Link: The party , Javier Rey Gonzalez
I am devastated, tired, depressed, lost, forgotten hidden. I need to hear great songs or lost in some island paradise with a young man turning torso, hands as rough as tender, cradling me and take me to the best orgasm of my life, because life is a joke, and as I have no strength to laugh I just do not even have the consolation of love, but only to fuck.
Because I've been fucking when I read the winning story of the infamous V University Short Story Competition: Young talent Booket, cultural, uiversitaria Gazette, which was convened in late 2007.
The prize was six thousand juicy turkey, incredible, and we talked about Booket, which is of the editorial Planeta. And I have been dead when I read those were the components of the jury that, for sure, or have not read such an attack on the aesthetic, or were drunk at my favorite bar in Chueca, or had a heinous envy of those who had talented directors decided to reward mediocrity.
Because "The Feast" is a terrible story, full of clichés, flat characters, lack of intelligence when creating the narrative, verging improbable dialogue, the more artificial archetypes that Latoya Jackson, and over, to top it off, is a moral history of those that make you a Homeric arcade when you get to finish reading it after many efforts to end it.
Because I've seen porn movies deep, and its author does not even know what it is to have a sense of rhythm.
"The Feast" is a tribute to the stories of Agatha Christie, a literary tour even more topical, you know kids, those that are studied in high school is not going to brand him as an eccentric for reading authors who are not in the book club catalog of the 100 works of world literature, and a final message like, "Seven" trying to reveal, with all the pompous pretensions of the world what they are human sins, paths through nonsense character he gives to laugh their inability to describe the feminine without being frivolous topics of a woman, I would laugh to laugh its vacuum cleaner, not described, but he describes.
Closing that first story, I had to take salt, I called the emergency room, I felt like a Gray Amanda completely unprotected in a world in which only rewards bad, mediocrity is extolled, and is provided free by the morbidity .
fragile I was a nymph who was lost in a world of absolutely perverted and Oz perfidious where all the grotesque, uncouth, ugly, vulgar, rewarded, is sold as sugus giver at the door of the school, and where beauty is banished to remote places to be discovered in the most casual of cases when the author is dead and someone will betray her.
If it were not so sad I would laugh if I were not the same as Empress and I stained my eighty best shirts that do not match the red slut, I would have committed suicide.
But I'm a queen of scorn to shiver with dignity, and perhaps even wonder I laugh when I have missed and sex with whom I remember Paul Newman takes me just opposite where I lost in your eyes in his torso, and the infinite strength of his crotch digging into all my wounds.
I am devastated, tired, depressed, lost, forgotten hidden. I need to hear great songs or lost in some island paradise with a young man turning torso, hands as rough as tender, cradling me and take me to the best orgasm of my life, because life is a joke, and as I have no strength to laugh I just do not even have the consolation of love, but only to fuck.
Because I've been fucking when I read the winning story of the infamous V University Short Story Competition: Young talent Booket, cultural, uiversitaria Gazette, which was convened in late 2007.
The prize was six thousand juicy turkey, incredible, and we talked about Booket, which is of the editorial Planeta. And I have been dead when I read those were the components of the jury that, for sure, or have not read such an attack on the aesthetic, or were drunk at my favorite bar in Chueca, or had a heinous envy of those who had talented directors decided to reward mediocrity.
Because "The Feast" is a terrible story, full of clichés, flat characters, lack of intelligence when creating the narrative, verging improbable dialogue, the more artificial archetypes that Latoya Jackson, and over, to top it off, is a moral history of those that make you a Homeric arcade when you get to finish reading it after many efforts to end it.
Because I've seen porn movies deep, and its author does not even know what it is to have a sense of rhythm.
"The Feast" is a tribute to the stories of Agatha Christie, a literary tour even more topical, you know kids, those that are studied in high school is not going to brand him as an eccentric for reading authors who are not in the book club catalog of the 100 works of world literature, and a final message like, "Seven" trying to reveal, with all the pompous pretensions of the world what they are human sins, paths through nonsense character he gives to laugh their inability to describe the feminine without being frivolous topics of a woman, I would laugh to laugh its vacuum cleaner, not described, but he describes.
Closing that first story, I had to take salt, I called the emergency room, I felt like a Gray Amanda completely unprotected in a world in which only rewards bad, mediocrity is extolled, and is provided free by the morbidity .
fragile I was a nymph who was lost in a world of absolutely perverted and Oz perfidious where all the grotesque, uncouth, ugly, vulgar, rewarded, is sold as sugus giver at the door of the school, and where beauty is banished to remote places to be discovered in the most casual of cases when the author is dead and someone will betray her.
If it were not so sad I would laugh if I were not the same as Empress and I stained my eighty best shirts that do not match the red slut, I would have committed suicide.
But I'm a queen of scorn to shiver with dignity, and perhaps even wonder I laugh when I have missed and sex with whom I remember Paul Newman takes me just opposite where I lost in your eyes in his torso, and the infinite strength of his crotch digging into all my wounds.
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