I'm a cliche
I broke Facebook. I disabled my account. It's weird, it feels good, I tell myself that those I have preferred my number, anyway.
Why did I do that? I do want more, I am obliged to say, brothel brothel, I'm single Friday, April 30, 2010
Mantula Herbal Formula
since about 3 days. VDM. And when I look at my archives docs, and I see these tireless conversation
cat
Facebook user with that flirting with that I love for over a year, when I see these long conversations and silly seductive in which we could already see the beginnings of neuroses that have led to our failure, and many it annoys me.
I need virtual vacation, I am so depressed face all the things I'm going to bring against my will. I will have to accept that I
dates proposed and move forward. I'm going to avoid it.
I'm going to forget. I'll have to stop depressing. I 'll have to remind myself what was more to not slide into a cheesy nostalgia. I'll have
regain my credibility, I who have spent a year chasing Fantomas.
I'm going to make love with another. And go on vacation.
short, a list of a billion things to do than I have no desire to do. I'm cooked, I feel I have no choice, I feel that this failure compels me. I tell myself that compels me with everything passing time, spraying the contract of fidelity and loyalty that they had 'na more reason to be me but which I have a hard time get rid. I must be
strong.
I must be beautiful. Wear dresses, enjoy the summer and see all these friends that I could not see because I was too busy fantasizing about a person whom I thought was good.
I'm so cliche.
But I do not care, I'm on Facebook, me.
Snif.
Homemade Fan Propellars
Well, I'm a little naive, but it has been months since I work at Grazia.fr, I've never felt as a journalist. My papers rather fanciful offset did not seem serious enough to make me win the big title.
Except with my last article on Romain Gavras
, which I'm uber proud
.
When that happens, enjoy it as much. I'm not proud of everything, eh, but, yes. And
toc.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
How To Install/add A Toolbox To Matlab
I did it I felt like a journalist
Poston light now equated with the weather.
What do we know about lingerie? What does it affect our body? Without going into extreme, we know why a chastity belt, other questions remain for me a mystery. Studies showing that men love white and black lingerie, and that along with this finding women remain convinced that this is the red ultimate color (men are 85% to hate), and knowing that I do not déprends of my panties and bras burgundy / fuchsia / orange, there is food for thought.
My mother said that a real man does not care and hair and our lingerie, as it not fuck our legs and panties, it is especially made to be removed. Maternal wisdom that guided me to who knows where, until one day like this I decided to ask me stupid questions.
While in reality, all this is a poor introduction to what I really wanted to be treated, namely
my favorite panties.
My favorite panties are those of my girlfriends. These are the most rotten panties, old and ugly world. These are the panties that refile the morning after a sleepover with friends, rather than putting it in the trash eventually. Because ultimately, we know very well that we will not see that panties, then file the most rotten. The one is the least. If one day, one of my girlfriends me back my panties rotten washed and ironed, I think I'd be facing a severe emotional shock and friendly, and that I should find it too weird to continue sleeping with her and biting her panties. 
What like is that these pants-there are not only very comfortable but for me they represent a parallel world: that of the pants that I ever bought so it's not my style. The shorty tigers, striped pants bizarre basics, small white lace ... Far from my frilly orange and fuchsia that I like but sometimes, frankly, irritate the kitty. While with the panties of my friends, is old, it's rotten cotton is very soft.
A friend told me that I loved what I could have, therefore, knowing that these are not my pants at the base. But I think it's less tortured than it is like the clothes offered, never really our style, we would not have bought it, but it's very nice to wear that does not resemble us. It is like someone else, for a day, it is the projection of the other one is dressed like we imagine it as it is.
And I like that parallel trade of barter and exchange: because I too old refile panties, pantyhose and sometimes even I have been foisted. And here Olia who wears the pants Manon, or that of Nina Claire. A mess in our gowns and under our skirts, false promiscuity by a piece of fabric that flows and intimate re-runs just out of the machine.
And then the guys. Thomas, who will fantasize about the pants worn by Diane Clement, or vice versa.
Funny, huh?
Poston light now equated with the weather.
What do we know about lingerie? What does it affect our body? Without going into extreme, we know why a chastity belt, other questions remain for me a mystery. Studies showing that men love white and black lingerie, and that along with this finding women remain convinced that this is the red ultimate color (men are 85% to hate), and knowing that I do not déprends of my panties and bras burgundy / fuchsia / orange, there is food for thought.
My mother said that a real man does not care and hair and our lingerie, as it not fuck our legs and panties, it is especially made to be removed. Maternal wisdom that guided me to who knows where, until one day like this I decided to ask me stupid questions.
