Mobile Spas, Marketing

A man path through wet street of Lima, are the twelve o'clock and he, along with other spectra brothers levitating move through the track , and the sounds of Alfonso Ugarte Avenue are isolated in the presence of these magnificent vampires, I see and my mind fills with images dark, bloody, full of music and pleasure. Finally arriving at the queue to enter the NO-HELDEN. I run a word, but a quick look loose and disapproving chompita my green, I'm not pristine black, not even enough that it was, maybe if my face was hidden behind a layer of white powder to bring me pale, my hair whipping and cascading over my eyes or my boots awesomely full of brooches, buckles and pins, plus of course a gigantic shape, just then, maybe they could watch me as similar, but the most genuine I would breathe, guessing that there is no bloody ritual under my belt, at least none done on purpose.

Helden

The No-no longer exists.

I remembered with a friend, exalted the two of the disco wave in the center of Lima. I can not remember more adrenaline in my body, when once he was in the queue to enter, down the metalheads to get the shit out of vampires, they kicked mind comes, military boots, gothic boots and stirred in a string disorderly legs, all under the density approaching the serious music to the street rumor amid the grayness of Lima, was all very confusing, screaming transvestite, conchatumadresmaricóndemierdaposerocojudoytuviejatambién.

may not understand that metalera gratuitous violence, but if you look at the people on the Non-Helden, it was understood this hatred diehard metalheads; boys were thin and fragile with individual hairstyles, shemales with blackened eyes and mouth red, women in purple coats, until that night was shackled. Fragility, sensitivity, individuality Justito what most infuriates the frenetic metalhead.

But if you lived outside the danger was in the glory, you got a mirror to improve egotistical and solo dancing, there were no lights or strange atmosphere wonderful, but the best was the music and spirit, no one danced in couples, we were all together, but it was clear that the value was in the individual in himself, and I of course happily danced enchompada green.

Talking with others with the dawn, when the vultures, when the No-Helden shut their mouths, which vamp intolerant of the day, I learned that many of the kids so beautifully characterized, were workers, vendors Wilson computers, factory workers, second generation migrants, they were all part of the system, all belonged to the establishment in some way, did not get into some cave or a shelter to wait for the night appears lush and moist, these boots cost a lot friend, somehow had to maintain taste.

All we were going to our destinations with the mascara run, his body vibrating much dancing, just that they in a sad little moment seemed like children dressed up, but to turn to view away for the last time once again became a city in spectra.

PS: The photo is Clan of Xymox, a grupazo not leave me since those times.

Can You Take Canesten Oral While Breast Feeding

Lord No-Helden Vargas Llosa, a question ...

I mean so much about everything, but once more language betrays me, my thought and the written word are distancing themselves friends, love or hate with the frequency at which a change of underwear (a common saying of my grandmother Chela, hahaha, powerful woman labia Chincha .)

Let's see ... I was recently the opening of the Lima Film Festival, I had fun with the presentation on Mario Vargas Llosa in the house O 'Higgins, in particular a room where there are a number of books the writer has obviously read his notes he has left all blank, even on the last page he wrote the book a note evaluator, with which professional examination, 20 Flaubert puts almost always, Joyce, a couple of philosophers Mariátegui and others, what fun it was, I even feel a little school spirit and fervor that has Don Vargas. There is something I've always wanted to ask, I'd like to tell you about my grandfather, for he has written on it three times: in Conversation in the Cathedral, The Fish in the Water, and some other that I have not read, my grandfather was his partner in San Marcos, formed a study group as well, you know how it is, forms with people, whether by his lucidity, his knowledge or beliefs, a group where you read and study books, texts and relics to then dedicate to crumble to deconstruct. The passions are aroused, ah yes, those gatherings; imagine my grandfather with a cigar in his mouth, ashes falling sooner, he lights Vargas Llosa and other students, really, these generations of intellectuals in San Marcos were the best, since Porras or Basadre was established a love for the study and knowledge that is rare in these times.

Anyway ... for not swinging through the branches which monkey. I wanted to go up and say: My name is Julia, and yes, Aunt Julia told me, and not only my niece, but some readers who remember him even in the jokes, but I am the granddaughter of Indian Martinez, the copper face cholo with everlasting cigar, lights it has more than once, right? If not, would not have written three times about it, Mr. Vargas Llosa tell me, what my grandfather, "his eyes sparkled upon hearing a great idea? What was your face when defending anything? Was her gentle smile? Ever was seen sad? Have you ever allowed to be distracted? Have you always combined his cashmere sweater with leather bag, as I remember? Have you ever talked to me, the times I was carrying and took me to his chest that smelled of snuff and good man when I left to be in accompanying library for hours, from when I bought ice cream in winter, when I bought a typewriter looked just like his, but little, Satacho of when he said, are Satan? No? Well let me tell you that died long ago, fifteen years or so, and I was there, holding her hand, watching as his body relaxed more and more, how their pain was slowly slipping away as my mom told me not to cry so he did not have pity upon me, because he left me, you know? He left when I wanted more, when is penetrated his words and hugs me, he was most passionate when he saw his work when he saw more reading and researching and the more I was smoking too, never left snuff. Is that why he died, Mr. Vargas Llosa's why I'm glad that men and women like you, like my grandfather live, live to continue to create, to continue writing, to continue ... Shortly after my grandfather died I met a beggar, was about 80 years, was hungry and ragged, I gave him money and I was pensanso why this man, who had abandoned his living existence, why, why my grandfather, who had to give a lifetime of no work. Do not worry, I get that every human has a place in the world, every human has something to do, that I have the opportunity to feel his tenacity in me that I can take over from his passion; and I understood it, but my memories as a child still has the feeling of having been the victim of an enormous injustice. It was just that Mr. Vargas Llosa, nothing more. So long and healthy!

did not tell because I had no chance, and then I dipped into a drink and laugh with friends. Only a moment I was silent and solitary reviewing the look between exposure and people, but hands grabbed me by the waist and again he brought me a kiss to the here and now, laughter and conversation from time then saw Vargas Llosa's books, but I felt neither nostalgic nor regret, because the Indian just turn Martínez his pipe in my heart.

Flinn Ultimate Elements Crossword Puzzle

Do not fight "for my sake" ... Oh, no.

should not smile at this, or at least I have the feeling that you should not: apricot fought "my account" a few days ago, in Pucusana, or rather because of the repression and breaches of this group subjects or put another way because it messed with my butt in a community, or rather coral, as one throws a nickname and the other seconded with singing drunk and babbling, laughing corolla particularly rum.

The issue is that it took a few punches, head butts, he also pulled her hair, taking advantage of his long locks (and somewhat rare.)

Say that a Lima Peruvian woman or at least is a little more accustomed to ignore the hurtful compliments than men and arrows thrown at us (when a teen goes through the hits and more than a little body through our feminine), but there you nosequé , male beings can not stand, it's about respect say yes, but not only that, it's like an attack on masculinity that right under the nose of one, the lusts o respect your fellow woman ... and good to us, at least to me, sparked outrage, anger, frustration, but I also left internal giocondesca smile, a taste because he fought for me and the flesh of my buttocks.

I always freaks me super neutral and uninvolved consabidamente female characteristics (feminoid), I found myself proud at this. Well, one is known on the road.

PS: Even before a male had fought for me, but I admit frankly that was not cause for pride, as he hit his friend with whom I laughed and talked, and after lying on the floor, shouted: This is my wife, do not touch, dammit! He then vomited. Presumably embarrassed me a lot, while the shame killed my love of eighteen.