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impromptu Dictionary: Ava Gardner

Let us today on the tumultuous life and turbulent career of a great lady of Hollywood, the dangerously poisonous Ava Gardner. Oh, Ava ... Ava. Yes, I'm fine, thank you, but it's not me speaking.

Born on Christmas Eve 1922 in a family of tobacco farmers in North Carolina, where the wicked neg 'font' ien in plantations that piss to piss the pat'ons, Ava Gardner dispassionately following courses shorthand typist to please her parents. But the girl only dreams of one thing out of his hometown full of rotten noi 'who' hile at 'eluquer de'ière her, and often visits his older sister Bea, New York' s Adoption married to a professional photographer. It totally captivated by the charm of the young Ava (yes, okay, thank you, you will not ask me all the time), takes hundreds of photographs he sent to MGM studios on the advice of a friend who works there. At 19, the beautiful sign a seven-year contract at $ 50 per week, and went to Hollywood with her sister, right fairy tale.

But the fairy tale will not last for if Ava is good, Ava comes from North Carolina, and his drawl to disband what to do more than one producer. She still gets small roles but will mainly deal with the general public by putting the bed in his leading man Mickey Rooney, married and then divorced in the wake sixteen months later, regrowth for three years the advances of billionaire Howard Hughes before cracking shabby for a musician named Artie Shaw, it can not be invented, which inevitably it will eventually break through the heart.

Side filmography, nothing to put in their mouths before The Killers in 1946, but Ava (yes, thank you) is still a figurehead without interest, to play good decoration in the films of Clark Gable, Gregory Peck and Robert Mitchum and break the household becomes the mistress of Frank Sinatra, whom she married in 1951 when he divorced Nancy charming mining town of North East and shit, I'm still wrong plug. Ensue (finally) some great roles, My Forbidden Past In 1951, The Snows Kilimanjaro in 1952, Mogambo, and especially the Knights of the Round Table with Robert Taylor, not to be confused with the remake of Claude Rich disregarded because my Robert Taylor is Not Claude Rich, eh, no but.

The Barefoot Contessa makes her consecration, The Night of the Iguana finally reveals the great actress that lies behind his neck pest, and after a few films of this ilk, Ava Gardner concludes his career in 1968 and s settles in London until his last days. Who will put a little time to come, leaving him the opportunity to commit the horrible Harem in 1986 when she fell ill. Ava more too, and she finally died of pneumonia in 1990 at the age of 67. Curtain.

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Letters to My Future-Ex (34)

At the thank you

When you fall in love, it really does not fall. It collapses with all his weight on his knees, face against the ground. And the weapon that was in hand escapes from our hands to roll under a shelf, and the shield which is held tight against us broke into a thousand pieces that sink into our heart. And they fell at the feet of the Other that crushes us all His infinite relative superiority. The soldier abandons us, we are more than simple civilian, as low a newborn. And the white flag that tends forward, the shroud covering a gesture dry remains of our freedom gone.

We capitulated to the first warning shot that passes over our heads already inclined, petrified by the absence of knee-jerk reaction of our body, held at gunpoint by a watchful, kept in check by a failing heart. We give ground, inch after inch, the sign of the fingertips act of peace in the household, and one guard position, prostrate, prostrate. And wait. Offered at the nape of fatal cleaver separation, one expects the move. Because it's right, be in love: Wait patiently and continuously blow.

Or, you can always decide to fight. Resist the invader. Go underground. Organize urban guerrilla warfare against his own instincts. Wield its weapons. Hide her tears. Be assertive, not to doubt. Be equal to that which seems to dominate all his infinite relative superiority. To upgrade.

I had an imaginary friend, in time, as you told me that it was bullshit, these stories of power within the couple. He was found the head embedded in the toaster, the mutilated body masher. He must have forgotten to put his shoes on entering, or ride one too close to the bottom.

But that's not the issue, miss. I'll keep you head, if only because I want as much to the life I want to.

