the gleam of lights.

Eff off Gaga. Your name is Stefani, and you're from Yonkers. Okay?

That felt good. Now, I need a piece of toast.