I think I dream a little, but I feel that if I pretended to be a battered woman, you could almost believe me. Far be it from me to pretend, especially since I do not know who accuse [irony] otherwise, OBVIOUSLY, I do not deprive myself of doing [/ irony]. I say this because there are tangible evidence. I am far from living dangerously, but I am covered in bruises, small scars, and burns (this is not an announcement of the plan).
I do not know how I'm doing, but I hit anywhere, anytime. We can not yet say that I have a disproportionately large and bulky body. And yet ... My feet too often meet those tables, chairs and beds. My legs get caught in all sorts of improbable things, from the vacuum cleaner hose to the window washer. My Hips stumble on tables, desks, countertops and bedside tables. I even managed to make me a blue on the back of the hand after being violently meet my metacarpal and the corner of a bistro table (fasting). Bottom line: It does not go a day without my bruised more or less small, more or less numerous, but present. It really classes. Now I ride my bike, I enrich my collection of blue: to stand with my tibia makes me blue, even deouceur and through my boots and jeans. EU, I know, is not Princess and the Pea wants, it takes skills to sacred ...
Scars ben ... Finally, I will not tell you about my intimate life of the body. But under my false complaint of violence home, I still provide new evidence. Namely hole in my thigh (where I really began my stats with a few words, life is magical). I have a real hole in my left thigh true. A hole dug in the acid. Here, immediately, my false complaint takes on a dramatic, no? You do not start finding myself a little something of the burnt Souad (the link is just for you situiez, not for you to buy, "I'm not mad you know")? If you want to simulate a domestic violence on an innocent thigh, the method is simple: make a long car trip and leave your old walkman with old batteries installed on your thighs. If you're lucky, you'll feel a little vague net cash flow from your Walkman. Because you're L terminal, you do not understand what is happening (yes, I'm sure I would have responded faster if I had listened to my maths teacher of a second and I had chosen S . ... Like what what it is life, huh Maurice!). Because you do not understand and you do not see something convincing, you reject your Walkman. Shortly after, it starts to burn severely. After 6 hours of road regulations, well, you have a hole in the thigh. If you also did L and want to understand is simple: the battery was seasick and vomited while his four-hour and then my jeans on my skin. I do not know what is in the batteries, but it made craters in the skin. I think I beat Souad not, with this horrendous history of violence in modern societies over-Technology Driven?
As for burning, it's simple: I can not do absolutely NOTHING if the resistance of my oven rushes on my hands when I open the door fronting the same (the oven). The left hand has all the favors of Icel (resistance). Frankly, in my false complaint, I think I could pass it to cigarette burns, applied to a few carefully centimères difference from each other, everywhere. God thank you, I still have my Balm Pyrenees at hand burned. In the fridge door, to be precise, it relieves more. The only problem is that I never did write Pyrenees since elementary school. I begin to know the Mediterranean, the Pyrenees but I can not. Must necessarily go on Wikipedia to be sure. So if you like, it's the last time I speak of the Pyrenees and its balm.
So basically, I like the blues if I was doing freestyle all 4 mornings, scars as if I owned an old, and burns as if I did not put oven gloves before plunging my hands into the oven on the grounds that it makes me all over. The question is: my complaint of domestic violence is admissible?
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