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The real true story of Juliette Montague (1)

It would be a perfect day. Juliet Montague absently stroked shaggy mane that rested on his shoulder bare and heaving to the sounds of breathing calmed, and then tried pulling the tongue to clear a path to the edge of the bed without waking the poor boy is exhausted by the three Successive orgasms that she had withdrawn long, as evidenced by the countless bags of condoms gutted that littered the floor of his small loft Bordeaux, his "bachelor" as she called ... others had their candy fudge prudently garnished until the harsh winter, she preferred to fill his candy much more greedy and well fitted, although this was not necessarily the size that mattered, and again, it could raise doubts about it, not sure that his stallion is as much thanks to him the day he would no longer be able to make it enjoy so hard, to drumming neighbors across the walls of his apartment, dirty rats, old skins embittered and frustrated, it would still squeak behind her back and she would have to deny everything en bloc again, well, the coffee was ready, that's what he trafficked in her kitchen earlier in the morning, at a time when the sun coaxing the month of July was just beginning to cast its first rays over the Garonne whose reflections glowing ochres danced joyously before his eyes still half closed, as she sipped her coffee with small hissing noise which he enjoyed, and the tick throat so special that He was the only one to bear, even commenting on a chuckle sound that suddenly emerged from under the sheets with lavender He was emerging painfully clumsy that ghost suddenly turned into a prince charming fairy tales with the flaming sword proudly outstretched toward the heavens, tearing at a small smile touched Juliet she hastened to punish swiftly by diverting the gaze so as not to get caught up in the heavenly vision his powerful torso and tail silky penetrated with this haunting rhythm that only he seemed to know measurement, bing, bang, ding, dong, and now the church clock struck eleven o'clock Saint Michael the dot and the end of the market nearby, ding, dong, and her long hands that is contained with ease on its delicate hips when he took possession of his body and came into her with such force that she was biting the pillow so as not to scream and close their eyes to remove these images from his head before being tempted to join in the shower, but now he already came out, fortunately, dressed fresh look naughty and pen already nibbled at the mouth, feverishly searching eye throughout the apartment a piece of paper on which lie loose all night thoughts that had assailed his cortex, to return to the bed and stammered as a result of nonsensical words that made him smile in his half-Juliet sleep, as she tried to imagine what that might give once delicately put in order with the verve that she knew him in his good days.

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impromptu Dictionary: Albert Camus

Albert Camus was born in 1913 in Mondovi, charming little town in the eastern Algerian coast nicknamed "Little Paris" without it knows exactly why: point you in Mondovi with a map of Paris and you are bewildered by ten minutes. As told so Coluche, they say they want to develop tourism, but they do not care of our mouths, there's not a street that matches.

The following year, the first world war and the young Albert Camus never know his father, a wine merchant in Algiers killed at the first clashes. It is therefore raised by his mother, half deaf and who can neither read nor write, which is always better than a half-cop, you know, those people who can not read. Very quickly, Albert Camus won a scholarship and went to study in Algiers, where he began a promising career as a goalkeeper, quickly cut short by tuberculosis who is hitting in 1930. Rested forced Camus wrote his first book, "The Wrong Side and the Right" and then worked for Republican Algiers, the newspaper of the banned Popular Front in 1940. Whatever. Albert divorce the same year Simone Hie, wife Francine Faure and bar in Paris where he finds a job as a copy editor in Paris Soir. In 1942 released "The Stranger " huge blockbuster of French literature including can not underestimate that too little negative influence on modern civilization without the Stranger, no Killing An Arab without Killing An Arab , no cure, no cure, no Indochina, and without Indochina, it would still be much more cushy.

We are in 1944 and Albert Camus became friends with Jean-Paul Sartre while taking the leadership of the clandestine newspaper Combat, which is one of the few French intellectuals to denounce the use of the atomic bomb in 1945 by U.S.. Pacifist and humanist despair, he returned to Algiers during the war in Algeria in 1956, to launch his famous "Appeal for civil truce," incurring the wrath of separatists who threaten the dead. Albert Camus was very touched by the confidence of his fellow Blackfoot and writing this year's Fall , pessimistic book possible.

Without having anything in writing other interesting stuff from abroad, in 1957 he received the Nobel Prize for Literature (or was he spinning Franquin who came to lay the character GastonLagaffe). Three years later, January 4, 1960, he suffered a car accident driving at 180 mph by Michel Gallimard, nephew of the publisher Gaston (Gallimard, Lagaffe not, take a little), died instantly and was buried in a small village in the Luberon, where he had bought a property. 50 years later, Nicolas I, king of idiots (remember, a jerk, it dares all, why we even acknowledges), proposes to transfer the remains of Albert Camus in the Pantheon. When I heard that, it seemed that the sky opened over its entire extent to let the fire rain. My whole being was tense and I clenched my hands on the revolver. The trigger failed, I hit the belly of the stock and polished it there in the noise both dry and deafening that it all began. I shook the sweat and sun. I realized that I had destroyed the balance of the day, the exceptional silence of a beach where I was happy. So I fired four more times on an inert body where the bullets sank without it seeming.
And it was as short as four shots I knocked on the door of unhappiness.

