Self Service 
suppose to be the six hundredth customer. And for the six hundredth time since he began his lousy shift, the clerk explained to me by concealing so boring where should I put the three cards I received as Reward yourself for their superior quality products, pollutants, and genuinely multinational solidarity. But I've got to eat too 'me, so I follow the instructions on the contract, only to meet the time lost to explain and in small part to see if I won anything. The contract has not at all want to smile. Well. I do not either. He has a face like a job, a life hidden under her apron, and two rings strung on the same finger, maybe a gift for a boyfriend or without time and miles. At least one of the two rings needs to be. He has a look unattractive, something that reminds me of the look of a dinosaur. Surely you will find equally unattractive mine. Rightly hates me, as hates all those who pass by there, as he hates his chains and leash port. I just want to get out and go home, I'm tired of smell that puts people, hate the soft music of the music that seems a lament closed in cellophane, I do not like the windows and the woman next to me screaming incessantly inside to a mobile phone while
occasionally nervously adjusts her hair stringy dyed RossoTiziano. If only there was all this fucking fear around, if only there were so many ghosts behind the shutters. There's something in my look unattractive, as a sign that read right back. I put the three cards into the slot from indicatami commessa. Non vinco niente.
suppose to be the six hundredth customer. And for the six hundredth time since he began his lousy shift, the clerk explained to me by concealing so boring where should I put the three cards I received as Reward yourself for their superior quality products, pollutants, and genuinely multinational solidarity. But I've got to eat too 'me, so I follow the instructions on the contract, only to meet the time lost to explain and in small part to see if I won anything. The contract has not at all want to smile. Well. I do not either. He has a face like a job, a life hidden under her apron, and two rings strung on the same finger, maybe a gift for a boyfriend or without time and miles. At least one of the two rings needs to be. He has a look unattractive, something that reminds me of the look of a dinosaur. Surely you will find equally unattractive mine. Rightly hates me, as hates all those who pass by there, as he hates his chains and leash port. I just want to get out and go home, I'm tired of smell that puts people, hate the soft music of the music that seems a lament closed in cellophane, I do not like the windows and the woman next to me screaming incessantly inside to a mobile phone while 
occasionally nervously adjusts her hair stringy dyed RossoTiziano. If only there was all this fucking fear around, if only there were so many ghosts behind the shutters. There's something in my look unattractive, as a sign that read right back. I put the three cards into the slot from indicatami commessa. Non vinco niente. 
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