starting to get comments on my blog. Some are identified, others go in the dark, without leaving your comment, and others write something anonymously. I have nothing against that, I also write from a strictly anonymous. One of the first comments I receive, in response to my second post ( "I bitch about how my" ), accuses me of lying and of being a man. I reproduce it here:
What lies! I'm sure you're a guy.
What's your first time straight out of a movie from Hollywood.
very pretty hostess who will pick a famous drunk or drugged and when he sees the bills gets screwed. What an imagination
guy! Send any script to Spielberg
I reread the blog post today, after a nap Sunday, and give me realize that indeed, sounds like everything is a lie. Both the tone of my writing, as the narration of some events, they have that too literary point that will undoubtedly most closely related to the world of fiction that what we might expect from the blog of a bitch. Finally, what are you going to do. I understand that the blogosphere is very difficult to verify that in them is counted, and even more so when the perpetrators are hiding behind pseudonyms and write hidden in their burrows. Internet is the largest factory of lies the world's most prolific and less rigorous. Anyone who becomes editor of their own follies. Is sterile attempt to convince any reader of anything so far that you could be a night taxi driver Zaragoza, which is dedicated to writing the life of a whore that he imagine, even a priest could be disappointed, a housewife who is bored, a banker about to retire ... Could forge my story so that the truths that seem to lie, they were replaced by lies that seem true, but I do not want to convince you of anything, nor do I care to believe me or not believe me, and what is worse, I have no talent or imagination for fiction. I have to make do with describing my life, telling my own experience and to reflect on it: If someone you find useful or entertaining my thoughts will be a bonus to the relief that occurs to me telling myself openly, to speak of I can never talk to anyone who is on my side of bitch. Of course, you could talk to my clients, they obviously know I'm a bitch, but rather I sell my body and my time to give up a piece of my soul. I prefer honestly think I'm stupid and I have nothing in the head, rather than the brand of shoes that I buy with their money.
I love writing, I feel good, do it almost to compulsion, but contrary to what this anonymous to accuse me of being a man, I have no romantic imagination, and that I have not done anything since I have 12 years to swallow novels and imagine in them. I've always written journals, and especially poetry, but that is something I am going to fight, because there is nothing that gives me more ashamed that my own poems. Noto
the anonymous user, and on the front lines of the deacon Maurice, who thought I was a "pseudopersonaje", a resistance to believing that there whores who read, write, manage internet, talk about books and give all the twang somewhat pedantic or literary ... I do not know what to say, I do not know many whores, so I do not know how far turned a being unlikely. I guess this is the result of me always thought a novel character, as explained in my previous post. In the end I tell myself and narrate my life or at least the life of my conscience, since this distortion of who tries to sublimate a radical mode of existence through a literary look. It happens to Herr Peter, as you have seen (the link at the end of the previous post), and in some ways, albeit much cooler and less pedantic than mine, happens to another famous ciberputa, Miriam Blasco, coautura of yoputa , which just opened now a "blogonovela" about life in a hostess club . What would whores without literature? What would literature without whores? From the Bible to Truman Capote, everyone needs to put on their pages to a woman who sells sex to tell a good story.
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