"A sweet trail of gunpowder that turns dreams into hands cut off."
beginning to realize that something really wrong with you, when you're angry at the sight of death roberto "Half of Two-Face gear multiplied by two" cota expressing his views on what is ethical to do the rubble of Eluana newscasts on 3 in a row, and when you are viewing furious camera movements, of course, from the bottom and the wick effect on fallow fields and rusty scrap metal (otherwise the mongoloid in front of the TV does not grasp that we are talking about slums and violence (*)) in each service on rapes, and when you get up from the table, close your eyes and run for home while you beat on the ears when you hear the screaming BABABABAABABA most sensational scandal of the republic , " the archive of Dr. Jenkins," we were not even talking about a USB key containing a complete backup of your subconscious Andreotti. Then instead of within ten days you smash the car, I collapsed a wall in the courtyard, meet on the street an asshole Scirocco that has waited three full years for death threats and you can get by in conversation, and it does not seem to touch at all.
just that it's not easy to see what the problem is. Addressing the bitter pricks of life with a certain detachment, after all, brings considerable benefits in terms of clarity and coldness. What I can not understand is why I become a I hate that growling beast in the face of bad faith, the vulgarity, the insolence, and indifference to the cruelty and fascist idiot that I am banging my fellow countrymen in the face on TV every fucking day, while all that the "real life" (tsk! ) is able to provoke and a moment of surprise bunt, a vague discomfort: a little puff ', swear two or three times, then just a hop and shake, the bird back into the draw. Can not be normal, I think, that coexist in the everyday apathy and anger when, for example, discussions of regional elections to be held here in ten days (**).
Then just put some thought into writing puts me in alarm. Wait, damn, I like the vague impression that he thought a huge shit, but I am not yet clear why.
After having slept on, I realize that-cock, the problem is right here! But it is not my problem, but that's a bit 'all the others were persuaded, or-who knows? - Maybe they did it all by themselves, that their privacy has some useless objective importance, the little dramas they face every day and deflect, even minimally, the routine from its natural course, are really the only things that count in the world. Because each one of us is special and unique, each has produced a list of little things in life that is to appreciate just convinced him, in that order and that particular combination, we are all full of little idiosyncrasies that make us an army of small wetlands Amélie smile maliziosetto, each with its own spoon in hand, ready to break the crust of crème brûlée our and greedily guzzling semen flavored AIDS below. The rest of the fuck, who the hell cares if something happens outside the walls of the house, hey, just a drop in the rain, of course, but I crash to the ground at an angle of my own and I just hit exactly Then the sidewalk! The questions of principle pale in comparison to the miracle of predestination, the design God brought me here and now to cry in front of the paper mark along with the eyebrows and hopes were unrealistic.
Why has this way of perceiving things, not mine, the problem myself, living in such a context, I would unconsciously out of the norm when I can not give all this shit paramount importance to the four that have occurred in these days, or if I can not morbid attachment to people (or ideas) just because time has passed, any time together, especially if I find the mere fact of belonging to the same species a compelling reason to deploy a handful " respect "and" understanding "on a bunch of ignorant bastards cowards, ready to trade the freedom and beauty in the world for the momentary rush of warmth and joy afforded by being together, all in the same place at the same time, to do the same thing, whatever it is. Applauding
. Pray. Protest. Pray in protest. Indignant. Throwing stones against rapists. Throwing money to the thieves. To soften some cases, particularly touching.
Well, go fuck off, all together enthusiastically: I do not enjoy even more of Discharge mosh at concerts because of you, do not come looking for respect and understanding myself. It is as if you have cauterized my taste buds and devastated the smell, do not try more flavor. I also
I sometimes get carried by the heat of the moment, I sometimes I speak with the penis, I often speak without thinking. Just do not do a pride of my instincts from the cave man, I do not think that any manifestation of my stupidity is still worthy of respect and worthy of other people, not proudly waving the banner of irrationality playing the emotional charge of the wave against the armies of common sense, but most do not believe that the most infamous among my feelings are, however, as mine, fucking medal to pin to his chest, just like I do not believe the shit and piss laudable expressions of the human spirit. In fact, I think that only the excess this fucking comes to us from the emotional abyss, but then, tsk, no one has listened to Silver Surfer.
