#non mi capite

[gaysessuale]

ieri mi sono perso a guardare le dirette delle persone che vivono a napoli, ho fatto degli screenshots e stamattina, riguardandone alcuni, mi sono apparsi degni di nota

[earanie]

Te pare che devo svegliarmi """presto""" per andare al mare e poi deve piovere

[lesbicastagna]

grandi anche oggi met my quota di sexual harassment stavo cominciando a preoccuparmi

[omarfor-orchestra]

Brogli

[bluedestinybluebird]

Mam dużo przemyśleń związanych z obchodzeniem świąt o przeróżnym charakterze, kilka przemieszanych skojarzeń związanych z okolicą 14.02, a na dodatek przekonałam się, że bez jakichkolwiek predatowanych okazji ciężko się nastawiać na coś, na co warto czekać, ale w tym roku jeden konkretny marketing prawie mnie przekabacił:

"Weź swojego ulubionego człowieka do XYZ! Mamy dla Was w promce UVW!"

Co oznacza, że gdybym lubiła szejki, to nawet bym może poszła...

[arcanespillo]

mi sento un mix tra manuel simone e mimmo

[kqluckity]

.

[pgfone]

Posso lamentarmi? Mi lamento: per descrivervi quanto sia ridicola ormai la situazione agricola Italiana vi voglio raccontare questa cosa. In questi ultimi anni ho dismesso tutte le coltivazioni (causa zero ricavi) orzo, grano, farro, lenticchie, per citarne alcune, ormai tutta rimessa sotto ai 100 ettari e mi sono concentrato sugli olivi, ogni tanto però faccio qualche prodotto su richiesta specifica o per qualche amico. In questo caso ho fatto delle balle di fieno per un amico, un fieno di prato misto dove ci sono varie essenze tra cui l'erba medica, il trifoglio, il loietto, l'avena, ecc ecc... insomma tutte quelle varieta di specie erbacee che fanno i prati di montagna colorati per cui tutti impazziscono (Tipo la fioritura di Castelluccio). Bene vi ho già annoiato? Lo capisco, ma aspettate tanto è caldo e non si può fare niente a quest'ora a parte leggere. Allora per essere breve, il processo del fieno è abbastanza semplice, si taglia, si fa asciugare un giorno o due (in questa stagione) si gira, si ranghina, ovvero si mette tutto insieme in file per poi pressarlo con l'apposita macchina attaccata al trattore che fa le balle che possono essere di varia forma densità e misura a seconda poi delle bestie che andrà a nutrire. Ecco capite che è un bel dispendio di tempo e gasolio fare questi passaggi senza contare le macchine che ormai sono costosissime e senza contare che il mercato ormai richiede un prodotto perfetto, per perfetto intendo che se becca una piovuta non vale più niente. Ok fino a qui ci siete? Ora viene il bello, una di quelle balle cilindriche dove tutti si fanno le foto Instagrammabili pesa all'incirca 4 quintali e il fieno quest' anno viene pagato 4 euro al quintale, 4x4=16 euro per una balla, bene, sapete quanto costa la rete per legare la balla (che è quella che fa si che il fieno stia lì tutto bello pressato) ?????

20 euro.

Per concludere, 4 euro di rimessa a balla, senza considerare il gasolio per tutti i passaggi che vi ho descritto e senza considerare che il fieno lì non ce l'ha messo il buon dio ma ci è stato seminato con altrettanti passaggi che vi evito per non essere ancora più prolisso

[beguines]

The fact that the workerist definition of class has become normative (that class is treated as an identity, an essence, when it should be understood as a social and economic relation) is evinced by various critiques of the Marxist concept of the proletariat that argue, because they (mis)understand this concept according to a workerist definition, that the contradiction between labour and capital is no longer fundamental to the logic of capitalism. Take, for example, Maurizio Lazzarato's claim that the working class no longer constitutes a political class:

"While the number of workers in the world has increased considerably since the 1970s, they no longer make up a political class and never will again. The working class is no longer a class. [ . . . ] No longer based in the factory, the new class composition that has emerged over the years is made up of a multiplicity of situations of employment, non-employment, occasional employment, and greater or lesser poverty. It is dispersed, fragmented, and precarious, far from finding the means to constitute a political 'class' even if it represents the majority of the population."