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Letters to My Future-Ex (34)

I could let go

Typist (name) : A person whose profession is to type text in a typewriter.
(Pocket Oxford Dictionary, 2004)

Dactylover (name) : A person whose profession of faith would be to tap our story to the dream machine. (Dictionary of the Heart Light, 2004)

I could let go, open up, trust me
But if I'm telling too
Will you still under the spell?

I could let go, open up, you entrust
But if I'm telling too
You would not have to fill yourself my empty boxes

I could let go, open up, you But if I entrust
do you say You could take too


fear I could let go, open up, you entrust
But even if I'm telling too
You'd still be far from your truth

I could let go, open up, but if you give
I'm telling too
You'll need a healer talent

I could let go, open up, you entrust
But if I'm telling too
I could not stop myself I could

let go, open up, you entrust
But if I worry I might say too
lover dose

I could let go, open up, you entrust
But if I tell thee
too I'd have to kill you afterwards.

I could let go, open up, you entrust
worry if I do not say enough
I die a little every day with my secrets

So listen. And take notes. You'll be my dactylover of record.

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The real true story of Noah Darwin (4)


At the same time, what woman would have been stupid enough to give a simple look at an old fool in his way, and what woman would have followed him in an old Soviet submarine buried in a garden Commuter trains to protect them from electromagnetic and potential disaster which thermonuclear he had always been unable to prove even one tenth of plausibility?

Noah Darwin slapped both hands on the table. He had no real choice. Its reserves dwindled greatly, and he could not decently expect blissfully death after struggling for years. If he was still a hope, if there was any hope for humanity, he could only lie in the existence elsewhere, somewhere in the world, some of whose surviving he would trace before convince them to procreate with him, even though it was only rickety old knotty muscles. For this, he would have already put one foot outside, and this perspective alone the far more terrified that all women of the world, yet he had a fright from a young age. Groping, Noah Darwin took the combination of coarse cosmonaut he had spent the last few years to continuously improve the sealing and handling, without really being satisfied that it is sufficient to cope with the outside atmosphere. Actually, he did not know what could wait just outside, but a tissue of more or less scientific projections about which he had stopped to change his mind, sailing in assumptions optional bullshit theories to suit his mood, cramming hundreds of contradictory books on the subject without ever reaching a decision. Maybe he was wrong at all with everything and the outside temperature was around +93 ° rather than -67 °, in which case Cramer on site in seconds instead of struggling painfully few hours against the cold. Maybe that instead of dry and cracked earthquakes repeatedly that he was calculating the existence, the oceans have flooded much of the land known, in which case the heavy combination does it serve to sink quickly to the bottom of the water to forget his dreams of rebuilding the human race. Maybe he was tired of perhaps, and doubtless it was time to get to the bottom. Is jumping up, Noah grabbed Darwin combination on the table and slipped it carefully. He opened the hatch leading into the lower floor, crossed eyes the thirty pair of frightened eyes that rose to the sudden light, as if they could understand after all these years together, told them to a trembling voice that it was on and there was nothing to worry about. He took the merry cackling of hens as a sufficient incentive, closed the door behind him after kissing of his fellow prisoners look one last time, and quickly joined the top floor of the submarine by running mechanically in passing all the gestures he repeated hundreds of times in his sleep. At the moment he was about to enter the security booth, the whole carcass of the craft trembled again as if the metal plates were s'éventrer from one moment to another, and Noah was Darwin cringe. Heart pounding, he took a deep breath, crossed himself and quickly closed behind him the heavy steel door before hitting a weary gesture on controlling the opening of the external input. First, Noah Darwin saw nothing. Nothing but white. Dazzled by the harsh light, he felt of all the members of his body and saw with relief that he was still around. By vacillating, he stepped forward, trying to escape the painful mass of brambles that barred access to the submarine. He had never been so happy have to be careful not to prick the spine rough. If some vegetation had survived, not all was lost. Cautiously, he pushed his way through the huge bush that surrounded the whole area a few meters in the center of the cone which disappeared underwater polished almost completely buried. Another few meters, and he would know what to expect. Another few inches and he could breathe, or cry bitterly, he did not know yet. Still a few millimeters, and it was there. He was there. Wobbly on his legs, Noah Darwin put his hand to the visor of his helmet and burst suddenly tears. It was worse than anything he had ever imagined.

