and (almost) all of my webcam pictures (LEAKED) (UNSEEN) (BORING) (HOPELESS)

When I moved to Milan my parents gave me this macbook and it had the first webcam I ever had, or something. And I was pretty excited. I know my mobile, my reflex, my pocket cameras can take pictures too, but I basically do everything with photo booth. From art projects to passport portraits. If I'll ever get a job as a photographer, I will bring only my computer on the set.

Mainly, this almost three years collection of photos is about my stupid face and me being naked. I had also lot of videos of me singing stupid songs and brushing my teeth, but it's to complicated to put hours and hours of material like that online. And then it would be so exciting none of you would be able to handle it and you would all die of a heart attack and there are chances I like you and I don't wanna see you dead.

Captions below every picture.

 This was me making rehearsals in the living room of the house I was living in when I moved to Milan. It was in the ghetto and the building was full of cholos and brazilian transexuals. It was pretty amazing. My performance piece was about being a model in the sun or something like that. There's also a video of the rehearsals that I will not show, which is about me masturbating and cuming on the light bulb and filming the cum evaporate. So conceptual.

 The wig is Tea's new hair and I tried it on. It made me feel like a Barbie and I guess I'll get a wig like that myself.

and Comment Hidden (show)

   Dear my-style-sucks,
I think you're almost certainly wrong. I'm quite sure that if you think your style sucks, it means you look great. Mainly, people who think they have a tremendous sense of style and that they're so fucking perfect they just popped out of some editorial from Vogue - they look like cheap transexual whores on homemade meth. Just they don't realize it.
I always thought that a perfect way to choose clothes to wear is to think they're sneaky and ugly and don't match together. There are whole fashion empires based on this, like Prada.
So go fugly and good luck.

Forever yours,

crack-head-is-alive-and-kicking

   Dear ass-shaver,

I guess we have a homo alarm in here. I swear to God I could introduce you to at least ten guys who regularly shave their asses, here in Milan. Could be mystical experience for you. Even if they're notorious for being deep throat cock suckers harvesting aids and syphilis up their butts and spreading their legs for whoever has couple euros.
Maybe you could join them for a drink in some gay bar and start together a new life. They will introduce you to a new world. And you could even start charging people to abuse your bubble butt.

Actually, I prefer boys with natural butts, untouched by razors. But whatever.

Hopefully not yours,

nomi-malone-saved-my-life

   Dear freshly-broken-up,

to stop totally texting your ex seems a brilliant idea. Like you take distance so you think it's gonna be easier to get over it. But the truth is that you'll probably just end up forgetting why you even broke up and you'll end up together again, in like one month. But second chances could be nice and you could eventually find out that you're having the love of your life standing beside you (or just someone who's so great at giving head that is addictive).

Desperately yours,

get-in-touch-with-your-feelings-babe

   Dear smell-my-farts-honey,

I think you should totally not worry about if it's normal or not. Do you really care? You shouldn't. You should go for what you like with the same determination rapists have. Rapists never think twice, so you shouldn't as well.
Maybe your husband is crazy for the smell of your farts and gets such a hard on you could start using his dick to dig holes in the walls (since I guess having a gloryhole in between your bedroom and your bathroom is such a spicy idea).

With love,

my-favorite-popsicle-flavor-is-dick

   Dear girls-are-golddiggers-but-I-aint,

Not only girls are golddiggers - boys can be as well (I had three sugardaddies in the past). Looking for wealthy older people who like to share their wealth is not weird or gross or whatever - it's simply matching what you want with what you need. Looking for people in you age is totally not getting you anywhere - older people are wiser, more interesting and, if they have a lot of money, probably even smarter. You don't necessarily have to be with an old and ugly woman or man, he/she can be just old, but not ugly. There are many hotties in ages from 40-something to even 60.
And remember, it's not necessarily permanent (ugly tattoos usually are) - when you get sick of the situation, you can still break up with your sugardaddy/sugarmama saying I GAVE YOU MY YOUTH, NOW GIVE ME ALL YOUR MONEY. In many situations it works.

Hopelessly yours,

suck-dicks-for-birkins

   Dear I-feel-like-a-starlet-and-I-like-it,

you're completely normal. The only thing which is not normal is that no one is filming you right now. I also act like if I was on film since I guess that's the best way to make your life beautiful and interesting. Sometimes I don't even think about possibilities as "what am i gonna do", but as "what would my character do if this was a movie". If you can't get a 24 hours coverage and editing of your life to turn it into a reality show, I suggest you to start a vlog.