The problem, here, is that Lazzarato presupposes that the working class only constitutes a class because of some prior organization and consciousness of this organization. The fact that workers are now dispersed throughout a "multiplicity of situations," and thus fragmented by neoliberal capitalism, is taken as evidence that workers are no longer a possible site of proletarian power. If the workerist presumption of a class in-itself that is automatically a class for-itself is correct, then this fragmentation indeed proves it is no longer a political class. We must wonder, though, why Lazzarato assumes that workers are "no longer based in the factory." Although it is true that the factory is not the only site in which workers reside, or that first world factories are no longer the norm, it is also true that hundreds of thousands of factories have been established in the global peripheries due to the export of capital. Hence, the majority of the world's working poor are based in factories, mines, and refineries. Lazzarato points out the contemporary economic situation of the working class and uses this as evidence as to why it is no longer a political class, failing to note that he has simply repeated the category mistake of workerism by conflating the economic with the political.

The Invisible Committee echoes Lazzarato's analysis by proclaiming, in To Our Friends, that we live "in a world where the organization of production is decentralized, fluid, and largely automated . . . To physically attack these flows, at any point, is therefore to politically attack the system as a whole. If the subject of the strike was the working class, the subject of the blockade is whoever. It's anyone at all, anyone who takes a stand against the existing world." This notion of a world of decentralized flows where the strategy of blockade and sabotage can create a generic revolutionary subject is compelling. After all, as noted above, the global economy has become complex: financialization, speculation, immaterial labour are prevalent. The traditional notion of the trade union worker, whose primary strategy of insurrection was linked to the general strike, does seem out of date in comparison to this conception of reality. In the previous chapter, however, we discussed how this notion of a decentralized capitalist system of flows and automation actually rests upon a re-materialization of labour that often disappears in the delirium of financialization and automation. If this decentralized and fluid world of production is to function as an organized global machine, it requires a massive and brutal industry of mining and refining—which largely takes place in the global peripheries—since the computer systems used to manage these flows are dependent upon silicon and other materials. The exploited labour of the working class remains the bedrock of capitalism's existence: capitalism needs workers; the system does not simply automate itself. Replacing this possible political subject, without whom the system could exist, with a vague but insurrectionary "whoever," is about as helpful as the Invisible Committee's political economy: the kind of utopianism that was behind the anti-globalization movementism that opened up 21st Century anti-capitalist struggle in the imperialist metropoles.

J. Moufawad-Paul, Politics in Command: A Taxonomy of Economism

[kon-igi]

CARI AMICI UOMINI

Dopo avere letto una pletora di articoli di giornale polemichetti e frignosetti sull'argomento, mi permetto, in quanto tesserato da 50 anni presso il Patriarcato, di raccontarvi come andrà a finire.

Intanto due o tre considerazioni sulle donne.

Le donne non devono essere 'conquistate'... Le donne hanno voglia di trombare tanto quanto voi, quindi se non le state trombando significa che non vi vogliono trombare. Punto.

Non dovete convincerle, non le dovete ammansire o ammaliare, non stanno facendo 'le difficili'... non vi vogliono trombare per una serie di motivi che voi non capite o che magari non hanno voglia di spiegarvi, anche perché magari ci sono donne stronze (o stanche o a cui girano i coglioni per fatti loro) che non hanno voglia di dare spiegazioni.

Non vi hanno fatto perdere tempo facendovela annusare.

Magari è successo l'esatto contrario, perché loro si aspettavano un uomo più interessante, perdendo così tempo prezioso nel credervi migliori di quanto non siate poi risultati.

Nessuno deve niente a nessuna. E viceversa.

Impacchettate le vostre palle blu e segatevi a casa. Ri-punto.

Ho incontrato parecchi omuncoli tambleri con le palle e l'orgoglio feriti che, frignanti per le aspettative tradite, sentivano di dover in qualche modo pareggiare i conti...

Mi piacerebbe insultarvi in modo colorito e fantasioso ma credo che il vostro specchio ogni mattina stia facendo un lavoro migliore del mio.

E vi svelo un segreto, a voi che vi sentite demascolinizzati da tutte queste donne disinibite, rompicoglioni e pretestuose con le loro lotte femministe.

Le donne sono disinibite?

Scopatevi una bambola gonfiabile ascoltando in loop l'mp3 di vostra mamma che vi dice che voi valete.

Le donne sono pretestuose e rompicoglioni con le loro lotte?

