Star Wars Beach Towels

Merry Christmas Santa Claus ... fuck.

Merry Christmas to all, and especially compliments
cocks for those Santas who have hung in every fucking balcony of the city, an army of red pimples that climbs into homes to bring confusion in the minds of children .. If I'm your son I would say: "dad, but you're a jerk?" Santa Claus is one, especially down the chimney, not climbing over a balcony, but you know the story or were you born yesterday? " But that was not why I wasted my time with you, from the attic with a glass of raisin toast in hand to you, your families, I wish you a happy Christmas and I invite you to strive: the night of 24 at midnight to let your imagination work, imagine not being seated at abuffarvi Pandora and panettone but in the waiting room of the maternity ward of the hospital where the nurse comes out with a creature, frail and cold in his arms and tells you that you have become a father. Well, damn ignorant, unimaginative, I do hope that the Christmas break in your heart everything I feel in the eyes of a child, a newborn creature, I wish you all a thousand live what they dream for him and for you moment, not a son but whatever your child, not a child but any child of God
For my part, by all the marginalized, part of every abused child, from every favelas of the world, from every ill, every disabled person of any prisoner, irrespective of the chain, all those who live in this fucking attic always and forever, heart Merry Christmas. Good rebirth, good morning.
to Cantasorie soon.

Black Demasks Clip Art

syndrome petrol station ..

The attic is cold these days my friends, drafts at windows look sharp needles every time that you pass, pierces my flesh like the old archers fired from infallible. I'm not sure what happens to the human mind that every time we approach the Christmas for Christians, the second most important day of the year after Easter, if we were all Christians should be awake, alert, excited to hear everything, picks up, we absorb. instead we should be careful and stoned, fuck. I look around me as someone who has just awakened from a colossal hangover, with the sick feeling in the throat and brain try to focus, try to understand where I am, who I am, and that fucking day is today. The streets are filled with colored lights everywhere Musichini Christmas and gift items, except at the gas station, do not understand. People get beat to get gas first, thirsty for oil as in the worst withdrawal symptoms from heroin, dozens flock, fighting, punching each other. It 'a scary enough to shake up the terror listing of our society: a horrible omen lashes out on us, no more gasoline for three days, it is chaos, and fear, and confusion. The perfect ingredients for a hypnotizing people, in order for me to do what you want him to do, right asshole?. Then all of a sudden all our fucking good intentions they go to hell: "Christmas is a tough, no money, I have to save, no dinner, no caviar" .. all of a sudden, out of fear of being without, people are massing on the shelves of hypermarkets, suddenly the shelves empty. E'caos, and fear, and confusion and the economy again, blaming the two poor unsuspecting truck drivers, who are planning to bring down the powerful. A supposed great at least as their truck is coming in their ass and not even notice it even if they take the blame. Vomiting. God How much different is the pace of the quiet life, while we are beaten at the distributor, while we spend our thirteenth fear, Julius died, quietly, calmly, without even a whimper. While I was vomiting, his heart goes out after years of suffering for a fucking Alzheimer's disease, their loved ones at his side, his family. Pain to set the rules, rhythms, sobs, slow, slow, slow. A child born in a manger, the pain to set the rules, contractions, stress, the screams of a mother exhausted, then the liberating cry of a new creature, the pain, the joy that time, the tempo, the tempo, il, Giulio time ... Have a good trip, do not be afraid, do we have enough here. I will always cherish your place in the attic, my friend. A Storyteller
soon.

Brazilian Wax With Hemorrhoids

funeral of an outcast ..

long time did not go out from the attic, I generally dislike
everything is out except for the tobacco and the wine shop. Well, today I went out to go to a funeral. Have you ever been to the funeral of an outcast, a poor, from a guy who has suffered and suffered for a lifetime? A funeral like this is different from all others, is a funeral that goes beyond the concept of gravity: the heavy tears fill my eyes do not fall, remain suspended between the eyebrows, although nothing in can support the kind, sad faces and dark, but with few tears. At the funeral of a poor there is a lot of people, not many bouquets of flowers, the funeral of a poor man is not three o'clock in the afternoon, but at 9.30 on Saturday morning, the time that is usually a queue at 'car wash to be in place on Sunday. At the funeral of an outcast little one cries, runs away once finished, there are a lot of other things to do. At the funeral of a poor person, a disabled person, an outsider I am often funny, he goes to heaven, calmly, without haste after living hell down here, we travel, hold on to our watches, two prayers to recommend it to heaven, then we run our daily hell because in our normal and we're really lucky we really do a million things to do.
December 3: NATIONAL DAY FOR RIGHTS OF DISABLED
soon the Storyteller