Carnival
Me neither I was realizing that it was Carnival. They told me that this year there are so many men dressed as women, you are discovering their true nature, or is the fault of the coincidence in time of Mardi Gras by March 8. In truth I feel discomfort for the joy of some compulsory festivals like the carnival, or for those going to huddle under the wagons around Viareggio masks fixed in Venice and sad, almost as much for certain groups of province of women with heavy makeup and mimosas arm the same day of the year fill the tables of restaurants waiting for the arrival of a stripper. Then invite me to a party and instead I like to think about how to introduce myself. I know I'll find a lot of people, who will be dressed as a musketeer, who to my lady of Venice, who teddy bear, who gives Spider-Man, who by zorro, who as a nurse slut, who gives a cavalry officer, who by the Beatles, who by Trotskyite pastry chef, who by the color blue fairy, who by michael jackson but looking like a Moammar Gadhafi. And I would do as a kid twenty years ago, when the ugly, not having anything to put on to dress decently and exit way to participate in fights between gangs of urchins made of oranges and shaving cream, you could make up a rock-bottom jeans and an old shirt, drawing with pencil marks on his cheeks and forearms, around and tell us that it was masked by punk.
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