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Idem putem jedem bonbonjeru, na te mislim zveknem u banderu!
Lako se kurčit, kada imaš talenta!
Biologija
Kada se besmisao shvati činjenicom od tada se živi sa tom činjenicom.
kerina
Posalamim onog ispod i iznad...
Leva sisa
Kada se besmisao shvati činjenicom od tada se živi sa tom činjenicom.
Lejla..Plavkica..ma kamo je ta treca smjena?
Posalamim onog ispod i iznad...
lejla

Idem putem jedem bonbonjeru, na te mislim zveknem u banderu!
Lako se kurčit, kada imaš talenta!
jebem ti ovu temu, asocira me na smrt


Živi mi ne neodstaju, jer se trudim da ne dođem u takvu poziciju.. i oni se trude..
Budi!
imas crne misli...
a neki nasi clanovi vec nisu zivi...

Idem putem jedem bonbonjeru, na te mislim zveknem u banderu!
Lako se kurčit, kada imaš talenta!
zedlion kaže...

imas crne misli...
a neki nasi clanovi vec nisu zivi...



Nemam crne misli, nego tako jeste. Kako može živa osoba da ti nedostaje? U današnjem svetu ovoliko razvijene tehnologije, jedino koga ne mogu da vidim i čujem su oni koji više nisu sa nama. Prema tome ne znam o kakvoj vrsti, osime te, nedostajanja pričamo..

Koji čalanovi više nisu živi? Nemoj sad da me traumiraš!
Budi!
damica kaže...




Nemam crne misli, nego tako jeste. Kako može živa osoba da ti nedostaje? U današnjem svetu ovoliko razvijene tehnologije, jedino koga ne mogu da vidim i čujem su oni koji više nisu sa nama. Prema tome ne znam o kakvoj vrsti, osime te, nedostajanja pričamo..

Koji čalanovi više nisu živi? Nemoj sad da me traumiraš!


Zare74 je umrEo......
Kada se besmisao shvati činjenicom od tada se živi sa tom činjenicom.
damica kaže...




Nemam crne misli, nego tako jeste. Kako može živa osoba da ti nedostaje? U današnjem svetu ovoliko razvijene tehnologije, jedino koga ne mogu da vidim i čujem su oni koji više nisu sa nama. Prema tome ne znam o kakvoj vrsti, osime te, nedostajanja pričamo..

Koji čalanovi više nisu živi? Nemoj sad da me traumiraš!


verovatno ih ne znas, odavno ih nema

Idem putem jedem bonbonjeru, na te mislim zveknem u banderu!
Lako se kurčit, kada imaš talenta!
zedlion kaže...



verovatno ih ne znas, odavno ih nema



jbg zede...ti nastavljas crnjak...ajde malo o seksu da se oraspolozisgrin
Posalamim onog ispod i iznad...
ja sam uvek oraspolozen.
kako se zvala ona cura sto se stalno svadjala. Nikita. E ta mi fali. Kako smo se cupali na javnom a lepo caskali na pp, to je cudo. lollollol

Idem putem jedem bonbonjeru, na te mislim zveknem u banderu!
Lako se kurčit, kada imaš talenta!
A, i Limitka voli da se svađa!
Makar je meni milu majku spominjala svako malo. Smile
Prosto pomislim da se reinkarnirala u Lepu.

Valjalo bi da sad svako navede koje je sve nick-ove koristio, ne može čovek da se posabere.
Ja sam vazda bio ovaj.

-----
A za Damicu nam, evo šta je Chuck Palahniuk reakao o mrenju...

(ima dosta pa ne mora svako da čita)