With dramatic wishes,

geri-halliwell-is-better-than-mel-c

   Dear dream-cheater,

many people start relationships, get married and die with someone they don't really like or they're not into that much. Many other people like to have love affairs with disgusting sneaky greasy sweaty men because then they feel objectified and that makes them get wet and explode with cum kinda like the Niagara waterfalls.

By the way, holding hands is not cheating. And even lending clothes. Going to sporting goods stores is cheating on yourself.

xoxo,

little-monsters-do-it-better

   Dear getting-married-in-ivory,

Aren't you worried about getting married in public with an ivory gown? Everyone will think that you're a cocksucker dickraper cumdrinking whore. Which is nothing to be ashamed of, actually - I guess you're having a great time and I totally understand you lifestyle - just, do you want also your (and your future husband's) family know about it? You may as well get married wearing a micro short sequined dress, having on a feather boa, and going on honeymoon to Reno.

I also wanted you to remember that bridesmaids should wear only disgusting colors. No blush pink then. Go for some brown and orange. Or military green and diarrhea. Just make them feel ashamed of themselves when they'll see themselves on pictures. That's what good friends do.

Best wishes now that your life is almost over,

im-twelve-and-sucking-dicks-for-cheeseburgers

and good, old memories

It's saturday night in Milan, I am totally broke and trying to sell my body to have money for drugs and parties. I set up a good lightning in my living room and take couple webcam pictures of me naked on a white background. I sign in to a random gay dating website and set my nick name as gimme$$$$Impretty. Friends on chat say that I won't earn more than 15 euros for a blowjob and that the streetwalkers in their area would sell even lungs for such a price. I feel kinda offended, but whatever.

A man writes me and offers me 40, and I'm all like what should I even do with 40 euros. That's barely enough for couple drinks at a party. I definitely need more. And he says he will give me like 60 if he can cum in my mouth - I don't have to eat it, he finds it hot to see guys spitting cum loads. He says if I let him take couple pictures or a short video, he will even give me 100. And I am almost ready to go, but then it suddenly feels so stupid. Do I really need to spend that 100 to see the same old shit faces at parties? I may as well look at them over the internet for free.

I delete the profile and start drinking boxed wine and watching to Project Runway All Stars 'till I fall asleep.

This guy hits on me on Grindr and we randomly talk for couple days. He has no pictures on display, but somehow I'm sure he's this hot guy I met at McDonald's. Then he finally sends me a face picture and I realize he's a totally different person, like he's this guy who used to write me almost every day on Facbook, but I never used to answer - 'till the moment I unfriended him 'cause he was curly and annoying. And he used to say things like "you should laugh, you always look so serious".

Now he has a new haircut and looks kinda hot.

He invites me over for dinner and I playfully say I can't come over since I don't know him and my mommy told me not to speak to strangers. And then, I also have to meet this friend for a drink in thirty minutes, so no way. He says that he'll be in front of my front door in like five minutes to officially introduce himself to me, so he won't be a stranger anymore. And if after the drink I want to, and if it's not too late, I can still go over at his place and we can have this dinner together.

Actually free food is always nice, so I text him around ten p.m. and say I can be there in like 20 minutes.

His place has something that makes me feel uncomfortable. There are a lot of paintings and framed photographs of Hollywood divas like Marilyn and Audrey and Mae and whoever. It smells like all the foods in the world and there's a TV on. He's watching to a documentary about this 7 year old girl looking like a fiftysomething midget.

He serves me a whole pizza as an appetizer. He's also making pasta with meat sauce, crepes with cheese and ham, and frying meatballs and potatoballs. There's a salad made out of tomatoes and onions on the table and couple jars of unrecognizable vegetables in oil.

He says it's 'cause he's from Sicily and they eat a lot in there. While he's serving pasta, on the TV there's this documentary about a woman born without legs who started a bikini dancing career.

He offers me to choose from different wines and his fridge looks like if he just robbed a supermarket last night. When he's serving me crepes and meatballs, on TV there's this documentary about people who once were weighting 300 kilos, but lost about 200, and have disgusting lumpy fluffy bodies and go through different kind of plastic surgeries to have swimsuit bodies.

He asks me about what kind of people I met on Grindr, he says he never did drugs and that if he drinks like two beers he gets wasted. We start having this conversation about getting fucked up because if you're sober, fun is not going to be had. And he says that he's not that kind of guy, he's all like pizza, pasta and cuddles on the sofa. And then, actually, all he's looking for is to get a boyfriend and totally forget that parties existed. I try to convince him that actually having a boyfriend is a reason to get blackout drunk and forget your name and roll around on the floor and die and stuff. There's no way to make him agree and when we move onto the sofa. On TV there's this documentary about two transexuals female to male who are a couple but one of them still has her vag and now is pregnant - they look like bears, just one of them looks fatter than the other.

