ok girlies. Now that I'm back in the land of the living, thrusting my know how back into the tender cup of feminism, I will mainly be using phallic language to express myself for why should the language of men be reserved for men?
And so, now that I am grasping my sexuality with a strength I was denied as a girl-child I'm going to tell you the real story of me and Tim.
You'll remember that the story of Tim and I is due to be made into a feature film by Paramount studios starring Matthew McConaughey (check out my earlier blogs to get the low-down). But now I'm going to tell you the truth, for the 'Tim' complex was the reason I was unable to reach a computer this summer, in case I tried to smash my head open on the VDU.
When I hired Tim as my sex therapist back in '02 I was a young innocent, just down from Cambridge. I loved riding horses and was suffering from a severe case of penis envy, to the point that I wanted to to marry a Nintendo GameCube.
My best friend Polly (who is incidentally to be played by Rosie McDonald in the film. I know! I thought she was dead too!) said "Enough is enough Posie! You need to get yourself to a sex-therapist fast!"
So, I did. There was something so special about Tim. He understood me so well. He was sensitive, kind, gentle, very much in touch with his feminine side.
We became good friends. We went on a Japanese cooking course together and I took him to see the Turner Prize, oh how we laughed. Tim taught me to love the woman inside and harness the power of my quim to achieve my ambitions in a patriarchal society. He taught me how to wear blusher and introduced me to padded bras.
I was so happy, I had found a true companion in Tim. But it was more than companionship, it was love! Finally, I had managed to find a man who wanted me for WHO I was not WHAT I was. I told him how I felt and we went on a weeked mini-break to Cork. But my happiness was short lived reader, for in Ireland I discovered that Tim had once been a woman.
I felt betrayed, crushed, like a little fruit fly savouring a mouldy lemon. Thirsty, tired, starving, tyring to drink its sweltering juice. I wasn't bothering anybody, I am just a little fly, a little icky icky speck. Was I bothering anybody? NO. But I'm still all sticky and dead! I mean No one else even wanted the lemon. The lemon was fucking mouldy! Just a silly mouldy lemon. Just a stupid fucking little crap mouldy lemon that was only going to be fucking thrown away why!!!??????!!!****"£()%^&*(%£%^!!
So, anyway, I felt betrayed by man (and female) kind. I sent a number of anonymous messages. Tim overreacted, took out a restraining order, that sort of thing. Of course my friends think Hollywood is interested because there was a brief hostage situation, but it's really to do with my subversive use of the stream of consciousness. I know because that's what the producer told me whe he called from LA in July when I was having the electroshock therapy.
Anyway, I left the country for a year or three to clear my head. I went to Tibet, where I met Brad Pitt. A HA HA HA HA HA. No, only joking. Paramount couldn't afford Brad Pitt.
But this summer, well, I was in a similar situation. I was betrayed by that demon of the skies- sexuality! It was a bit like the Tim story, I mean there was a restraining order and I'm back on the Prozac.
And YOU lucky readers are going to be the first ones to read about it! Yes, that's right- I'm serializing my novel right here for you on MY blog. It's going to be called 'A Womb of My Own'.
It's a working title and I'd really appreciate any feedback! Will keep you posted on my title ideas!!
So Paramount you better get ready for a follow-up, because the second installment of my sexual-psychosis coming your way!
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