These four or five months on the sidelines are the proof that I am not a professional blogger. I have a social life too. I have friends veri.Che someone thinks of me. I eat at the table like everyone else and without resting your elbows on the table. That Saturday night I go to the disco and the right shoes. I receive a few phone call from a female and not my mom. I am able to release the wire of a bra with one hand and pitch dark. That cigarettes have increased. A pussy that costs more than a mortgage. That the gym is full of idiots. Out everything that is beautiful. That the world is diverse. What quantèbellagiovinezza.
This post, however, is also proof that I am not a social being and that under no telling what I see, hear, cascading, taste, lick, vomit, burp, I burn, I get wet, pass me, crushing me, intoxicates me I can not live. Or rather I can not understand what they live and that's the beauty of the blog. If you do not write what you live is like living in a third person pronoun in a particle, such as "on" in French. And that I missed. Only writing I can see my life so far.
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