I dropped Pauline, this bitch. Pauline was the embers of my incandescent ballistics punctilious my implosion, Pauline, Pauline was well under-shit. Eight months for nothing, eight months to repaint the bathroom of his comfort clinic, more than a paperclip which, over white sauce in my kebabs, defrost the fridge once every two months, all in the name of joint account and a life that is conceived more in terms of compromise.
eight months. One evening I asked her if she is interested in bondage, and this bitch is laughing: a trick frustrated it says, the handjob at a discount for Führers who are unaware. The next day I picked up the white sauce.
Göring fuck you, you and your pussy sticky, your life in jars, the passion that is nothing if not to wipe his ass for not dirty the sheets.
Devastated as a break skin (Francky explains it well: it goes under the skin), I siphoned my vodka in search of oblivion came back to me and my life slimy. On a forum, the guys played aristos folklore SM, evoking a kind of exaltation sly bitch Nietzsche, an American on the scope Gothicism, bisexual and fetish: Ginger. Redhead, breasts like a torpedo and a smile to distract you from the Panzers. Clear sign of fate, a fledgling promoting francophonie corresponding feverish with my muse of the moment. Exchange of banalities fat she invariably punctuated aphorisms said Friedrich; Péteux not for a penny, just a trivial pursuit atavistic mystical grandfather had introduced him to simple joys of pataphysical for two rednecks jobbery nipple. It was the style of the family, past trauma heavy mute, a true borderline catalog. Existences are crossed, so they say. The weeks moved into our religious inclinations, and sudden revelation: she no longer loves her life laced with hysteria, these fantasies as she devours the dead bodies of his lovers to leave, this little flesh trade tied , submitted and devoid of substance and what substance? There are more than pleased to be cold naked in the arms of strangers, an existential cage measuring its bid. His writing is purgatory, conduct detailed life of a pornstar for the edification of the masses quiet. Testimony.
End of quotes. Happy New Year friend.
So, besides the text reeks of boredom, what can we say? Because, and this effort, I decided to say, here gissent my resolutions.
I say this text is probably the most boring bruised authenticity. However, authenticity does not she value most remarkably of all sucks? I start the debate, yet a stone into the pond of self-righteousness. And now I'm going to vomit. The two fingers into the glottis. 2009, still musty.
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