I'm bitter as an old wrinkled green apple. I'm bitter as an old vinegar forgotten once started. I'm bitter as an old pickle acid and soft floating in a jar without reason empty, deserted by all ministries onions. I'm bitter as a vegetable mold left corner on a dirty sink. I'm bitter as a salad dressing missed. I'm bitter as a beef curry too spicy. I'm bitter as a stomach after a Mexican dish rifle. I'm bitter like a driver without points. I like my neighbors soured on weeknights when I do the party at my house. I'm bitter as a vegetarian cannibal.
I soured to the point that I listen to the latest album Mark Schultz to calm me.
I listen his latest title, "I dream of your ass," which I had built an immense hope, and I come out sorry. The rhymes are poor, I love his voice sighs like an old chimney that smoked too many gypsies. It missed, bad idea. Not
decidedly nothing today, absolutely nothing, tear me a smile.
Or perhaps so. There is the history of Mamadou Traore, "The unarmed Killer" that will tell Jean Luc Hondelatte in "Bring in the accused" my favorite show.
Ah yes, yes, this mediocrity morbid comforts me a little I must admit.
The idea that your iphone t'explosera perhaps one day to the mouth, that, that comforts me a little too.
is even better.
But yes, it's true!
...
Finally life is beautiful when you're happy
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