Brazilian Wax Diagram Female

Biscotti Rotti

The other night, about three o'clock, as often happens when you try to feel a bit 'too light in the evening, I woke up full of hunger.
Well, wake up is not the right word.
It 's more an altered state of consciousness.
Halfway between hypnosis and somnambulism.
You seem to understand everything and know nothing. Or vice versa.
do not know if it happens to you, but I find myself in front of the fridge or pantry Robinson Crusoe as a vampire.
With one eye open and one not, I find myself trying to figure out what I want and what I can put between your teeth.

Well, I told you the other night it was with just this.
My choice fell on a bag of cookies.
The best choice if you do not have to take them to bed.
Too many crumbs.
But if you nibble on three or four feet in like a thief who wants to avoid the night watch of wives and children, frightened by strange noises in the night, biscuits, a box is already open, they're perfect. Levo
the clip that holds the folded side open, I open the mouth of the bag and look inside.
The situation is this.
cookies are favorites of my son.
Inside there are whole biscuit.
Inside are broken biscuits.
not know about you.
But here comes a night dilemma solved soon. I eat those cookies
whole broken?
you think "but this is really stoned."
possible, belong to the generation of baby boomers, people who did not always shine on his own.
too pampered with a world that became increasingly rich without explanation.
Okay, but here the stoned generation misses.
The question is serious.
adjusted Cookies are always better than broken ones.
They have their whole form. They
printed on the wing.
They have beautiful grains of sugar stuck.
Everything speaks of their kindness. Those
not broken.
These are the latest in the world of sweets.
Corners overflows.
SPERSE splits.
mutilated parts of their grapes of sugar. Primal
without heads or tail of the cock.
too dark or too light to keep their promise of deliciousness.
Yes of course, for an adult this is unreasonable.
A piece of cookie is a piece of cake.
Like a drop of water from a cup is representative of all the water.
A molecule has the same properties of many molecules together.
But this is when you are awake. When
indicates the reason why the heart.
But when you're half-asleep and neuronal circuits work a little 'like an old Trabant, leaving control of the belly, strange things happen.

E 'soul to give you the answers.
Maybe that's why the poems are born at night more languid.
Why the brain gets a little 'in there and gives up more or less willingly, to his role as helmsman.
My stomach wanted cookies and my stomach decided to eat what was broken.
less attractive.
less sympathetic. More
from "leave them for someone else."
This is the thing that struck me.
I have not had to think about what to do.
My tummy knows that my son prefers or would rather than whole.
He knew that truth would not only eat what was broken but she nurtured in some small way he also fed the soul.
knew that a waiver of small and secret, but perhaps its useless to do so would leave a happier child, then that is my son or the son of others is incidental.
Because I believe that when you are deprived of something, however small, because someone will be a bit ', even when just barely a little', more happy people eat it touches the soul and the meaning of our existence in this world.
You understand, I'm talking about an event so limited as to tap the comic or ridiculous.
But for me the other night was a tiny epiphany.
When he left that really speaks to the heart, the choice is just no possibility of appeal.
the morning I woke up and the notes that I always keep on the bedside table found askew wrote "never forget the broken biscuits."
I have not forgotten.
I just have to keep in mind more often.