How Long Does It Take To Get Trichomoniasis

Calabria, the Mediterranean to discover [toxic treats at will, for fans of the genre] ... Calabria makes me

ON AIR: Daniel, Bat for Lashes
It 'a lot' that I do not write anything and in truth I have no intention of reporting anything. My summer was great, nice, as far as I speak in this unusual way of my holiday: Instead, this year, I was fine. Maybe because I separated from him for just a couple of weeks ... Many might find it a little 'seedy what I say, the fact that my welfare is chained to the presence of others, but I'll tell you anyway: I do not give a damn's never, not even when I was bad and angry, let alone now.
I am writing, however, for other reasons. Why do I need to set some important points and, above all, my final disillusionment with journalism and his world during this summer, we saw and heard things beyond any wildest imagination. And yesterday Victor Felts has dealt the final blow to my naive faith nell'antipatia catastrophically as solid and constructive proof of a lucid journalism, cynical and moderately healthy. I am forced to admit that Indro Montanelli was almost the one and only, and behind him, the desert. Alas.
Again, I really wanted to express my extreme pride for the proclamation of the new Miss Italy: Calabria is a girl who - to learn - is hoping to represent the whole of Calabria and Italy. In this regard, I would like to escape from this his intent, given while he was obviously inspired by the sacred fire of neuronal emptiness.
This morning I read in the Corriere della Sera a fine article by Maria Laura Rodotà . I recommend it highly to anyone who finds what I wrote above slightly resentful: the problem is much broader.
I wanted, then, return the best film critic of the century: call it self-evident and surgical efficacy but disproportionate. But you have to frame the scene and specify the particular film in question: Zabriskie Point by Michelangelo Antonioni. We watched, He and I, half asleep, the historic sex scene in the land of the canyon. Apart from the concerns that pervaded the air, as we were silent, but the climax was reached when he, with a voice thick with sleep, gives the following - brilliant - the sequence of words: "Yeah, you know the sand ass ...". I would say that, in principle, equivalent to "The Battleship Potemkin is a crazy piece of shit." Because even Zabriskie Point is, fatevene a reason.
'll never be apart.

What Are Atypical Glandular Cells

hydrophobic or as it's never too early to make weapons and luggage ...

ON AIR: Cu'mme, Mia Martini feat. Roberto Murolo
Yesterday morning I did a reflection of more than negligible. I had just woken up, it was about ten o'clock and was dragging down the hall trying to open his eyes for good. There is a premise to be done before continuing the story: I have been here in Cosenza, I always wake up in a foul mood and the situation tends to worsen dramatically with the anxiety of the morning chatting [chat early in the morning?!] In my - and especially my father - can not break free. Well, yesterday morning I was already preparing to come to terms with this painful reality when I heard a high volume of my tv, I opened the door ajar, and I found my mother's intent to sweat on the treadmill [have one in my bedroom and mother uses it while watching TV, of course-volume breaks eardrums because we do not already heard: imagine that thing with the hellish mess that is in the background]. But the point is not that. The point is that he was watching a movie, that I do not quite remember the title or maybe - just - I have not even bothered to learn about them. In short, this film was one of those bad movies, in fact, not bad in the aesthetic sense of the term or concept. No, it is one of those movies that no one would ever feel the need here is: one of those comedies in pink sauce, pseudo-funny, full of paaesaggi romantic comedy situations that someone would judge, sexual misunderstandings [yes, are still in fashion] and women Stuffed [I would say, filled] dignity [to be clear, those who give up slap, stop unwanted conversations left the room and find men willing to get totally ridiculous for them: no, not a science fiction movie or at least I do not think]. But arriving at the essence of the matter: these films often tend to result in a rather handsome man, also very caring person, who was abandoned at the altar as a salted codfish. So I open a parenthesis: the dignity of women filled two are WONDERFUL men willing to marry them or otherwise to engage in a serious relationship with them and, in principle, Massine, tend to choose the most asshole hoping for his miraculous redemption sentimental. Here, get to the point, because nobody has yet thought to analyze the views of that poor man? Why was not yet made a film about the tragic history of this unfortunate man full of emotional power that is taken for a ride all the time [the kisses, promises of eternal love, the brillocchio that gave what they thought was his her ... bullshit] until the final abandonment, after the money and invested with in the ceremony [which, theoretically, should be paid by the bride's father, rather pissed off too vain to put on the casino], in a house in a typically charming and seemingly perfect relationship. Well, what is the reason for this inexcusable gap in World filmography? Perhaps because that individual is not a nerd nerd, and therefore not worth making films or television series about him, perhaps because it was impossible to categorize his story in any way except as a drama without reasonable grounds socio-cultural perhaps because you should not pay too much attention to the fact that absolute perfection can be abandoned at the altar [in fact, usually, the guy is perfect but rather mediocre], perhaps because they do not give a fuck about anybody. And in fact, come to think, do not give a shit about anything to me either. And I do not see why I should be a lawyer of lost causes ... Above all, I do not feel any empathy for the poor fellow, I must not.
Well, it's too hot to continue writing. Especially since I do not have much to say and I'm afraid of not being able to hide it.
You know how I feel? Like a miniature Lady [still more mignon of the real me, I mean] that walks on a calendar written in huge red letters and drag this giant pencil, marking with a cross every day passing with a slowness exhausting. Through Sunday. And then to 14. And then the 24. And then at 31.
I was once an incredibly patient person. But I'm getting old.
Ah comme if it is'.