Credo che 10.000 anni di patriarcato abbia conferito loro questo diritto e se a volte alcune polemiche possono sembrare davvero pretestuosamente costruite, pazienza... ci sta che per i primi tempi qualcha uomo possa pagare le colpe dei propri padri, dei propri nonni, dei propri bisnonni, di tutti i parenti defunti dal principio alla fine sino ad arrivare a quel coglione di Agamennone. Si difenderà e sarà riabilitato, lusso poco concesso all'altro 50% dell'umanità.

Se la vostra virilità è così fragile da sentirsi minacciata dalla normalità, allora si merita di essere distrutta senza rimorso alcuno.

Prima ci fate pace con questa consapevolezza, prima smetterete di lagnarvi e accetterete questa nuova normalità, più giusta perché restituisce allle donne il diritto negato da sempre di sentirsi intere.

[blablablablablablaebla]

Se mi capite, bene.

Se non mi capite, vi capisco.

[ideeperscrittori]

Lingua inglese, hai vinto. Pensavo di conoscerti. Dico sul serio. Ero contento dei miei miglioramenti nella comprensione. Ma oggi ho incontrato una persona americana. Non sono riuscito a dire una sola frase di senso compiuto. Ho balbettato solo parole isolate tipo "when". Per dirne una: non mi è venuta in mente neppure la parola per dire "mercoledì". E Wednesday è il mio personaggio preferito della famiglia Addams. Capite la gravità della cosa? A casa la sapevo. Di persona no. Di persona non so nemmeno dire "the book is on the table". Penso che sia un blocco insuperabile. Vado a togliere "buon inglese" dal curriculum. Non voglio truffare la gente.

[L'Ideota]

[papesatan]

E già qualcuno fra i parenti ha osato chiedermi del concorso. Ma come, non partecipi? Vedo già le mie zie insegnanti partir gagliarde con le solite domande cui non saprò cosa rispondere. La verità porterebbe a una bruta discussione, meglio tentar la via della cieca ignoranza o, peggio ancora, della menzogna compiacente. Ogni volta resto muto e interdetto, incapace di soffrirne a voce, perché ho un lavoro, cristo, un lavoro creatomi dal nulla, MI SONO DATO un lavoro e per loro non è abbastanza, perché non è un posto pubblico. Forse chi ha visto Quo vado? ma vive al nord non ha ben chiaro quanto quel film ritragga fedelmente la gretta mentalità della mia terra, ma è davvero così e non fa ridere per niente. Ricordo ancora benissimo i mesi precedenti l’apertura, il silenzio dei parenti, il vuoto intorno, le risatine di mia nonna: “Ma verrà qualcuno?” e l’insistenza di mia zia: “Hai mandato le Mad? Dovresti provare col sostegno, da lì è più facile entrare” (e di questa immonda realtà parleremo un’altra volta). Ci litigai, speravo d’aver chiarito una volta per tutte le mie intenzioni, ma puntualmente dopo qualche mese tornò a chiedermi: “Allora, hai mandato le Mad? Nessuna supplenza?” “Eh, no” mentii “purtroppo nulla”. Ci rinuncio, perché quella dei nostri genitori ormai è una generazione totalmente slegata dalla realtà, convinta di vivere ancora gli anni ‘90, dove tutto era possibile, dove entravi dove volevi con l’aiuto di zio Cosimino, dove il politichino di turno sistemava gli amici di amici, dove una laurea e un concorso significavano qualcosa. Oggi la mia dipendente, povera crista che quando non lavora passa le giornate a studiare, mi ha rivelato che per la sua classe di concorso i posti messi a bando per la Puglia saranno 3. Come dovrei non incazzarmi? Come si può restare calmi di fronte a tanto schifo? Capite perché ho mandato tutti al diavolo, aprendo la MIA scuola? Non possiamo star qui a invecchiare all’ombra di mamma e papà, in attesa che lo stato ci permetta di fare ciò che abbiamo sudato e studiato decenni per fare. In famiglia nessuno sa che ad aprile ho rinunciato all'orale. Non li ritengo stupidi, è probabile che qualcuno abbia capito (forse mia madre?), dall’Usr dell’Emilia Romagna si sono fatti vivi dopo un anno (un anno!) dal superamento dello scritto, questo sì, ma è poco plausibile che venga indetto un nuovo concorso senza aver posto fine al precedente. Almeno il dubbio deve averli sfiorati. Ma non ho il coraggio di dirglielo, lascerò che lo capiscano da sé, se vogliono, non sopporterei la cenere di quegli sguardi delusi, il ricordo di mio padre che dopo lo scritto esulta al telefono: “Volesse Iddio che ti sistemi”, la segretaria dell’Usr che alla rinuncia insiste incredula al telefono ed io che le rispondo: “Non posso, ho cambiato vita”. No, la verità li ammazzerebbe, non so manco perché poi. E la cosa che mi fa più ridere è che proprio loro, le mie care zie insegnanti, gente del mestiere, non capiscono che non potrei affiancarlo in nessun modo a ciò che già faccio, perché è già un lavoro a tempo pieno. Come potrei mai dedicarmi il pomeriggio al doposcuola e preparare al tempo stesso le lezioni del giorno dopo? Partecipare ai consigli, collegi vari, attività pomeridiane ed essere ubiquamente al mio locale? Gestisco un’attività, cazzo, non è mica il lavoretto dell’estate. Ma non lo capiranno mai tanto, meglio che m’abitui sin da ora a ripetere: “Oh, sì, eccome se ho sentito! Non vedo l’ora di tentar la sorte anch’io alla lotteria!”    