I am pretty drunk and he starts kissing me and hugging me and we end up on the floor, laying one on the other, and still kissing. We move to his bedroom, which is so small there's only enough space for this king size bed all covered in pillows. Basically a box room.

When he undresses I actually realize he's kinda fat, but in a nice way. And has a tribal tattoo on his shoulder. And a belly piercing. Which is kinda Jersey Shore, but I don't really care.

He sits on my chest and, while I give him a blowjob, all I'm thinking about is that the hair growing back on his shaved balls will probably give me a rash on my face. Or on my neck. His dick is thin and not that long, so it's no big deal to take it all.

Finally he cums on my face and immediately takes a handkerchief and removes all his semen. We kiss and I'm all like, ok, I have to go. And he's like no way, we're sleeping together. So I just hug him and fall asleep.

When I wake up I'm lying flat on my stomach, he already lubed my butt and is trying to shove his cock inside me. And I'm all like what are you doing, are you raping me or what? He says it's not rape - but surprise sex. I'm all like just fucking sleep and I fall asleep again. When I wake up again, he's standing next to the bed and jerking off. I don't even have the time to say or do something that I get a load of his cum on my forehead. Then, he's all like do you wanna have breakfast?

I wipe the cum off of my face, dress up and leave. In silence. Not saying a single word.

and how you spend them nights, me I spend them, looking for men I may like, like myself

Last week I was invited to a house party and asked to bring this friend of mine. It wasn't like just bring a friend, it was more like bring that guy, just him. Whatever.

My friend and the guy who was inviting us had sex couple times, like last year, but never called each other afterwards. I smelled it in the air that it was a false pretense, I mean, the party thing, but anyway, I was bored and not having any fun.

To investigate, I even asked if it was supposed to be just the three of us or also other people and the guy who invited me said that there were two more guys coming over. He told me to bring something to drink and that we would have a YouTube based karaoke night.

I've always been excited about karaoke, it feels like singing along with the songs I like makes me embrace the meaning of the song itself even more.

Anyway, the friend I was supposed to bring there came and picked me up and we drove there. I was wearing a dramatic look in case someone would take Istagram pictures. Or Hipstamatic. Or whatever iPhone-vintage-looking-pictures nerds love to take these days.

I had a bottle of whiskey in my fake Birkin bag and we got there.

The house smelled like dried semen and lube and the polyester-faking-silk bed sheets were making the whole situation look like a gang bang set from a cheap porn movie. But the screen for the karaoke was huge and there were few bowls of potato chips in different flavors - any occasion can be turned into a party with a bowl of potato chips.

From a weather point of view, that room was like being in a womb. Or in a sauna. I suddenly understood all those poor hookers streetwalking in the middle of August on the highway. And it was too small to be comfortable in ti in five. And the drinking made us feel even warmer. So we all ended up in t-shirts and underwear.

All the songs I was singing were by Lana Del Rey, which brought a hint of sadness into the whole thing. The two guests I didn't know left very early, saying that they were getting too drunk and sweating too much and that they would take a shower and that we could meet at this party later. It was like eleven p.m. I started even thinking that the whole thing was arranged before. I was also getting drunk and I was happy and the thing making me happy was that if we were just the three of us, I could sing more often. And improve my Lana Del Rey performances.

I was singing and they were getting closer.

I was singing and they were all like sit with us.

I was singing and I paused the karaoke and I said "are you joking? I can't sing well if I'm sitting, it's all about the diaphragm".

I was singing and I made the Lana-Del-Rey-dance-move and they were having hands in each other's underwear.

I was singing, but I stopped and I said "you promised me a karaoke party and now we'll have a karaoke party".

I was singing and they were all like just come on the bed and relax with us.

I was singing and I screamed "oh no, no way, I'm not gonna getting into any triangle tonight".

--------------------------------------------------------

Btw, HOW TO MAKE A TRIANGLE.

Materials: a piece of square paper. And something you certainly have, your hands (if you don't, give up).

- Fold the square in half and unfold.

- Now fold the bottom left corner so that it goes over the center fold. Make sure that the edge of the paper goes from the right bottom corner to the center crease. Pinch where the former bottom right corner meets the center line.

- Make a fold that goes from where the pinch intersects the center to the bottom right hand corner, repeat on left side. These will become the two other sides of the triangle.