My Baby Keeps Turning His Sleep

For the title of the post, are torn between "the truth that I remembered" and "stupid things and trivial "[Lamb Of Origin will take a few] ...

ON AIR: Bachelorette, Bjork
I know, I know. Should I start [or start at all, even] to write something made sense: I mean, the Italian political situation does not currently offer a few very valid arguments on which to rant, wonder and irony. I could describe in detail the ontological disgust [yes, ontological] that causes me proof of the vision of the smile in the face of accusations that Prime Minister should stun those who hold a mortal as his constitutional position. And to focus, in particular, on how much leave me astonished and contrite [not annoyed but contrite: makes the idea of \u200b\u200ba state of physical suffering, punitive damages of curling drive] the idea that our prime minister could easily screen saying "I'm not a saint," almost [?] to confirm with half mischievous smile all the allegations [?] recently addressed to his moral integrity [???]. Then, all things considered, I do not care the least about the sexual tastes, quirks and perversions of those who govern my country, to the extent which have nothing to do with the public sphere and its credibility: the exact moment when the bedroom [or sofa, or lounge table, or chairs in the garden] of the President of the Council becomes the color is theater for the exhibition of asses and girlie no reason to exist, networks of ties [to put it mildly] based on the assumption indelible human baseness, both male and female [I would say women in particular], display of performance mythological and gifts sbriluccicanti nonsense, finally proved to be of poor quality journalism for what they are and have always been, namely novellatremiliano gossip, machismo pathetic that make up the throat for nostalgic Magone policy perhaps more hypocritical - or moralist, if you will - but certainly more dignified ... what was the point? I lost the thread. In short, the point was that I will inevitably throw up. And then? What else would give the Italian political scene? Ah yes, of course. The electrocardiogram plate of the alleged opposition, in the first place. The soliloquies in delirious dipietrese correct that, for some time now, like a shadow following the surprisingly polished our President of the Republic: Napolitano now can not even go to the bathroom or take a nap without the fierce afternoon [we should say 'the demon'?] Tonino find something to say about the constitutionality of the procedure used. And, last but not least, the story of our dear Beppe Grillo, the patron saint of all consciences also disappointed by the policy but not enough to spare himself the humiliation again clinging to a saving mysticism new populist [as folk and fun, I admit] the the Democratic Party has absolutely denied the possibility of membership, and then stand in the forthcoming primaries of the party. Well, we're all very sad. Even I, yes, I swear. Perhaps in the end, if you were a candidate in the primary and had also won the [hypothesis is not entirely remote, also confirmed apocalyptic horror with which the upper floors of the nomenklatura of the Dark Shops have welcomed the news], I would have voted for him . Above all, I would be incredibly fun day after day to monitor the slow descent of the Redeemer in hell fuck dark policy, his manifest incompetence, their clumsy demagogy and its slow but inexorable process of moral and material corruption. Unfortunately, the curtain fell prematurely on this adorable show of good comedy. I'll try to do with reason.
I said originally ... I addressed issues related to current events, politics, literature. At the movies, maybe. And I will, I swear. But humanity as a whole and, specifically, the world of interpersonal relations are too juicy topics that I will be able to deprive completely the pleasure of some little reflection on these issues. I should point out that this time he is not [for your happiness and pace of wd? who dared to criticize my style covertly between the mystical and silly]: no, not this time, because I never imagined could be so calm and happy and languid e. .. uh huh ... enough. I know and I know him: I would say which is more than enough, as I love writing and reading of words that inebriate and know about us. Ordunque, what I mean? Ah, yes. I wanted to launch into a debate on a particular aspect of humanity that I've always enjoyed and still enjoy today: the way you try to self-importance, when it is clear and obvious that it has no importance. Some people live their lives desperately hoping that someday someone will notice their brilliant personality, a brilliant personality of which they themselves have doubts [and right]. Some people spend hours and days to study the lives of others, hoping they fail and must be broken to achieve the legitimacy necessary to accept and accept a life obviously unsatisfactory. Each individual has their own faults and shortcomings but some tend to project them on others, hoping in this way to leave potersene and claim victory while the other succumbs. Some people have not understood yet, not after a few years of life, that the world is a stage where their pathetic play of the fourth film scripts by category and that people are not there to lay down their lives [as is their love to do], so run the serious risk of being wounded to death by silence Prolonged or failure to reply. Or for some 'detail not shared'.
Laughter, laughs. And the sad realization that each does what it can, to give themselves a sense.
A place like this.