[mar3ggiata]

professional help, c15. The Viper.

simon riley x original character.

trigger warnings: violence, sexual assault, mentions of rape, trauma, sexual themes, swearing, use of alcohol and drugs.

song to listen to when reading this: Don Raffaè, Fabrizio de Andrè

abstract: it's Simon. here I am talking to Jude again, this time it gets too far, the police are involved… no just kidding (I wish someone would just take her away, believe me). also is anyone gonna tell her to stop using this bloody dialect of hers? it sound stupid anyways and I can't understand a word she says. bye.

T'agg ditt Salvo, è venuto a trovarmi a danza, io dovevo mangiare e gli ho chiesto se voleva cenare. Poi avrei portato fuori il cane e mi ha detto che era pericoloso da sola e mi ha accompagnato'. She was in her bathroom in her underwear, painting her toenails while on the phone with Salvo. She usually did this to make her feet seem more normal, she hated the blisters and calluses from wearing pointe shoes. If she didn't hurry up she would be late for work. She told him the Lieutenant had visited her after ballet class and since she needed to eat, she invited him out. Then, he suggested they'd walk the dog together since it was getting late. 'Fra, te non hai capito questo chi è', Salvo insisted. He was very surprised to hear that Lieutenant Riley, the one he briefly met years ago was going out and having dinner with his friend. Going out in general, really. 'Non ha famiglia, glieli hanno uccisi tutti, è una macchina da guerra, io e i colleghi avevam paura.' He told her back before he even met her, he heard stories about him. That a mission had gone sideways for him and his whole family had been killed (she felt terribly bad for asking about it). He told her that he was a killing machine, that him and his teammates feared him. She put away her nail polish. 'Salvo agg capit…Jinx lascia!' She said while trying to get a hold of her dog who stole her slippers. She sensed she was about to leave and decided to make it impossible for her to get ready in peace. She told her friend Simon had been actually nice the night before, she had to give him that. He kept going on saying few ever saw him without his mask on, that it was some kind of unspoken rule and he would get annoyed if someone tried to take it off, that he had survived hell and so on. She didn't tell him he ate a burger in front of her.

She asked if he was married, he said he had never saw him even speak with a woman that wasn't a coworker, that he probably lived a quite secluded life. She said she believed him. It's not a big deal, she said, but he got my fake name. Salvo paused. He won't know about… the other stuff, Alba. You're fine, he can't possibly know. She finished getting ready, and got to the base. She had an easy day ahead, she would start many of her appointments on zoom, some of her patients were deployed all over the world. Christmas is in a few weeks as well, she thought. It made her sad. She remembered Christmas dinners and parties very well in Italy, they had lots of traditions, they used to play board games and drink and eat together… She still did that by herself, unfortunately Jinx didn't know how to play cards. Salvo was still in Korea and she didn't think he would be back in time to see her. He would visit Italy and celebrate there, she thought. She sent him a message on the way to the car, to tell her about his plans for New Years.

