Terrorist of Love

Diva Boss is in a dreadful strop this morning. She completely ignored me this morning when I chirpily chirped "Helllloooooo" at her.

Honestly, it's a good job I am freakin' in awe of her, otherwise I might have been offended and/or devastated by her cruel cold shoulder.

Mr Bojangles is poorly and so went home, leaving me with only my imagination for company. I have been thinking a lot today, but have come to no real conclusion about what I should do in life. I feel like an empty husk being blown in all sorts of directions, with no real path mapped out. Well, I know you can't really map out your life but you can damn well have a plan. Right now my plan is to keep ticking over until the house is sold and then throw caution to the wind.

Been speaking to my brother who has an interest in Uganda at the moment, visiting and working for charity. I myself am a total coward because the first thing I thought was please don't go, haven't you watched The Constant Gardener, etc etc? But his answer was simple: true, but I'll feel more alive than I do now. Touché, my brother, touché.

It's so cool to have an activist in the family. I can't help feeling that should be my role too. I always wanted to be the female Che Guevara, you know obviously with less facial hair and not so much guerrilla warfare. More a version of Ernesto Guevara in The Motorcycle Diaries, really.

When I mentioned becoming a freedom fighter to Rocker, admittedly after watching The Constant Gardner, he scoffed and said, "Don't you mean terrorist?". I guess one man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist.

I want to be the terrorist of lurve. I want to smother the world in kisses and stand-up comedy and fluffy pink kittens. Sadly, every second Miss World contestant has the same idea and it doesn't wash.

Oh to be ruler of my own planet...