I'm not dead. And this is the number one news. Maybe I will tonight because after a weekend with a high rate of food (press trip in a hotel-spa in Madonna di Campiglio with every possible food combination and "disgusting" proven and avant-garde) not only did I still feel hungry, but I will have the nerve to eat a pizza before going to the movies. Not to mention that in ten days is Christmas and I expect a sumptuous lunch. So I should follow the example of good fashion journalists who do not taste anything except a slice of turkey (which is so thin) and a new potato on 25. The cake is only if one has the usual first course of ten miles. And not because of too many carboiodrati 25 in a day are notoriously bad.
One of my readers (: D) asked where I was over. And I say, in Milan, baby.
In Milan, where the early bird catches the worm (and at 8:30 on Tuesday morning running around in the cathedral square breathing the air that burns the nose) and the evening before sleep Matrix (if it arrives) if not sleepy from the first round of the advertisements idiot. Except that the evening is spent at home and not drive along Viale Zara while drawing back from number three, the duvet dreaming and singing some awful song that gives a lively touch to a landscape of suburban outcasts who are confined in the front row kebab or outcast flying down the street with long black and pretending to call, as a tribute to Lady equal opportunities. The thing that baffles me most to me in my late arrivals at home is the row of cars to drive mc Viale Fulvio Testi. Code of tormented souls who give something to a mc so as not to put on the water at ten.
In Milan, where the controller is waiting for the poor, damned unlucky passengers with an anonymous dark circles and humid Thursday in mid-December, nine in the evening. Incredibly workaholic. In Rome, the CGIL would strike to protect the fortunes of the poor and the efforts to stem the controllers. While the passenger in the face of so great example of honorable service, have pulled out the fifty euro: well-deserved hundred percent and stop. Or would play straight to the super enalotto that these things happen once in a lifetime.
In Milan, where the coffee costs ninety cents (as well as Trent) and where the Moratti has removed the squatters from the exhibition of ohbej oh bej. Moral of the story? Horrible, distorted, and flat Pallosa. But they were beautiful young Punkabbestia who traveled with the truck and the gs with the pot inside the Vinbrulè be distributed in paper cups can be hot? And those who went with the sausage and lentils? To watch closely from a distance for someone like me who holds the purse for Amuchina gel when it touches the train. Sure, there are fewer and vuitton fake Gucci bags, pace of Marc Jacobs and pleated skirts of his beloved.
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