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Monthly Archives: January 2011

“There’s no place like home,” once said a girl in pigtails. Clicking her sparkly red heels and making a wish, she found herself whisked away to home in Kansas. But this girl had clearly never heard the saying that “home is where the heart is.” And my heart belongs to the man of my dreams (literally, more often than not). To the man who showed me how to love again, by first teaching me how to love myself. And to the man with whom I hope to be for a good chunk of my life *hold thumbs*!!

Recipe to Fix Us:

1 x Rubber band – To allow us to be flexible, and bounce back even though things might not always go our way – they will always work out!

1 x Plaster – To heal and care for each other.

1 x Crayons – To write down what we are grateful for everyday – and to add some colour!

1 x Balloon – When you are down, remember there’s always something to celebrate whether it be something as small as hearing that I love you.

1 x Tipex – To aid forgiveness and to allow us to move on, into the future, together.

1 x Safety pin – To keep our memories close to our hearts…

1 x Pack of Tissues – To wipe away tears, and clean up messes made.

1 x Rose – To remind us to stop and smell the roses – we’ve got all the time in the world to be us; to be together and to be in love…

1 x My Heart – this you have. And always will have. If I can make your dreams come true each and every single day, I promise I will never stop trying…

And as for the formula…

 You + Me + Love + The Above = Forever….

By Robyn Porteous.

My vagina is a criminal. I can’t go to the police. He’s not a criminal. The boy. 19 years old, tall, first in his class, with 8 distinctions, and the brownest eyes you ever saw. A friend of a friend. No, he’s not a criminal. I’m the criminal. My vagina is the criminal. My vagina and I, we went to that party to see him. I drank the drinks he gave me, and flirted with him. I walked around with him. Sure we were looking for my friend, but I walked with my own two legs, next to his own two legs. I climbed that staircase, and when I couldn’t find the key I let him unlock the gate. I knew I felt unsafe, but I didn’t do anything about it. And that makes me the criminal. I didn’t do anything about it. Negligence, they call it. Failure to act accordingly, literally translated as a failure to pick something up. Well I picked something up, I picked up a feeling, an unease. But I kissed him back, when he kissed me. I let him think I was that kind of girl. The cool, calm and collected kind, who’d no sooner kiss you than disappear for weeks on end. Never waiting around on a Saturday night, my vagina and I, sitting by the phone waiting for a call. Vulnerable. Never vulnerable. Yes, I told him to stop. I drew the line. I threw away my carefully constructed carefree image and told him no. I begged and pleaded with him. But by then he wouldn’t listen. And who else is there to blame? Give him what he wants, and he’ll go. One kiss, two kisses, three kisses, and he didn’t stop. I waited for him to be satisfied, all the while telling him enough was enough. I should’ve kicked, and screamed, and jumped up and run away…! But I was a fool. To be a hundred percent honest with you, I don’t remember what I did. When it was over, I got up and I left. He told me afterwards he’d only ever hurt me. That he couldn’t be good for me. I remember pleading with him, thinking if I just made him love me, or made myself love him, then everything that happened would be a bad memory and we could build a thousand good memories on top of it, bury it deep, deep under all of them so no one would ever know. But he could only tell me he’d never be any good for me. And I could never love him. I’m the criminal. I have no heart. Only a void in the place where it once was. I have no vagina, not the emancipated, self sufficient kind anyway. Not the vagina that many great women before me meant me to have. My vagina is locked away, in shame. In hiding, like the criminal it is. I never told my family. I wouldn’t have known where to begin! Confront him? My vagina and I will never confront him. I hate him! I never want to see or speak to him ever again! Thinking back on it now, I can’t believe I ever thought I could fix it. I can’t believe I ever tried to justify his actions to myself, to my vagina. Date him?! I would rather kill myself before I dated him! Or him! I would rather kill him. Because of him my vagina can never wear its stilettos without a second thought. It can never dance in a club and enjoy the advances of a man without freezing up cold in fear. It can never be dressed all beautifully in white on its wedding day, nor ever fully feel the pleasure due to it by the touch of a lover. Because of him, my vagina will never shout with joy, or tell the world “here I am! Read my lips!” No. My vagina is silent, locked away in a cell. Forever staring through the bars that barricade