of hollerJack
Love, love. Our love is a dog obese. I still remember your chaste disjointed and unaware of the bottlenecks in the milder morpho-syntactic ambivalence. Your innocent confuse my utter the word with the word feuilleton fellatio the first time I met you. Stucchevolezza, stucchevolezza irresistible. We kissed that night, a kiss lightning striking in her naturalness of intent mutually shared. Fortunately, at that time was nothing that had anything to do with Tiziano Ferro or Sud Sound System. And no, I did not feel ready to introduce to your mother, you're embarrassing me, slut and whore! We knew each other only by half an hour. I remember the confusion of my kisses with my kisses under rain. Belissimo was kissing me. It was so spontaneous, a balanced "give and give." Then he was replaced by pleasure procuratomi your stealth and wet tongue, and your comical and playful playfully remind me that I was not kissing you but a dog.
Love, love. Our love is a dog obese. Impossible, I tell you I will always remember our first kiss with full clarity and lucid reasoning. Impressive clarity, comparable only to the porn movies in DVD format that you shot with your ex-boyfriend and seen on an LCD - Full HD 52-inch Sony monitor paid the misery of 2800 to a loss of € Mediaworld. Or so you used to tell me when he describes the your TV.
Love, love. Our love is a dog obese. I will never forget the crossings embraced under the weather, succinct terms as entomological insect pupae related to the plant by a silk belt. You were the plant. The same feeling that made me try a few months later when I saw that your mother was about to get a belt. And then the ghost of your past life relationships, a life that seemed so marked indissolubule focuses on a destiny of marriage, the mutual love our approach and the consequent removal, our long "crossing the desert," and finally reconciliation. It was like In the Mood for Love, but not Japanese so beautiful, but I understand that it could work.
Love, love. Our love is a dog obese. One of those sweet dogs, initially. A playful mutt that I could not help but cherish the moment when he looked at me with those clear, inscrutable eyes by Czechoslovak wolf, even though at first I thought to myself " you're fucking, filthy piece of shit . And over time our love grew, so grew the dog because the dog is not exactly a visionary metaphor for our love. Then came the time when we began to make love, and you know. When you begin to familiarize yourself with these things enter into a vicious circle from which it is not easy to come to the surface. I refer to the act of making love, of course, not to pat the dog. But since the dog is a metaphor for our love, we could also say "as soon as we started to make the dog", but is to be understood in abstract terms. At least I'm sure I have not trumpet a dog, or in Chinese restaurants that I attended there was a direct line of transparency with the customer.
came a time when making love (or do the dog, if you prefer) became a routine thing. Redundancy daily. Everyday it was the prince of all that which is impossible to attribute a large value. And so we continued to leave the house more often, but it was all said and done already. Yet our love grew and so did the dog, which as I said earlier is a metaphor of dubious taste on our love. It grew too much, saying jumble in our routine conventions, nell'appassimento progressive emphasis, and in our tragicomic pleasantries. The procedure is considered metaphorically the junk food of love, which in turn is defined as a metaphorical dog, and then the routine was the junk food of the dog. And so I'm 'dog shit (sorry, is that me being a little' breaking balls) are preferred waste of Burger King and KFC chicken wings and fatter visibly. He began to eat poorly and became a pig. But as pork fat dog, not because it was turning into a pig, otherwise I would have said that our love is a pig, but it's a dog to which I fastened her the derogatory term "pig."
Love, love. Our love had become an obese dog . One of those dogs lounging all day looking for food fortune, and that smell of beer or liquor, stealing money from the purse of the parents and if we all play Video Poker, one of those typical dog who comes home drunk and beats his wife. Nothing made more sense, and be able to stay together would be likely as seeing a Tibetan who plays with Type O Negative, or Nine Inch Nails, or how to see Pope Benedict XVI to play drums in a grindcore band, where the absurd thing to imagine is the concept of "German grindcore" (to make it generally true and should be consolidated escape me at least a dozen deaths each concert).
one of those dogs had become so bad that when you're in the car and you see it pop up on the roadside six sorely tempted to bend, the car in gear and push on the accelerator and put it under.
So we left.
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