While in reality, all this is a poor introduction to what I really wanted to be treated, namely
my favorite panties.
My favorite panties are those of my girlfriends. These are the most rotten panties, old and ugly world. These are the panties that refile the morning after a sleepover with friends, rather than putting it in the trash eventually. Because ultimately, we know very well that we will not see that panties, then file the most rotten. The one is the least. If one day, one of my girlfriends me back my panties rotten washed and ironed, I think I'd be facing a severe emotional shock and friendly, and that I should find it too weird to continue sleeping with her and biting her panties. What like is that these pants-there are not only very comfortable but for me they represent a parallel world: that of the pants that I ever bought so it's not my style. The shorty tigers, striped pants bizarre basics, small white lace ... Far from my frilly orange and fuchsia that I like but sometimes, frankly, irritate the kitty. While with the panties of my friends, is old, it's rotten cotton is very soft.
A friend told me that I loved what I could have, therefore, knowing that these are not my pants at the base. But I think it's less tortured than it is like the clothes offered, never really our style, we would not have bought it, but it's very nice to wear that does not resemble us. It is like someone else, for a day, it is the projection of the other one is dressed like we imagine it as it is.
And I like that parallel trade of barter and exchange: because I too old refile panties, pantyhose and sometimes even I have been foisted. And here Olia who wears the pants Manon, or that of Nina Claire. A mess in our gowns and under our skirts, false promiscuity by a piece of fabric that flows and intimate re-runs just out of the machine.
And then the guys. Thomas, who will fantasize about the pants worn by Diane Clement, or vice versa.
Funny, huh?
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Skating Party Decorations
My favorite panties
Yesterday was April 3: the anniversary of my mother. Two days before the first was the day my parents were married. April Fools that lasted almost 30 years, until death do them part. Not really a laughing matter.
It was a shock when I realized what day it was yesterday. I spent the week not knowing what day it was. I had appointments, promises of sweet day, drinking aperitifs, friends to see. And then the erosion. Person on the line. Everything vanishes. All I
therefore unavailable.
Even from the one I most need.
Yesterday was April 3: the anniversary of my mother. Two days before the first was the day my parents were married. April Fools that lasted almost 30 years, until death do them part. Not really a laughing matter.
It was a shock when I realized what day it was yesterday. I spent the week not knowing what day it was. I had appointments, promises of sweet day, drinking aperitifs, friends to see. And then the erosion. Person on the line. Everything vanishes. All I therefore unavailable.
Even from the one I most need.
I send messages to the haste in the sun before the rain returns. I decide to die of sadness and isolation in my bed, to cap a weekend that wanted to be successful. But the rain surprises me, right in front of a bar with friends. It is decided, it is 20h, I would drink my sorrow all night. I enter 
only at the bar, I sit alone, we recognize me, I partied, I smiled. A bloodymary, red tomato and vodka, a drink salty and spicy life that when I itch. I have nowhere to go, nobody to see, nothing to do. A manuscript to read in my bag, do not leave me. I was going to shut myself up for him to sleep with him: this is the first novel of a man whose talent breaks my eyes on each line. And say that I read, swooning, and he read me say, surprised. Now I am ashamed. I can link the glasses, and my old friends join me. My old friends the best. Those who saved my life, one on the Great Wall of China, the other in college, when he was a commotion of battle to save my sanity, and the violence of the end of my first love. These friends who are always the great wines of friendship, those that arise at the corner of Canal St. Martin to rob me of a strange torpor. Those friends who know me. With whom I can not pretend anything.
They dine. We drink. We gonna party. Everything is blurry, except the Cosmopolitan and the ensuing silence on the line that persists when I call. Except when it does not love me good replies. I'm disappointed.
And I'm back to thinking, without admitting, April 3, to all those who pass away in April always and always, at the beginning, the 1 and 3 that quickly kisses the 2 (who cares of 2), the bad joke that lasted 30 years and the anniversary of a dead woman who did has not celebrated enough, April 3. is Easter, and I do not chocolates. It is not there to hide me in the great apartment, a chicken in white chocolate. I'm kind of vanilla, white chocolate, almond paste. Too sweet to me sick. Sickening. Last night, between two dances, ten glasses, some crackers, I lost a piece of heart. I still want it back. I still feel that weakly repels. I wish I could remain incomplete, and nothing more to recover. This Sunday
sadness without chocolate I think of all this nonsense with me every moment of life: my job too feminine for a feminist, my love too warm for a love, my friend too talented to remain only that a friend and my marriage disintegrated and firmly bonded with the glue3; trips that I no longer undertakes; my apartment too small to be so filthy, and my loneliness too real to be transient.
