The truth is I have a special talent to make my life as boring as possible. The truth is that my water turtles, locked in their studio plastic a foot from the side, to look bored. They give the elbow, assuming they have at least one Kill each other and say that sucks, at least there was running in favor of TV. The truth is that many, before you know me, they were not depressed. This stuff, depression, attack me as scarlet fever. If the doctors knew that 'this stuff would not stick it a business even richer than they already are, as they are greedy. The pockmarked face of Hippocrates and all the other good proponents of good intentions. I live like any cutting from lab rat and I urlerebbero How do you do in the face piece of shit, eh? As the attacks depression? Tell us the son of a bitch. I know that ...? I would say, is that life has no purpose in the end, an end in itself and then what is the deeper meaning of everything? Are we not perhaps such as algae that grow on certain rocks, if the Earth were a rock ... understand? And they begin to understand how this stuff clings ...
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