No. Put your hands on. I'm not going to claim to be gay. I am straight, non-practicing, or rather, not practiced .
Patterns of normality are more or less rigid, then inside this box there are other smaller and smaller. Culture, morality, character, pride .. all these little things that everyone develops in a totally personal, but that are still contained in the larger box of normality. Often it happens that in turn, one of the boxes start to andarmi close and then I cower, I make small, even if the desire to rip everything as the incredible Houlk (while keeping a pair of jeans shortened castigatissimo) is really. I
one evening, one of many spent at home doing nothing or worse than those in which a solitary walk in search of refuge from the heat and time, stop in a circle of strangers talking and start to laugh at their jokes. Or screaming in the street. Rolling in a puddle when there is no full moon (so they do not think che sia un lupo mannaro), salire su un palco in una sagra di paese e piangere a dirotto. E' impazzito . Direbbero. Più o meno. Risponderei. Ho fatto outing, ho voluto dire a tutti che ne ho le palle piene di qualcosa e vuote di qualcos'altro. Ho fatto outing, trattatemi di conseguenza. Datemi appoggio, schifo, farmaci, sputi, quello che volete. Le scatole sono scoppiate, i tanti contenuti si sono mischiati ed ora si vedono chiaramente. Se ne sente l'odore. Magari la scatola grande, quella della "normalità" contiene anconra quel miscuglio eterogeneo che prima era omogeneo in ogno scatola più piccola, ma almeno la verità è venuta a galla. Sciolte tutte le riserve. Come diceva un mio amico: "Tu non I broke my dick, fuck you and you make me a sandwich. "Everyone has a little sketch of what it deserves. A small sketch of what was contained once in the many boxes / matryoshka. minor inconvenience. Now that everything is mixed with someone will touch a few sketches of material which is poor, does not deserve. But if even as "I do not fuck with me" for once "you make me a sandwich" certainly not the end of the world.
Patterns of normality are more or less rigid, then inside this box there are other smaller and smaller. Culture, morality, character, pride .. all these little things that everyone develops in a totally personal, but that are still contained in the larger box of normality. Often it happens that in turn, one of the boxes start to andarmi close and then I cower, I make small, even if the desire to rip everything as the incredible Houlk (while keeping a pair of jeans shortened castigatissimo) is really. I
one evening, one of many spent at home doing nothing or worse than those in which a solitary walk in search of refuge from the heat and time, stop in a circle of strangers talking and start to laugh at their jokes. Or screaming in the street. Rolling in a puddle when there is no full moon (so they do not think che sia un lupo mannaro), salire su un palco in una sagra di paese e piangere a dirotto. E' impazzito . Direbbero. Più o meno. Risponderei. Ho fatto outing, ho voluto dire a tutti che ne ho le palle piene di qualcosa e vuote di qualcos'altro. Ho fatto outing, trattatemi di conseguenza. Datemi appoggio, schifo, farmaci, sputi, quello che volete. Le scatole sono scoppiate, i tanti contenuti si sono mischiati ed ora si vedono chiaramente. Se ne sente l'odore. Magari la scatola grande, quella della "normalità" contiene anconra quel miscuglio eterogeneo che prima era omogeneo in ogno scatola più piccola, ma almeno la verità è venuta a galla. Sciolte tutte le riserve. Come diceva un mio amico: "Tu non I broke my dick, fuck you and you make me a sandwich. "Everyone has a little sketch of what it deserves. A small sketch of what was contained once in the many boxes / matryoshka. minor inconvenience. Now that everything is mixed with someone will touch a few sketches of material which is poor, does not deserve. But if even as "I do not fuck with me" for once "you make me a sandwich" certainly not the end of the world.
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