Despite his six and a half years hardly packed, Jenny Carlton was a young girl rather unglazed and a bit cheeky. His mother had forbidden him to show people the finger, but the strange man dressed as Buzz Light year who had just landed in the middle of their playground was simply hilarious, and she could not help but s' esclaffer in stirring up all his little friends with loud cries delighted that covered not only great sorrow the humming sound of the nearby subway. It was a beautiful summer day in Central Park and nothing seemed to disturb the tranquility of the moment. Above the heads of laughing children who were preparing for a joyous medley kneeling around a cosmonaut, an antique lamp blinked maliciously. He gave some signs of weakness since the great blackout of 2011 which plunged the country into darkness for two whole days, but it seemed that today was a good day to die out completely.

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impromptu Dictionary Fausto Coppi

Castellania Born in 1919 in a small village in the province of Alessandria, Fausto Coppi was the fourth child of a family of humble peasants Italians like you see in the movies of Antonioni, these magnificent frescoes countryside with names as evocative as "Ti Amo In Grangeo" or "fork in the Una Culotta. Fausto is not very cinematic, are something to him from an early age, it's the bike: at 14 he left school and returned to learning as a delivery boy at a deli, a good excuse for exploring the region in every direction on his bike, dreaming of tomorrows rim.

At 15, he met Biagio Cavanna, a blind masseur who takes him under his wing and makes him realize his potential by constantly fiddling the rib cage, he had overdeveloped. Fausto Coppi is not the kind of gear to be so little, he follows the advice of the master, won his first race at age 19, turned professional at 20 and won the Giro in stride for his first. We are in 1939, and the voracious war rears its nose on the starting line. Fausto Coppi could be reformed because of his privileged status, but it's not a pedal: he joined the Italian army, was taken prisoner by the English three months later and expect 1945 to return home .

The war is over, cycling resumed its rights : The colors of the Bianchi team, Fausto wins in 10 years has almost everything he can to win (the Giro d'Italia 5 times, two Tours de France and world champion in 1953) and invented style while the flexibility that is quickly dubbed the "Albatross. Adept in all kinds of innovations, he experimented with new ways of training, focuses on improving the equipment and dietetics, including inventing the famous passage plan without saddle. Ouch.

After 10 years of racing where he constantly outperforms all its competitors, Fausto Coppi is a tire tired. Marked by the disappearance his brother, who died in a fall at the finish of the Tour of Piedmont, Fausto is there anymore. He gradually abandoned the laces of the Tour de France to climb the cervix of his mistress Giulia Occhini, he has a son named Faustino. The scandal, Fausto think to stop the bike but accepts one last race in Burkina Faso charity. On his return at Christmas 1959, Fausto Coppi did not feel very well but think first of the flu. Doctors do not understand that he was too late chopper malaria, and the great Italian cyclist died on January 2 1960, doubled by a hose death on the finish line.

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Letters to My Future-Ex (33)

Week of little

Textual Harassment (exp.): Weapon of mass seduction on unsound foundations automatically receive anonymous and fine phrases (almost) without consequences to the elected to his heart. (Sociopath Dictionary, 2004)

Monday
Miss
The first time I've seen, the Fa has shifted beneath my feet, whereas normally it is the Sol, it's you say if I was troubled.

Tuesday
Miss
Put Cupid on short I never emerged as a necessity. Especially in view of the disastrous economic situation that currently suffering the archangels following the devastating stock market crash of action of heaven on our good old planet entirely subject to the temptations and sins of the evil indestructible. But so, poor boy goes without doubt the halo away bite, but he can keep his arrows in his quiver. One will suffice. Touché.

Wednesday

Miss May I draw your kind attention, oh undeserved, on the assumption actually quite plausible (although ridiculously uninteresting) that may well be that, by the merest chance, and any remaining credibility in proportions sufficient to safely move the tight control your skepticism, it is therefore possible that there is down here for a very small possibility that, Miss, I finally allowed my great shame to confess unvarnished my pen and my heart loosens plucks at each of your as brief and sudden appearances qu'éclairées an aura that only you possess.

