(The girls I meet speak a language other than ever to understand fully)
Thirty years. Unemployed. Condition that the real cock? Thirty years still looking for a job, a future, even identity. Instead, some people in this age is the end of his career, and the only problem that remains is to invest the millions earned. Soccer players are among those. Must be strong players in Italy. They are beautiful, vigorous, rich, and by impregnating the girls that my neighbor tries to imitate, dancing in front of the television while the lunch hour - when peep through the window - dressed like a slut ready-made fifteen years soon. Few stories. In Italy it works. The players are the winners. The other scratching leftovers. And the unemployed, not even those.
Well said. Thirty years. Unemployed. I came up to Pescara for an interview. With the heron. To become a steward. From Castellammare I had made 5 hours by train to a chat that was resolved in less than ten minutes to let you know the usual. A sentence ridiculous, especially in the case. Because the interviewer had me off after two minutes, but the practice, you know, mica could tell me honestly.
"His accent seems a bit 'too Neapolitan," she says.
"Well, better than Milan," I say peak.
The chick, which was one of those parties, there was bad.
"The feel of something before proceeding. The first three months without pay. It is a full time training period. From nine in the morning until six at night. Will explain the dynamics of the work, including one hundred hours of flight. The training period will take place in Rome, "so he left the miserable, like the easiest thing in the world.
Since I had no one in Rome who could host me, and since I had no money to remain unemployed for three months waiting for me to grant a salary, nor did I intend to get a job to burst the whole evening, I was there to think that I had climbed up to Pescara for nothing.
We were face to face until one of them say something. The chick does not give a fuck about me. It was his. Stop. The role of the parties is cruel. And it is always the case. I'm here to beg for two pounds, she's there with you secure a contract file the nails. After leafing of folders, finally, it comes out: 'We'll let you know. " Closed the door the bitch had forgotten me, my Neapolitan accent, and my pride.
I went down the street. It was seven o'clock in the afternoon. It was cold. Pescara is located close to the Balkans. The heat does not belong to the Mediterranean. I found comfort in a bar. I took a Beks and I sat at a table.
Being unemployed is a fucking situation. But this is nothing compared to the cataclysm that exploded inside me. I was unemployed for almost a year and a half, and I do not want that boredom had nearly led to the asylum? Doing nothing Grippo. If you're not taken seriously the risks of being interned. I was not that I had to do something to force things. I had placed in my mother's house waiting for the events, she separated from it by five years, it was his life, I have mine, and also went out to dinner. No, it was not what I'm obsessed. But the fact that many people believe you're forced to do something to feel alive. And the way that people acted to keep busy, the weather was the real problem. This way to deal with others so cynical, violent and ruthless. I wonder, because persisting so if you win in the end always the bastards, those best prepared to battle? I do not want to be cynical, shit. I realized to succeed too well. When I start to become competitive bastard, unscrupulous, and I win. Because I'm a cut above all in this shit. That's why I prefer to lose. I do too much pain to see me so tanned. Less than become like those who follow the precepts of good family and do whatever they must do to become "good Christians". And even for the "good Christian" are taken. Single station, garage, daily routine for thirty years. not for me. Yet all women choose within these two categories men. The women are all the same: beat box made of a certain age and marry. With one or another of the species is indifferent. Fortunately not ever choose me.
are unlucky. I wanted to be born without a jerk, or three balls, to give greater coherence to my victories and my defeats. From unemployed is also reflected in this. We think a lot of things when you're doing nothing. You look around. And it seem like it's all the same. What are all doing the same things and above all competing for the same things. What are doctors, scholars, sergeants or stewards, looking for a hole in it empty, a house, beautiful to boot, with grateful to folks like the gibbons at the zoo, and a bunch of bananas to slip in the ass. In
bar there are pictures of very ugly with massive gilded frames. I had a deja-vu. I remember one night I was at the opening of an art exhibition. She was my woman, who was expressing a fact. And there was a professor, a professor of Frederick II, which was to open the show with a speech and everything else. He was accompanied by a girl who thought her daughter there, there, until he put his hand on my ass and kissed her mouth. They had thirty years of difference, a little less. But this is not the point. The point is that she was an airhead and I had got fixed. In fact I was the only affordable to the exhibition. The other held up or crutches, or were drunk, or old, or gays. These circles of artists, in fact.
