Twenty-three years.
Fifty-nine days.
Four hours.
Ventitre minuti.
Questo è l'ammontare della mia esistenza; il tempo che mi è stato necessario a scoprire ciò che voglio veramente.
Alla fine, tutto era chiaro fin dall'inizio: mi sono preso una cotta paurosa per te, quando eri bionda!
Ora, potremmo discorrere ore, sulla naturalezza della tua biondosità ed anche sul mio vero e motivato odio verso il genere femminile biondo.
Luogo comune? Reale sentimento di astio? Menata assurda per convincersi di qualcosa?
La tua biondosità era finta, ecco.
Non potrei mai darti della 'finta', sia chiaro. Ora però is from (i) t is well under way and a better situation pretend.
As the dye is gone from your fake hair, so it ended our history.
We have a nice light brown color on top that was crap, but it does not matter to me you were fine.
You'd better blonde, I assure you.
you ask to go out. How could I have done a thousand years ago. I would marry you.
Were blonde, but you're not.
And you would never have a true blonde, right?
My hatred of blondes here, except those involving alcohol.
Schifo however (and rightly) those without alcohol, fake too.
Perhaps there is a common thread in my inner journey, this stream of consciousness of James Joyce in Dubliners, to Virginia Woolf, TS Eliot, or even at the Jack Kerouac.
My hatred of blondes, was born because I never had the guts to go out with (or at least ask them out) with the famous blonde in due course.
Did you know?
Did you know?
I've always known.
0 comments:
Post a Comment