She got to the base and when she turned the corner to get to the office she stopped. Simon. In front of her door. Except, she didn't smile this time. One time, I appreciate, two times, you're kind and caring, what's up now? To confirm her thought that something wasn't right, as soon as he saw her, Simon started walking towards her. What did I do now, do I need to run? He was wearing a black tight shirt and cameo trousers, his boots heavy on the ground. He looked scary, she even took a step back when she saw him coming towards her. He was as scary as an avalanche. It was so weird, now he saw him as he really was. A soldier, a man of war. He killed for a living, he wasn't her new little friend. Are you gonna kill me as well?

'Let's go' he said when he approached her. 'What? I have patients', she replied, he went past her at this point and turned the corner. I'm not following you Simon. What is he on about? He stopped when he noticed she wasn't behind him. 'Alba, let's go, you're not working today.' He insisted, and she just got more annoyed. 'No.' She kept a straight face and crossed her arms. 'And don't fucking call me that.' She hissed. She was confused, to say the least. He scoffed and took a step towards her. Why do you have to make things difficult now, I'm just trying to do my job. And yes, I am calling you by your pretty name since I can't get it out of my head. She took a step back, away from him. Was she afraid of him? He felt a burning pressure in his chest. He took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders to seem less intimidating. Does she think he would hurt her like that other soldier did a year ago? If she only knew how much he thought about her, last night. She couldn't imagine how much time he lied awake, one arm between his head and the pillow, thinking so hard about her he felt his brain melting. Her lashes. Her voice. Her nails, the rosy colour of her cheeks.

'Laswell ordered me to come get you. She wants to see you.' He spoke with his voice soft, gently scrunching down to make up for those 30 centimetres that divided their eyes. Just come with me. He saw her relax, her expression softening. Still, she was frowning in confusion. 'My patients…', she looked like a confused little kid, she looked like when you do your maths homework with your dad at the kitchen table and you're tired and heartbroken and you're not getting any of the maths. He figured bossing her around wasn't really the way to win her heart. 'Already taken care of.' She had a white turtleneck on. With that, her blonde, silky hair, her translucent eyes piercing through his soul, she looked like an angel. She looked like a cloud, like an elf, the Lord of the Rings ones. 'You could have fucking told me earlier.' There she was.

He sighed and took off with her trough the corridor. 'What's going on?' she asked, and he didn't reply. 'If you don't answer I'm gonna fucking scream', she was nearly running, to keep up with him and he quite liked seeing her mad. 'She's gonna tell you.' He quickly glanced down at her. Her makeup looked different but he could not really pinpoint why. It made her whole face look brighter. They walked to Laswell's office, took the lift in silence. She smelled nice. Tangerines, flowers. It was a fresh smell. He opened the door of the office for her. Inside, Captain Price, Laswell, Calvin Klein Handsome Boy and Scotland were in the room staring at her. Her and the Lieutenant behind her. They looked like they were about to yell 'Surprise!' and balloons would appear and they would eat cake. Or they were just waiting for her and Simon to arrive cause they were invited for dinner. Or maybe they were going to play hide and seek until one of them found her and had the pleasure to kill her while the others watched. She felt Simon's presence behind her, she was too concentrated scanning the room but she could swear he gently pushed her back to make her get inside the room. 'Jude, thanks for coming, I'm sorry for making you skip your appointments.' Kate smiled and indicated she sat down at her desk. She was not gonna sit down. She took a step foreword and waited her to speak, her arms stiff at her sides, back straight. What's going on. Why the meeting, why this many people.

'Jude, Ghost told me about your theory. The crater.' Her eyes shot up at the captain, how spoke from beside the window. She looked at him 'Did he?' She whispered, then she looked at Simon, or better in the situation, Ghost, who was standing at her right. He was standing legs spread and arms crossed. Traitor. I told you not to say anything. She was ready to apologise for interfering. She shouldn't have trusted him. She had to change her job for sure, she had to leave again. She messed up too bad this time, she managed to mess up the only good thing about her life… Now this really wasn't a comfortable situation for Simon either. He had some explaining to do. He went to see the captain the night before and told him everything. 'I don't know if she's right to be honest. The crater is there and it's a good natural hiding spot for sure. I don't know if it's good enough intel', he had said. Price had thought for a few seconds. 'Listen Simon, I trust your judgement. I don't want to know where and when you talked to her, but we have a job to do…' he tried to interrupt, but he kept going. 'No, no don't worry, I don't want to know about your personal life, to be honest it would be nice to see you settle down and she really is a nice girl…'

