The Christmas atmosphere m'insinua a germ hopping of helpless anguish. All that shimmer intermittent and useless. Smell of damp earth and moss velvet, collected early in the morning, to fill the crib. And then embalmed sheep, a cave of cardboard, shepherds with bagpipes and the expression frighteningly fixed , crossed into space. Quell'arbusto lame, at best decorated, all surmounted, arousing feelings of poverty sterile.
I also had to make gifts. My father snuffed and swore, quai was a fierce-looking beast. And I knew how it was life, six years. Mooing robots and electric tracks of hatred, just like the angry face the color of pomegranate. I guessed the ideas of unintentional injuries. Over the years I understand the significance of love. Often it is not a cumshot clumsy and uncontrollable, disguised as God's will. Flow
the years, never able to shake decaying uneasiness, caused by the Christmas spirit, announced by idiotic jingle. In 1998, the day of joyous arrival, I were found in a ditch thorny. The stereo put off the old golf this, ad infinitum. I never understood how I ended up in that ravine, thorny and almost muffled by gods propitious.
Often, someone, something, a little unexpected gesture. A few years ago, my wife gave me a scaldapene. A little corrucciai me. I thought of symbolic meanings. An evil invitation to prepare for the cold lonely nights. Then put it on with joy. I mean, a red wool scaldapene, complete with a strap clasp at the base club, candy and soft white on the tip. The wool caused some itching at the glans. I have the sensitive glans and easily scappellante I. And it took off me. What brilliant mind. What a brilliant woman. That disruptive tits, with nipples that looked outside, and lascivious witch-like eyes. What purpose will it? Now that I think, I did not ever courage to give her a scaldacepezzolo. And even a scaldavulva prehensile.
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