New Jersey Gay Crusin Spots

I want to throw up a Christmas tree ..

I want to throw up a Christmas tree,
to pee on the carpet of hypermarkets and panettone filled with candy ..
I want to smash something, a window, the face of an ass, something I have to break ..
I need to mess with my gastric juices showcases decorative casts of falsity, where he was taken off a poor naked Christ born to make way for a shitty leather bag, a sequined bodices and last year for a fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck, bastaaaaaa ...
On December 25, a child will be born again Holy shit, how many fucking times will be raped? Fuck
hypocritical shit, me first ..
first of all .. I'm a fucking hypocrite.
Now answer me dick, you who have the answers, you who know, this is life or death? is vital given all this freedom or death!? How the fuck should I feel?, tell me Holy shit, how should I feel? peaceful? not to die for me?
cazzoooo ... we are already dead! puziamo to do now sucks ..
how the hell should we do, before this, tell me:

E 'scandal in Brazil.
A young teenager of fifteen suspected to have committed theft had been locked in a cell with 20 men for a month. During this time she was repeatedly raped and forced to have sex for food. They denounced today the members of the humanitarian organization 'Children and Adolescent Defense Center' (Cedec) immediately after the release of the girl.
'E' was raped from day one "as soon as it came into prison in the state of Para from his fellow inmates who were 20 to 34 years, told the Cedec. The young man had been arrested in the capital of Para, Abaetetuba, October 21 and ended up in the guardhouse in the cells at the police station until someone has not informed by a tip-off The police wing press, according to the law of the adolescent has been unable to indicate which case of theft had been imprisoned and defended itself by saying that did not realize it was a minor.

I love you Clare, you can not even imagine how
, hold on there, you, Martha, Andrew, all you who live for us dead. I love you. A Storyteller
soon.

Wild Hearts Catamaran

I discovered envious ..

The fog of recent days
induces sleep and when I sleep I sail with the imagination, maybe that's why I can not sleep.
The attic is quiet at this time, I hear the voices that usually seem to have subsided and it gives me solievo, means they are good. I observe the invasion the armies of the cold winter towers of smoke rise into the sky drawing strange sculptures, sometimes sinuous bodies of women, sometimes aged tree trunks, the beauty of a cloud is that it is absolutely non-political, we see that each one's cock please.
I have many flaws, oh my God, who never yours, but I have several, the only think I do not have is the envy, I do not know all, I do not care a fuck about anyone, so I was easy and then I always thought that if one has more than I have done something more than what I did, or simply more ass but her ass must earn it.
What I can remember, I found myself envious of only two times in life when every time I talk to my only brother among the hundred thousand that I have, every time I realize I'll never be a wonderful person like him, and the second one of the few times that I left my parents speak with the simple desire to enjoy, I sipped their words like a whiskey aged twenty years in oak barrels, I tasted their story as if gripping one of those glass bubbles where this holy distllato waving with golden hues.
The subject of their story were the usual speeches repeating here: "Do you remember the old Gengiari?" real name Mario, Gengiari was his nickname, such as the humpbacked Fire, the Abstract Fasola and another dozen people who lived a village of 500 souls that was little more than a big family. Asphalt roads, one televisionein one family: one of the old Mary, who had bought and never paid since that time the dealer had come to complain about her money she had broken a broom down the back, a crowd of Children without toys and a tub to wash clothes in the bottom of the country where they socialized and knew all the dicks of others.
Good Gengiari tardone was a little, or perhaps too clever, you could not tell if he loved more women or men. In the evening, when he was drunk became the favorite game of his peers who were waiting for him to go dark for the jokes to wake him dressed as ghosts, to then be chasing for the country, people under the arcades was spun enjoyed the rides and the laughter as if it was going to the Tour of Italy Bartali.
My mother and father who were children at the home of Mary with an army of children to see a television with its black and white gave some color to everyday life in those years. The misery, the shoes with holes in them. On Sunday my grandfather gave them money to buy two half lemon and a piece of licorice to suck until the language was not as black as night, until Sunday was not that good .. I ended up savoring the last sip their story, have kept their eyes bright, their melancholy happy that misery, that have nothing in which it was something to be happy, ciaccole the country, the drunk, the wire, the licorice. God how I tried envy ... the taste in my mouth again I filled his glass again and again I sat fascinated to hear, the culture of the ignorant, the treasure of the simple, the story of how God vecio gengiari ... I tried envy, I hope never die. A Storyteller
soon.

Wakeboard Shops In Las Vegas

Chocolate and lemon .. The

observe the world from the window of the attic,
with these first chill the glasses fog up and give everything that is outside a boundary undefined, a non-identity, not a name. Turning his hand on the glass to be my own sense of cold and wet is not mine, imagining how many particles of spirit who knows how many people should serve to tarnish a glass, to question what is always defined. Now that my wrinkled fingers have scraped off all the steam is clearer, sharper counterstand is filthy, the boundary is well marked, I regret that I have already swept away the fog. Autumn: first blood red, the shades of the banners in revolt, the smoke of tear gas, false ideals, real interests, devastation everywhere, war, fear and chaos, the human decadence at its best, with bright colors everywhere revolt, an omen of death. Autumn: the other side of the leaves red, yellow grass, the white of the first frost, the web of the door glass house, the spider with suitcases in hand, wherever color of silence, the 'inexorable advance of the debt in December, on time, as each winter to demand what they deserve. The blue of the sky, harbinger of death, too, soon only the mantle of snow to give their last respects to the nature of dying. Sitting on the park bench, dressed in faded flowers smiled, her smile seems surreal, observe the enchanted circle of dried roses now braided hair, smiling. Soon he will die, but she smiles. sitting quietly on the bench, his feet bare, the light-colored flowers in summer and the slip covers, all around the leaves fall silent, but he does not care, he smiles. Distant echoes of the uprising, away the daily battles of our ignorance, far cannibalism that governs us. Poor stupid horizon seems to say tear gas, the herringbone sirens in the distance, I die in this fall, you die, but I rigermoglio spring, you do not.
.. I watch the autumns of my fucking attic, powerless, helpless, angry look at them as you look at the wonderful taste of ice cream cone in August, I wonder how it can be so fool the man who mixed the chocolate with lemon. . .. fuck
soon the Storyteller.