I am struggling with the last mosquito of the season. I have been doing 47 minutes. She gives me no respite, not even allow me to retort. Is around my ears, subtle and almost silent. In my efforts are worthless, is smart, but this is not surprising since it is a mosquito surviving the first of October. While I try to kill, even showing off the move to the karate kid, the whole house around me is asleep. Not having any good movie are not yet available and the latest releases of those stupid bets serie che da buona nerd seguo, decido di affrontare di mia volontà una conversazione su skype. Ultimamente odio parlare a lungo in chat. Il dialogo è senza pretese, ma all'improvviso, un argomento ne tira fuori un altro ed eccomi a parlare dei miei amori nel tragico e travagliato periodo che va dai 12 ai 18 anni. Un vero incubo.
Dopo aver guardato le loro foto su quel noto socialnetwork su cui alcuni fanno anche gli incubi, la domanda sorge spontanea: perchè?
Non voglio tediarvi con inutili carrellate commemorative. Ma vi basti lui.
Si, proprio lui, il PRIMO GRANDE AMORE.
Avevo 12 anni ed ero more or less like the girl above, he had 15, I loved him to madness, was beautiful with hair and eyes of blacks ice, Raoul Bova of a poor but always Raoul. He had all the girls at his feet and always on a motorbike in the ass. I loved him. I really loved it. But he will not be spinning, because in all honesty, I was quite a process. A losing battle. We lived a house away, I saw him always, spied. All the male friends with whom I played hide and seek in the park (I was a little girl very mature) were his friends, but to him, to me, he cared nothing. He played with the electric machines and hard lemonade secretly with provocative Brianza. I have always imagined how it would be to delay busty kissing in that garage. Well, now, thanks to tonight, it's all past.
Clearly, it is the right one.
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