Being dead is the very essence of traveling light.
Being dead-dead means nonstop, twenty-four/seven, three hundred sixty-five days a year... forever.
How it feels when they pump out all of your blood, you don't want me to describe. Probably I shouldn't even tell you I'm dead, because no doubt now you feel awfully superior. Even other fat people feel superior to Dead People. Nevertheless, here it is: my Hideous Admission. I'll fess up and come clean. I'm out of the closet. I'm dead. Now don't hold it against me.
Yes, we all look a little mysterious and absurd to each other, but no one looks as foreign as a dead person does. We can forgive some stranger her choice to practice Catholicism or engage in homosexual acts, but not her submission to death. We hate a backslider. Worse than alcoholism or heroin addiction, dying seems like the greatest weakness, and in a world where people say you're lazy for not shaving your legs, then being dead seems like the ultimate character flaw.
It's as if you've shirked life—simply not made enough serious effort to live up to your full potential. You quitter! Being fat and dead—let me tell you—that's the double whammy.
No, it's not fair, but even if you feel sorry for me, you're probably also feeling pretty darn smug that you're alive and no doubt chewing on a mouthful of some poor animal that had the misfortune to live below you on the food chain. I'm not telling you all of this to gain your sympathy. I'm thirteen years old, and a girl, and I'm dead. My name is Madison, and the last thing I need is your stupid condescending pity. No, it's not fair, but it's how people do. The first time we meet another person an insidious little voice in our head says, "I might wear eyeglasses or be chunky around the hips or a girl, but at least I'm not Gay or Black or a Jew." Meaning: I may be me—but at least I have the good sense not to be YOU. So I hesitate to even mention that I'm dead because everyone already feels so darned superior to dead people, even Mexicans and AIDS people. It's like when learning about Alexander the Great in our seventh-grade Influences of Western History class, what keeps running through your head is: "If Alexander was so brave and smart and . . Great... why'd he die?"
Yes, I know the word insidious.
Death is the One Big Mistake that none of us EVER plans to make. That's why the bran muffins and the colonoscopies. It's how come you take vitamins and get Pap smears. No, not you—you're never going to die—so now you feel all superior to me. Well, go ahead and think that. Keep smearing your skin with sunblock and feeling yourself for lumps. Don t let me spoil the Big Surprise.
But, to be honest, when you're dead probably not even homeless people and retarded people will want to trade you places. I mean, worms get to eat you. It's like a complete violation of all your civil rights. Death ought to be illegal but you don't see Amnesty International starting any letter-writing campaigns. You don't see any rock stars banding together to release hit singles with all the proceeds going to solve MY getting my face chewed off by worms.
My mom would tell you I'm too flip and glib about everything. My mom would say, "Madison, please don't be such a smart aleck." She'd say, "You're dead; now just calm down."
Probably me being dead is a gigantic relief to my dad; this way, at least, he won't have to worry about me embarrassing him by getting pregnant. My dad used to say, "Madison, whatever man ends up with you, he's going to have his hands full...." If my dad only knew.
When my goldfish, Mister Wiggles, died we flushed him down the toilet. When my kitten, Tiger Stripe, died I tried the same deal, and we had to call a plumber to snake the pipes. What a big mess. Poor Tiger Stripe. When I died, I won't go into the details, but let's say some Mr. Pervy McPervert mortician got to see me naked and pump out all my blood and commit God only knows what deranged carnal high jinks with my virginal thirteen-year-old body. You can call me glib, but death is about the biggest joke around. After all the permanent waves and ballet lessons my mom paid for, here I am getting a hot-spit tongue bath from some paunchy, depraved mortuary guy.
I can tell you, when you're dead, you pretty much have to give up your demands about boundaries and personal space. Just understand, I didn't die because I was too lazy to live. I didn't die because I wanted to punish my family. And no matter how much I slag my parents, don't get the idea that I hate them. Yes, for a while I hung around, watching my mom hunched over her notebook computer, tapping the keys, Control, Alt, and L to lock the door of my bedroom in Rome, my room in Athens, all my rooms around the world. She keyboarded to close all my drapes after that, and turn down the air-conditioning and activate the electrostatic air filtration so not even dust would settle on my dolls and clothes and stuffed animals. It simply makes sense that I should miss my parents more than they miss me, especially when you consider that they only loved me for thirteen years while I loved them for my entire life. Forgive me for not sticking around longer, but I don't want to be dead and just watching everybody while I chill rooms, flicker the lights, and pull the drapes open and shut. I don't want to be simply a voyeur.
No, it's not fair, but what makes earth feel like Hell is our expectation that it should feel like Heaven. Earth is earth. Dead is dead. You'll find out for yourself soon enough. It won't help the situation for you to get all upset.

mrgreen
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