- Now, sharply crease the right side of the triangle both ways. Then lick the crease and rip (or use scissors).

- Finally you have not only a triangle, but an equilateral one. How amazing.

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They stopped then paying attention to me, pulled out their dicks and started sucking off each other.

I was singing and I screamed "I don't care, I'm gonna sing the whole album, bitches". And so I did. And when they were done and that awkward moment, in which they didn't know what to say to each other or to do, came - they started both looking hopelessly at me, like if I could save the situation. But all I did was stuffing my pockets with potato chips. Then I took the bottle I brought and said "have a nice awkward sleepover bitches, I'm gonna party". And I left.

and get The-English-Patient-ed

May is a month of tragedies world wide. Like the Haymarket Tragedy, the Hinderburg Disaster, the 13 May Incindent in Kuala Lumpur, and, for italians only, la Tragedia di Superga. Just yesterday Milla Jovovich showed, accidentally, her crotch to half New York, which probably is also a tragedy. Or maybe it is just for her. Or maybe it isn't. Well, we'll never know. Last year there was even a prediction about a huge earthquake to happen in Rome in May. Which never happened in the end. Which means that maybe it's also a tragedy.

I think there are possibilities that for many people also Cinco De Mayo (or however it's spelled) was also a pretty much big catastrophe. In Italy we had the worker's national holiday, which I spent working, because that was my idea of celebration. Not many people know that working, or having jobs, is that medieval ritual in which you do things you don't like to do, in exchange of money. Other times working is doing things you really love to do, but in a kind of context that ruins it all. Mainly, is like sharing a hot bath in a Jacuzzi with your granpa's friends (which actually can be fun if you're perverted enough). And I am explaining all this because I actually don't really understand this whole social conventions. So that was a memo for myself.

Anyways, mainly, we link May with disasters  because of the Mayday thing, which is a popular way of calling for help, notorious after some military movies in which Demi Moore starred (or Jean Claude Van Dyke). But for me, usually, May is that magic moment in which I discover that the things I bought during the mid-season sales are now the summer hits (even if still, why should people even wear clothes during summer?). Just, I guess, somehow I screw it up this year and nothing I bought is actually suitable for the upcoming summer. And there are chances that people I know followed my advices and now have a wardrobe full of brand new, but useless and ugly, crap. And I know how does it feel, it's like when after a night of fun, you wake up hangover and there's a dead whore in your bathtub. You have to get rid of the body before it starts rotting. And everyone who spent the spring break in Tijuana (or in Tuscany) knows that there's nothing worse than waking up and finding a dead whore in the bathtub.

I was even thinking to give those unfashionable clothes to an orphanage, but it would be a despise. So the wisest thing to do is to dig a deep hole in the garden and bury them there, waiting for better times to come. I was obviously talking about orphans, not about clothes. 

Ok, just joking.

Good things to do while waiting for better times is to keep everything neat and clean. Have a pedicure. Keep the shoes clean. Get a fanpage on facebook. Then put effort in something very hard and complicated and exhausting, like listening AND understanding at the same time. But, probably, it ends up that all this focusing on listening-AND-understanding drained you from the ability of putting more than 5 words sentences together, like sentences that actually make sense and are on the topic - which is something I've never been able to make work well.

The ultimate statement that comes to my mind is that the best thing to do while waiting for better times to come, is self-mutilation. Like getting The-English-Patient-ed.

The English Patient method is something we all know, that always worked well and that we practiced thousand times. Like from the primary school times. I tried so hard to get diarrhea or salmonellosis to avoid classes (and lose weight). But gastric problems were popular in the 90s, now we are in different times. And I guess the contemporary way to get The-English-Patient-ed is going to the gym or jogging, which is that desperate that's not even sickening, it's just sick. Which, again, is a disaster.

and etiquette lessons.

After I got this enlightenment at the tram stop after hearing a lady talking on the phone, I decided to share my wisdom about how to speak professionally and wow people in any occasion, from formal job conversations to drinks with friends.

When someone comes back from exotic vacations, you don't say YOU'RE SO TANNED, you say WOW, YOU'RE HARVESTING SKIN CANCER.

You don't say YOU LOOK SO HOT TODAY, you say YOU LOOK FERTILE LIKE A BREEDING SOW.

When someone says I WANT YOU TO MEET MY MOTHER, you answer ACCUSING SOMEONE OF BEING SOMEONE'S MOTHER IS DEPLORABLE.

When someone says YOU'RE SO PRETTY, you say I'M SO PRETTY THAT WHEN I WALK IN A ROOM ALL THE SLUTS BECOME MORE NERVOUS THAN A CAT AT A GATHERING OF ROCKING CHAIRS.