The bitch had eyes slightly flexed and stupid, those who for some strange reason they have sex, and when men lose their heads. I pass by and immediately feel its warmth. The strong mood of her sex. It puts in front of me, next to the partner teacher who introduced the works by making use of the more abstruse language available, so that it assumes a high cultural tone. Tricks that I did not do any more. I hand the case to the chick who adjusts his stocking, and if it pulls up the leg, slowly. It slowly raises his head looked at him. "I do!" I would have screamed. But I did not, unfortunately. Otherwise I would have risked death at the hands of my woman. An artist too jealous for some adventures. Of course you would not understand.
After the applause, there are handshakes and my woman is surrounded by the rest of the gang. The girl takes the time and approached me. The bitch. I pass by, just brushing, pretending to look at a painting, her back to me. I walk over and whisper in his ear: "I want you to be ten times with your tongue, bloody whore ... She did not bat an eyelid. Then I lost control. It was too much. The slipped a hand between her buttocks. That sends a crazy scream loudly. It stops everything. Time, space, airplanes. All there watching us. Including my wife, the artist, which was dedicated exposure. The best time to spring a bitch slap me, violent, and escapes into the arms of the professor / father.
Shortly after my wife approached me, the artist, the jealous, the one who had dedicated the evening, and I spring another slap, tremendous. Incassai. I stared into his eyes, black, and left the gallery without making scenes.
In Naples there is always something to do. I stopped at a bar and bought a bottle of wine. Red. Walking down the street walked to empty it, sip by sip, to reach other places full of people. Some people say Barcelona, \u200b\u200bValencia, that beautiful city. But Naples, Naples is a fucking masterpiece. It is a painting. A work of art, really. From Borgo Marinaro up Mergellina you to stop your heart in your throat so much so beautiful. So I set out, with the city in flames, to the casino of San Pasquale, and maybe somewhere still looking for someone to fan the bottom of the bottle.
Thirty years. Unemployed. Condition that the real cock? Thirty years still looking for a job, a future, even identity. Instead, some people in this age is the end of his career, and the only problem that remains is to invest the millions earned. Soccer players are among those. Must be strong players in Italy. They are beautiful, vigorous, rich, and by impregnating the girls that my neighbor tries to imitate, dancing in front of the television while the lunch hour - when peep through the window - dressed like a slut ready-made fifteen years soon. Few stories. In Italy it works. The players are the winners. The other scratching leftovers. And the unemployed, not even those.
Well said. Thirty years. Unemployed. I came up to Pescara for an interview. With the heron. To become a steward. From Castellammare I had made 5 hours by train to a chat that was resolved in less than ten minutes to let you know the usual. A sentence ridiculous, especially in the case. Because the interviewer had me off after two minutes, but the practice, you know, mica could tell me honestly.
"His accent seems a bit 'too Neapolitan," she says.
"Well, better than Milan," I say peak.
The chick, which was one of those parties, there was bad.
"The feel of something before proceeding. The first three months without pay. It is a full time training period. From nine in the morning until six at night. Will explain the dynamics of the work, including one hundred hours of flight. The training period will take place in Rome, "so he left the miserable, like the easiest thing in the world.
Since I had no one in Rome who could host me, and since I had no money to remain unemployed for three months waiting for me to grant a salary, nor did I intend to get a job to burst the whole evening, I was there to think that I had climbed up to Pescara for nothing.
We were face to face until one of them say something. The chick does not give a fuck about me. It was his. Stop. The role of the parties is cruel. And it is always the case. I'm here to beg for two pounds, she's there with you secure a contract file the nails. After leafing of folders, finally, it comes out: 'We'll let you know. " Closed the door the bitch had forgotten me, my Neapolitan accent, and my pride.
I went down the street. It was seven o'clock in the afternoon. It was cold. Pescara is located close to the Balkans. The heat does not belong to the Mediterranean. I found comfort in a bar. I took a Beks and I sat at a table.