Thursday
Miss
I hate poets. Deliciously. There is nothing that makes me laugh out loud more than the figure of speech discomfited the young romantic disheveled in the wind while walking beside the raging sea, the dark curls of his bush flying her face while her carefully spray whip long coat worn pockets artistically holes, in which he pressed his thin hands of aesthetic moaning about the evil nature of the world groans studious that accompanies multiple quotes Baudelaire learned in the glow of the candle and tear around in her little room for students Bobos Arts. So insist no, I do not write you a poem. Or very short. Here is one. Fairly short, you'll see:
Mademoiselle.
is you.
That's all. That
.

Friday
Miss
From the time you receive my share of authentic and no less delicate fiery missives, I despair of ever receiving an answer, a sign. It is true, the role of a poor innocent victim and shamefully persecuted by the sexually obsessed manic-depressive service that puts Hannibal the cannibal for a charming host summer camp, that role, of course, is not easy. But you would go beautifully, and I see that you definitely do not make any effort to get into this character I've patiently offered long feathers.

Saturday
Miss
What was my surprise to receive this message from your hand gently signed. I therefore invite you to an appointment. What wonderful progress. Nay, a leap forward, one small step for mankind but a big jump from the fallen angel by the life I am. What a charming attention. What a voluptuous sensation. What a magnificent folly. I would not. Not crazy, wasp, if you think your honey is enough to attract irretrievably the bee in your nets, the hive was rude. I do not know for whom you take me, but I'm not what you think. I'm not one to sleep the first night, much less to be seduced by stratagems as shameless as you.

Sunday
Miss
As you've probably been able to appreciate, I yielded to your sirens and changed his mind at the last moment.

I came.
I've seen.
I am defeated.

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The real true story of Noah Darwin (3)


Noah Darwin encourage each other to loud, slapped both hands on the table to motivate himself and walked with his arms full to the last level of the submarine, casting a glance around him happy. He still did a great job so far, more than anyone in the world would have been even able to imagine having the idea.

He was recovering water from a subterranean pocket sealed with an ingenious system of pipes embedded in the rock, and had sought for weeks to install a costly filtering equipment that allowed him to regenerate its own oxygen by removing the portion that damned carbon. Everything would be almost perfect if his limited knowledge of advanced electronics had not helped repair many measuring instruments scattered on the surface and had probably been damaged upon impact, but it saved him at least to make bad blood every time he laid eyes on the dials desperately stuck on red. Certainly, he would have preferred that this huge block of stone does not come to ask a few inches from the lens of its central periscope. But it was certain that the daily sight of corpses and the general desolation that reigned in the surface would have been likely to cut his appetite, and that was again all he had left.

The triumphal reception which was right in Darwin Noah entering the barn, which occupied the entire bottom of the submarine is enough to make him smile a few moments. He patted the rump handed to him kindly Jeannine complimented length hens on the brightness of their feathers and stepped over three piglets who snored deeply to go pour the soup into the common trough plant. The place was sometimes thought of a delicious smell, the sweet smell of promiscuity was something infinitely reassuring in his eyes ... but he knew that too, should do something soon. Even if he had been careful to take along with him that animal species to which he lent some assistance in regard to its survival and gradual restocking of the planet, the patchwork of animals crowded together on others in a happy mess snatched a groan of sympathy and he remained there a few moments, prostrate, pushing ever more the idea that all this had to end one day, one way or another. The rough tongue of his Brittany Spaniel, a strong male eight years the brown coat, eventually tear it from its torpor. He stroked her head back a few seconds, jumped up and left almost regret his menagerie to return to the top floor by the hatch bobble, which he closed the heavy door behind him tight to not hear the incessant chirping of cattle. He put the container on the table, sat down and put his head between his hands, staring into space. One cat who had maliciously slid after him through the narrow scale of communication came to settle in low mewing between his knees, and stroked her absently Noah Darwin the top of the skull. It would be a cat sometimes, and not have to ask so many questions. It would be a cat for not being a human, not being responsible, somehow, if only because it was against his part of this accursed race, the greatest catastrophe ever known humanity. It would be like a cat does not have to wonder what he could find after all that, cornered like a rat on a sinking ship amid a sea of tangled corpses. Really, what a brilliant idea he had there. Sometimes, he would have preferred to die stupidly in the first few seconds of chaos, he hoped not to have been driven by this kind of stupid survival instinct that led him to believe him capable of it. And now he was the last living man on Earth. It made him look good. Brilliant, really brilliant. As bright as it could be in as high regard that he could wear his intellect, he had to go down that clearly, he had forgotten a fundamental characteristic of the evolution of mankind Adam and Eve were two. And he was all alone, like an idiot, surrounded by his menagerie on which he focused all his attention.

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