How To Tell If My Ghurka Is Real And you, do you feel ugly / a?

elo, very complicated task.
One of the girls, the largest in height and width, I approached him a complicit smirk at the other two, and in all the world's mug, I wondered:

- "Are you ugly? Well

. You will not puncture the skull because violence is not you are good, because it's only because if there are girls and mothers with menacing in the world, it eats them all with potatoes, bones included. Respond politely and with a smile as if you were profidén to give this girl a lesson in civility irrelevant will not forget in life.

I do not know, that would have to decide for yourself, do not you think?

hesitated a moment. He looked at the other two, who did not stop the eyelet splitout a pumpkin anywhere, had not lost a shoe and, of course, my botarras destrozacanillas were not even remotely of cristal.Todo right, and also all Pizpireta mice can be transformed into noble steeds were very far away in some dark basement of some obscure macdonalds a not so dark or distant mall. Oquei, orzogüei, return to your brainy reading and guard the anecdote to tell it in your diary and everyone can laugh with or without tigo.

Ains, these children of today. Or these women's projects still too honest. If you already Zarathustra said: 'If you go with women, take a whip. " Seven lines, if possible. And two better than one.

Free Put My Face Hairstyle And draw the spiral of defeat ...

sco when you have time, if it's the last thing I do. Forging his revenge on that trust regaláis everywhere, not knowing if one day you can reach exhaustion. I snatched it from a blow, you rub off the misery brought by yourself for so long, and will grow between your ribs, feeding your soul like a malignant tumor, to devour your heart in the ecstasy of his relentless metastasis. And finally die brandishing a smile of toothless gums. He is free, and you portaréis their chains.

I hate, I hate everyone, hate, hate, hate ... I hate you because every one of your silly questions is like a punch in the stomach, for your eyes sink my eyes in their sockets until agrilled, and can only see the black unfathomable disappointment, anger coagulated red. Tejéis with lies and false smiles concealed the web that gets me, the frustration that I choked. I need true, but only want to offer masks. And I can not give me nothing but lies.

I hate you because you never become like you. I hate you because you will never be like me. Special

, you say. Is too vague a word, prostituted most of the time. A euphemism to give you a nice name for a drag. And if this is my gift, if that makes me special or different, or just rare, it is a curse rather than a salvation, if it makes me soil stains and rot, and hatred, and anger, to turn the brilompañero that can support (me).

It's so frustrating not to put a name to this fucking shit ... Spitting craving for revenge for not knowing where to spit, scratch back to the border of absurdity and doubt like so many other times. Those tracks trembling had chalked left with the rain, and now only scattered screaming into a wall of fog or concrete. The rain always comes.

Military, Hypothyroid Welcome home, September.

I blind, absurd symphony of horns caught in a jam, even the screams of the insane drivers. It's a delightful mess, strangely warm. I think that's why I love my chaos in the world turns, and finally found my balance. While

R. tuned the strings of his old guitar I ran away to the corner coffee shop, as (almost) every day. I order a coffee, light a cigarette, looked through the glass, I sometimes get lost in whimsical strokes of raindrops sliding down its surface, sometimes scribbling on a napkin wayward strokes yet. A boy of about fourteen or fifteen years I watch from the other side of the bar. There's been gone almost all summer. It is still a child. Did not leaveseeking only memories behind glass and in their own eyes. Among plastic dolls, plastic exchanged words. Flees, or corrompiéndote end up with all this shit, you end up thanking four currencies touched, thanked thanked for things they never deserve. Living behind a bar. Just like your parents. Or mine. Or me.



The rain makes the rock sound more authentic. Or rather, that Pink Floyd float in the air in a perfect mix, as if he had found his natural habitat, sigh: ')
A song that is September, fall for someone who is (and yes, you know who you are, monicreque feathers: P)


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Night falls (again).

Nobody knows, but a trail of sighs slips through the cracks of the blinds closed.

A group of children laughing and playing in the yard.
not know, but they are swimming in sighs. Sighs anonymous.





Sighs drowned behind the glass of any window.

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The days are like beads on an abacus. Uniform, heavy, monotonous. One, two, three, four ... recite a hollow echo of wood, without rhythm or rhyme, or intonation. One, two, three, four ... days in a calendar labeled with a pen without ink, just enough pressure to not tear the paper but do not leave a note hover color on that surface anodically white. Hours, minutes and seconds are hanging from the neck in a hug lethargic, sickly parasites eager to swallow every last drop of blood from a dead body too.

thinking is nothing but the murmur of a broken skull against the floor, sobbing looking for their chips, while the skin bubbles up under a scorching sun. Evening mist soaks and ghosts