Today I met a player model.
was, objectively, a model: tall, sculpted biceps, a forehead that Wittgenstein's stubborn abdominal plates, green eyes, red lips but nietzsche garcia marquez, even a dimple on his chin, and a suspicion of ravel, perhaps woven a bossa nova, or a song by Paolo Conte, in curls.
I looked at her and said: "Is that you, my player model? ".
he has become just turned, and now had the face of my colleague, the one that runs down the web to cheat on his wife without her noticing, not even him.
I approached in two steps and he is smaller, and as such seemed to my mother, who only knows the address of my blog and would like to show it to her friends, as he did with my diapers. But she was beginning to change: suddenly it was my ex, professor and suffering from hair loss and nostalgia, it was my best friend, was a blogger in Piacenza with whom we exchange jokes against the government.
Horrified, I began to run, and he followed me - he had a smart race, but caracollante, but fluid but lame - and I said: "But you who raised me, and now I'm yours, are tuoooooo ...".
No, then I woke up. I wrote a post, though.
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