you want to write something and then it ends up another post. It 's a strange month from my point of view of me that wants to be a blogger. I find myself writing a lot of stuff written for incicciottire certain thoughts in 140 characters. Son months can not be purged from the brain with my fingers and now I digress time and I can not finish a post. Was the first time, then. Like the time I wanted to write to me at nine months and then I tweeted carrot that has won an award for the best interpretation of a sex toy in a porno.
I've got tired the unconscious. Instead of sending me an email retwitta me a tweet at random and do not care if I can figure it out or not.
And I have not understood what I understand ...
... maybe white socks.
Yes, I believe I should at least lower them during sex, but 'this thing is too '80s. I had nine months of age in the '80s. Ok, I digress and I'm not still down socks. That is waiting for me on the bed and maybe the socks are just a metaphor such as raincoat, but not ... fitting.
(terrible joke, I'm sorry, but I have the verve than the tired ... uff)
[EDIT after the first comment via Facebook]
Remove no socks. E 'in August, after all.
It's cold. It's cold!
[ANOTHER EDIT]
Lampante example of the imagination (my) in excess of reality (the internet of course)
Music on air: Depeche Mode - Freelove
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