I finished the manuscript, the novel's trip to the Andes. I've seen my Buenos Aires, and I glimpsed landscapes I could not know the trails, llamas and coca leaves.
What to do on Sunday? Stay in bed and wait for my new guest? They call me to go do yoga. That's all that I missed, frankly, sport. But why not. Take what comes. Go to what a. Blandness of that which can be lived without courage.
If I had the courage, I myself subscribe to absent. I'd be there for anyone else. The best time to get my bearings, and make better choices. Breaking the habit, creating a new habit, and become a drug. Answering answering machine, no dial tone voice, the wrong address. Disappear. To reappear. Move away. 'd think I'd ever do in adulthood. As no arms, no chocolate, no mother, no white hen. And whose fault is it? Person, then grits his teeth and shut your mouth.
But even
. (I can not close my mouth) I wanted something hidden. At the bottom of the bed, at the corner of a cabinet, in a blind spot that would resurrect. Anyway. Chocolate and ideas.
I wanted
. Sunday, April 4, 2010
Cute Nyc Save The Dates
Easter bell
Attention scoop of egg. I also scoop of egg on St Val ', and before, but I will later. There is direct scoop of egg that does not wait. you remember last year, my failed relationships, my alcoholism Irish, my cup of medieval warrior? I refresh your memory: it is
and
there.
But I also summarizes: Lasse
a relationship far from satisfying me with a madman who seemed far from satisfactory, except carnally speaking, which is far far from sufficient to intellectual masturbation sentimental like me, j 'had therefore undertook a trip with my trusty sidekick Gaelic, Olia, still operating with this kind of decision, although she herself was returning from a journey which she had just returned to New York.
Attention scoop of egg. I also scoop of egg on St Val ', and before, but I will later. There is direct scoop of egg that does not wait. you remember last year, my failed relationships, my alcoholism Irish, my cup of medieval warrior? I refresh your memory: it is
and
there.
But I also summarizes: Lasse a relationship far from satisfying me with a madman who seemed far from satisfactory, except carnally speaking, which is far far from sufficient to intellectual masturbation sentimental like me, j 'had therefore undertook a trip with my trusty sidekick Gaelic, Olia, still operating with this kind of decision, although she herself was returning from a journey which she had just returned to New York.
In short, my brilliant idea was to forget this guy 
blows pints of Guinness and Irish kisses. And I wallow in dishes lovingly cooked by my sister, while I strongly regressed to play King of silence, or playing tag with my nieces whose IQ is higher than your whole family together. It did not work. However, I did everything for these fine projects, not necessarily in order, I probably ate and played cat perched before embracing the Irish guys, but let's say I met a lifestyle deplorable, which was honorable seen my amazing project that was come back more beautiful, stronger, safer, more incisive.
Yes I can, nay. I ran back in the same bed, same guy, except I was in yellow raincoats with Tiagi and a bow in her hair neon. Say that apart from friendship and family, good memories and burgers, this trip to Ireland was not entirely necessary, at least I mean aesthetically
speaking.
But in Ireland, it will slap the aesthetic, and Descartes, and good taste, and everything, and that's what good.
I am a little bewildered by digressions ... Where is the scoop?
The Scoop Is In The Kitchen.
Nah, just kidding.
short, scoop incongruity, irony of fate, the beauty of existence is that a year later, nearly three days anyway, I returned to Ireland. Already, it's egg. Kind of sick coincidence.
And besides, I return to Galway with the guy I wanted to forget last year. The scoop phew. The failure of sick too.
If they have not been able to move permanently from my life, what happened had to happen: it goes through the box Ireland. This is the ultimate test of the kind
oh yeah dirty parasite, you do not want to move my life, huh, Well you will see Ireland, and see if you will do even the devil
.
Quit, or double . (When in fact not too, but do like I'm not entangled in a relationship honeyed)
This is an opportunity to finally find a common passion.
Me, i like everything in Ireland. Then he, the choice may fall for: pubs
-too-well
burgers too good
-Topshop (I prances ahead) -gray skies too good -Galway Bay, too well-
the Aran Islands, bike, too good
-colored houses -air cool, too many beers -too-good
And the family, you've seen!
So here guys. ON-TO-BRAIN. Vacation.
We will return fat and evil looks. I hope. It will mean that it went pretty well ...
Ireland Style baby!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)