'Sir, I-'

'The thing is, if she's wrong and this was all a little game we could waste time, lose our target and put our men at risk.' He managed to investigate further and found out Jude was right, again. Jude 2 - Ghost 0. He briefed his teammates that morning, who asked how he got that information and in which setting he spoke to Jude, which he replied was classified. They looked at him and they knew he was hiding something. He didn't even want to know what they thought. 'Yes, you see, we have a camp, headquarters near Al-Jareena, a few soldiers are still there. Yesterday night, after I was informed about what you found I sent them in the desert, they stopped…' he got close to the table and indicated the map that was placed in the middle '…about here.' She moved closer to the table. 'I sent two drones ahead. They found the crater, about two miles from where the cars had stopped.' He was typing on the keyboard of a laptop. He showed her the screen, she could see the video tape that the drones had recorded. It was in night vision, she couldn't see well, but the image was mostly clear. He spoke again while the video played. 'You see, there are snipers here… and all the way here…and when they got close to the centre…' he stopped, but she understood.

She could see buildings, tents. A camp. She could see people moving around, she could see a campfire. Guns. Then she spotted it. On the side of a tent. She looked up at the captain, her eyes bright with excitement. She could fucking cry in that moment. The viper print on the tent, eyes bright red. Khorram's troops were inside the crater.

notes: translation: 'Ti ho detto, è venuto a trovarmi a danza, io dovevo mangiare e gli ho chiesto se voleva cenare. Poi avrei portato fuori il cane e mi ha detto che era pericoloso da sola e mi ha accompagnato'. means 'I told you, he came to see me at ballet, i needed to eat and i asked him if he wanted to have dinner. Then I would have walked the dog and he said it was dangerous to go alone and he came with me.' 'Fra, te non hai capito questo chi è' means 'Bro, you don't understand who this is'. Fra is the abbreviated version of 'fratello' which means brother. When two are really close is common to call each other fra, boy of girl we don't care, even because it's a funny word, it's fake gangsta slang. I call my girlfriends fra all the time. 'Salvo agg capit…Jinx lascia!' means 'Salvo, I got it…Jinx let it go'.

notes: one of alba's perfumes is disumano by morph. (disumano means non human).

notes: can you tell I'm back at uni, I'm posting again lol

taglist:

@ummmmmwat @ghostlythots @sweetfemmefatal @natxpat @chavarriakeren647 @ravenmoore14 @farther-than-pleiades @internallyscreamings @hwromi @atoxicrat @cuti3maddi3 @deafeningkittenblaze @its-celeste @serene-hills @lexidoll12 @poohkie90 @lunatiquess

@warmedbythebody @katzykat @iristhemuse @azkza @keiraslayz @abbyandermine @jennyjencakes @dest-nai @corset-briefs @nutze-kekse @ilytsukiw @b3anspr0ut

@pondsblog @missyouzoe @fallenkitten @bigauthorrascalturkey @bethtay @angelynn-nicole @starluv @stargirlisworld @giyuuslittleslut @impossiblecupcakelight

@rkrivees-blog @ghosts-hoe @kam1snotverysmart @gauky76 @freyjaaasstuff @spicyspicyliving @scottpilgrimvsmyfists @courtney0-0 @shinchanboi @darling006 @my-therapist-hates-me

[pietro-balivo]

Mi diletto col cuore ad amarti.

Scevri da mille pensieri, soli tu ed io c'abbeveriamo del nostro eterno amore. Mille sensazioni portano a noi:

il tocco, lo sguardo, l'eleganza nelle cose da non dire, la raffinatezza delle cose dette ma soprattutto la bontà d'animo e le cose capite senza parlare. C'amiamo, ci capiamo, ci comprendiamo. Si chiama "senso d'appartenenza".

[i-am-a-polpetta]

raga cioè, io sono un'anima semplice, se si parla di cacca io rido, ma rido veramente tantissimo, ho 5 anni quando si parla di cacca ok.

appurato questo, sono due giorni che in ufficio qualcuno fa la cacca nel bagno delle donne e non tira l'acqua ok e io sono due giorni che cerco il colpevole o la colpevole e sta cosa mi fa riderissimo vi giuro raga ma tipo che crepo dal ridere voi non capite

ho ristretto la cerchia a due sospettati: la mia responsabile e il software developer. non me la raccontano giusta.

vi tengo aggiornati.