Being unemployed is a fucking situation. But this is nothing compared to the cataclysm that exploded inside me. I was unemployed for almost a year and a half, and I do not want that boredom had nearly led to the asylum? Doing nothing Grippo. If you're not taken seriously the risks of being interned. I was not that I had to do something to force things. I had placed in my mother's house waiting for the events, she separated from it by five years, it was his life, I have mine, and also went out to dinner. No, it was not what I'm obsessed. But the fact that many people believe you're forced to do something to feel alive. And the way that people acted to keep busy, the weather was the real problem. This way to deal with others so cynical, violent and ruthless. I wonder, because persisting so if you win in the end always the bastards, those best prepared to battle? I do not want to be cynical, shit. I realized to succeed too well. When I start to become competitive bastard, unscrupulous, and I win. Because I'm a cut above all in this shit. That's why I prefer to lose. I do too much pain to see me so tanned. Less than become like those who follow the precepts of good family and do whatever they must do to become "good Christians". And even for the "good Christian" are taken. Single station, garage, daily routine for thirty years. not for me. Yet all women choose within these two categories men. The women are all the same: beat box made of a certain age and marry. With one or another of the species is indifferent. Fortunately not ever choose me.
are unlucky. I wanted to be born without a jerk, or three balls, to give greater coherence to my victories and my defeats. From unemployed is also reflected in this. We think a lot of things when you're doing nothing. You look around. And it seem like it's all the same. What are all doing the same things and above all competing for the same things. What are doctors, scholars, sergeants or stewards, looking for a hole in it empty, a house, beautiful to boot, with grateful to folks like the gibbons at the zoo, and a bunch of bananas to slip in the ass. In
bar there are pictures of very ugly with massive gilded frames. I had a deja-vu. I remember one night I was at the opening of an art exhibition. She was my woman, who was expressing a fact. And there was a professor, a professor of Frederick II, which was to open the show with a speech and everything else. He was accompanied by a girl who thought her daughter there, there, until he put his hand on my ass and kissed her mouth. They had thirty years of difference, a little less. But this is not the point. The point is that she was an airhead and I had got fixed. In fact I was the only affordable to the exhibition. The other held up or crutches, or were drunk, or old, or gays. These circles of artists, in fact.
The bitch had eyes slightly flexed and stupid, those who for some strange reason they have sex, and when men lose their heads. I pass by and immediately feel its warmth. The strong mood of her sex. It puts in front of me, next to the partner teacher who introduced the works by making use of the more abstruse language available, so that it assumes a high cultural tone. Tricks that I did not do any more. I hand the case to the chick who adjusts his stocking, and if it pulls up the leg, slowly. It slowly raises his head looked at him. "I do!" I would have screamed. But I did not, unfortunately. Otherwise I would have risked death at the hands of my woman. An artist too jealous for some adventures. Of course you would not understand.
After the applause, there are handshakes and my woman is surrounded by the rest of the gang. The girl takes the time and approached me. The bitch. I pass by, just brushing, pretending to look at a painting, her back to me. I walk over and whisper in his ear: "I want you to be ten times with your tongue, bloody whore ... She did not bat an eyelid. Then I lost control. It was too much. The slipped a hand between her buttocks. That sends a crazy scream loudly. It stops everything. Time, space, airplanes. All there watching us. Including my wife, the artist, which was dedicated exposure. The best time to spring a bitch slap me, violent, and escapes into the arms of the professor / father.
Shortly after my wife approached me, the artist, the jealous, the one who had dedicated the evening, and I spring another slap, tremendous. Incassai. I stared into his eyes, black, and left the gallery without making scenes.
In Naples there is always something to do. I stopped at a bar and bought a bottle of wine. Red. Walking down the street walked to empty it, sip by sip, to reach other places full of people. Some people say Barcelona, \u200b\u200bValencia, that beautiful city. But Naples, Naples is a fucking masterpiece. It is a painting. A work of art, really. From Borgo Marinaro up Mergellina you to stop your heart in your throat so much so beautiful. So I set out, with the city in flames, to the casino of San Pasquale, and maybe somewhere still looking for someone to fan the bottom of the bottle.
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