I do not say anything to suppress, much less the piss and shit, for charity, but is a claim too much to expect that piss and shit you leave out certain questions?
I, and I mean really, I do not know who to talk to, and as time goes by I do not have anything interesting to say about anything. Maybe it's the lack of training. Any discussion must always shit at some point, and patience so far, but this point is reached earlier and earlier in the discussion, as time goes on. Maybe it is my fault do not hide shit really as speaker, but I do not speak only of the topics that I'm involved, I like that idea is a sort of general trend, as if each ricostruisse in his daily life is typical of a clash on Ballarò and leads to door. And so goes the desire to discuss, but then what the fuck you want to talk, none of our business, we do not care a saw, why fight because of them, so you know how it goes, open another beer, sticky another leek, suck a little more 'my dick and we're all quiet. I can not even blame anyone in particular, in fact I have the impression that the people with whom I am most angry is young and naive of me. It seems to be surrounded by fifteen, actually. It's like groped snatch of an old, but it reacts and hits you. Get berlusconi, how do you put the old one? It is always tanned and speaks like a young 80 years of rampant, ignites the crowd with tones and offers a futuristic imaginary, from topical Tolkien described as the county, inhabited by a quiet but serious danger ' external invasion, indicates as a goal a popular television Sistine Chapel of good hard-working housewives and smiling, young hopeful and good industrial production, served with reverence and respect by Negretti brightness and color. Christ, how can you beat it?
The old evil must be rotten, ugly, surly, full of secrets, talking with a twisted, they must do to seduce you with their noble and devious! But these old now, which places them (excluding as a solution "to abandon a barge off the coast of the North Sea, to be given following the fire")? Leave you dumbfounded, because they are vulgar, violent, millions all around and I am furious because "they broke my dick." Foaming and completely devoid of any moral principle that is not summed up in "do not bother the balls I do on my own and you go away fuck off" when they touch certain issues are completely indistinguishable from one the other, whatever the preacher who decide to cheer. Above all, they are indistinguishable from their children and grandchildren. Speak with a Berlusconi of 70 years, with a cricket fanatic of 20, with a League of 40, and you hear them speak with the same tone, set the speech the same way, and it is also unnecessary counter, you can not reason with him or them in trouble, at best you can confuse them as you do with cats. O andargli him with the car, as you do with cats. Fuck fuck sti
moderate, were better beams and Marxist-Leninists .
honestly do not know what conclusion can have this conversation, I really can not articulate my ideas about the country, Sardinia, in recent days. Every time I try to focus my point of view I completely lose objectivity, every attempt at analysis becomes a curse, just like any attempt at dialogue leads to brawl. I
Italy is doing really bad lately. Sardinia, then, will not speak. With the air that I need to change, the idea of purchasing a few days ago The Ticket reassures me to know how to have some more 'of oxygen in the tank, as I observe the reflections of the sun dancing 20 feet above me, on the surface of 'water.
I'm going to shoot at the Cats, shouting outside my window.
_______________________________________________________
(*) is something to which I have thought several times, but clichés are born like this from where? It was devised at a desk, took him to a movie, have appointed a special study of British scientists to determine which camera movement inspired by the public from the atmosphere murky and dreary "drama of a gang rape," What ? You can manipulate just the immediate, the brain of the Italians? What if you could, you could not convince them, all 60 million, to be of lemmings?
(**) I've also tried to write a post on ugo hats and its horrible, ridiculous, disgraceful campaign, but each When I block. It is a miserable and squalid affair so that I can hardly even focus on my point of view. Every time I think that that useless dick (which until a few days ago was accompanied by the silent rallies godfather) becomes ruler of this island sucks, well, it breaks my heart. I do not hate this place so much.
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