But how do I go from here? You tell me. I already miss the air.

Drink me, make me feel real.

Magnum Vs Regular Condoms

not work well, I can not make me run, there is gimmick that could malfunction ...

ON AIR: Candy, Paolo Nutini
Umbria is beautiful. E 'shaped in the green, gently, almost as if the extreme forms - the high tops or plains persistent - do not exist. And then there are small towns that look to hard to believe that they can stand it, as if they were hanging on the rock. Narni is beautiful: it is a tiny medieval village with underground moderately disturbing and magnificent views of the Valnerina that I embrace and be embraced with her eyes. Well, at this point I would say that I'm ready to write brochures and obtain some money.
He was always there with me. I could meet his eyes at any time: there were no distractions, there were no computers or television sets that distracts us from us, there was the anxiety of having to speak to power and tell a pittance. I was with him, adhering to his skin, to seize every moment to be printed in this little head that often malfunction. I wrote everything in the brain in an indelible way: He sat under the gazebo, the way they sank into the bed, the Coop, the Pringles eat from his hands, breakfast with the love stuck in the eye, the words that should not be pronounce [calls clumsy, wrong, those who delay too long to get there], Céline, Buzzati, all those sunflowers, stained sheets, his sweaty head, familiarity His body simply my own, Rocca Albornoz, endless climbs, cat friendly, the restaurant with breathtaking views, Giorgio and Luca with their stockings wrinkled ankles, Palmiro, the dog vicious, the jam nonsappiamocosa, the strike of gas stations, "porcodioooo", the extra day in Narni, the underground, St. Nicholas, the Holy Office, the tank, the kisses that I can not give him a stomach ache, the waterfall Falls, all those steps, always know with me, know that you can say and do, feel free to be with him without self-defense mechanisms, to trust completely, tell him everything even the slightest thought, keep your laundry along with mine, caress her arms, worship Him in everyday life, the exceptional and the exceptional everyday. Porto's all here in this little head on which to bind the thoughts and trigger loop intolerable presumption of ill-paid and alleged love [because they paid no, it is not acceptable]. I enjoyed every second, every drop of sweat, every step, every word, every mile, every look, every alley, every breath, every smile, every moment of silence.
Eventually, though, I always mistake. Am I wrong to think that we can go beyond me that I am, that little, stupid and clumsy that his flesh has nothing to do on time and that illusion of having a hope of peace total, in the remote possibility that I might be all that He has for me.
But I'm so tired, tired even to be desired.
yet relentlessly followed. I want to live every day as euphoric familiar, I love your person every day of my life, I would not have to ever repent, I would not feel always on the brink of tragedy, I want to breathe deeply the smell of serenity. More than anything, I want to love him every day with the same consistency and constancy in return receive a smile that knows how to say no, my stupid love is not vain. It is not love this room full of problems, silence, tears, dedications and hope for eternity.


wish. I would like to live with you, I would like to pass quickly this week in an unnatural distance, I want to come down from yours. And I feel stupid now, the focus of this stupid silence me.
This morning was pretty humbling. And when I say "pretty" mean "very."


And lay you down on your rug.