You don't say THERE'S SUCH A LOVELY WEATHER TODAY, you say THE SKY IS BLUER THAN THE BALLS OF A MAN WHO'S NOT BEEN FUCKING IN MONTHS.

You don't say THAT'S SO EXCITING, you say I FEEL LIKE A KID WITH A BOX OF MATCHES AND A STRAY CAT.

You don't say ARE YOU JOKING , you say IT'S POINTLESS THAT YOU PISS ON MY BACK AND SAY IT'S RAINING.

You don't say YOU LOOK SO SKINNY, you say YOU LOOK LIGHT LIKE A FART AFTER A MEXICAN DINNER.

You don't say GOOD JOB, you say LOOKS LIKE YOU PUT MORE EFFORT IN THAT THAN A CAT SEEDING SHIT ON A MARBLE FLOOR.

You don't say THE FLOOR IS SLIPPERY, you say THIS SHIT IS SLIMY LIKE A SHOT OF CUM ON A GOLDEN TOOTH.

You don't make sexy faces, you make faces that make people think about drunk truck driver's cock in your ear or chocking on a pig's dick, or eventually sitting under a butt while licking it.

YOU'RE WELCOME.

and I'm proudly hopeless since I was born

I was like fifteen and it was still popular to go to Blockbuster to rent movies and stuff. Actually where I was living in Tuscany there was no Blockbuster, but the movie renting place was named after some Disney movie like Bambi. Actually just Bambi.

I used to go there every afternoon and rent some crappy horror movie. I could file that whole experience under "how I got fat" or something, since part of the movie ritual was to gulp down enough of potato chips and candy bars to put an end to famine in Africa.

For three days in a row I saw this guy there and then, finally, I asked him for a lighter. And since he had one, I also asked him for a cigarette (I didn't have any and I wasn't really a smoker at that times). Actually I wanted to talk to him, that's why I asked him for this lighter. But I deeply hoped he would say no and that we would never meet again. 

While I was walking towards him, I contracted all my muscles like when you're expecting someone to punch you or to be hit by a car.

He wasn't really my type, but I was kinda bored and not willing to go to the beach like all the kids used to do. He was really friendly and we arranged to meet that night for a beer or whatever. He was there just on vacation for couple weeks, but he would come back in autumn for two more weeks or something like that. I don't really remember how it was supposed to be.

Anyways, he showed me a cruising spot in the woods and we made like a sculpture out of used syringes we found. That night he gave me a lovebite under my right nipple so I could pretend I had three nipples, which was pretty amazing. I always kinda felt like I deserved to have some sort of deformity, like whatever sort, just because I felt I needed something physically weird to justify my being just weird.

Probably if that was happening now, I'd be all like "we can go there and see the same shit faces, or over there, and still see the same shit faces, but we can also stay home, and see the same shit faces on the internet". But that times were different. At that times it never happened to me to open an account on a dating website and then scream out loud to the computer for at least ten minutes "that's gross, how can this be possible" and then delete the account and only then realize how that whole operation was looking from outside.

That times were hard, so hard I could stay home, dancing in the dark to Mariah Carey, crying uncontrollably.

Before leaving for some whatever place in the north of Italy, that guy gave me a bottle of Laura Biagiotti Roma perfume (which I actually never liked - I guess he thought that was the finest or maybe it was just the cheapest, and it was half used, btw). I thought that was so romantic and I would keep it in the drawer next to my desk and use it to perfume all the letters I would send to prisoners after watching to those crappy horror movies.

Then it was fall and he came back. I felt it like in the air, or maybe I knew when was the day he was supposed to come. I was ready like I've never been - I was hanging out for hours at the movie rental hoping to see him come from behind the corner, sun kissed and with a huge smile on his face, waving hello the way you wave hello to people you haven't seen in ages, but that you've missed so badly it hurt.

Nothing like that happened.

Then, like one week later, I saw him hanging out with a bunch of retards and he didn't even say hi. So I ran back home and threw the perfume in the trash bin, screaming out loud. My mother came in the kitchen asking me what was that screaming and I said it was a release.

Thinking backwards, throwing that perfume away was probably a stupid idea - I guess that was one of the things that made my letters to prisoners masturbation material.

Fast forward to the moment I'm getting out this plane after a spectacular travel, the wind is blowing in my hair and I'm petting my chihuahua sitting in my LV bag, while on my sunglasses the metropolis' panorama reflects - then I remember this all and immediately buy a bottle of Laura Biagiotti Roma at the duty free.