What Is My Css Heapsize

Venice takes secondua

I organize myself, and this time, no creep.
Early morning, we start on time, so that despite the conspiracy we can get from Bologna to Padua to see the show, something to nibble at the station and to be with, even in advance, we must take to Flight of the splendid train which are started from Vicenza. Direction: Venice. Hours: 14.
appointment made, everything is ok.
Van, check out the track of train number 5493, I recommend a place, direction Venice. Track 11. Sure? Yes Ok.

So: it's me, the advance, the Van, the trolley, the little purse, his cap, his Ziga on and then off, I sat on the bench with ice and his feet, only two of us, at 13 , 50 pm, we expect that only the train number 5493 to the track 11. Accuracy against rogues. Enough, now my life has changed. No bullshit, no improvisation. I've been good, right Van? Yes darling. Thanks. Ok. I feel so
competing against my crackers (Lia one, zero charlatans, self-esteem a thousand) all states that are also sitting with your back straight, her legs closed, hands on the bag. I look a bit 'my grandmother. The beautiful will be proud of me. I am no longer one that arrives four hours late.

SMS of the beautiful: we are leading, practical guide us. My response (a little 'puffed up): We are already on track. When you arrive, looking out.
(I'm happy, I was very good. I have a smile and happiness in my face that I do a little 'pain. Or discomfort. It depends.).

wait and at some point in the silence of the empty loneliness of the binary number 11, I hear a scream come from platform 8. Incredible: my name. Unbelievable, but what seems to be the screams beautiful. Incredible: is the beautiful. Screaming. Our name. Facing a train. 8 of the track, though. And he says, but what are you doing sitting lìììììì?

I just remember screaming not we'll maiiiiiiiiiii , grab the trolley who was smartly placed next to me, and I run, run,
and then flying down the stairs of the track 11, and
I have to climb more stairs of platform 8,
and then insult the people are coming down those stairs, and that seems a million human beings,
and then run like salmon going back upstream to spawn eggs,
and then I can heroic struggle against fate, however, that always makes me mob,
and then, finally, with a jump aggraziatissimo, I can get on the train.

sweating like a goat, I realize that my grandmother dell'aplombe there's no longer even a shadow, dead salmon along the slope against the fall of man.

When we are in beautiful contrast, in the train, I can only say, broken and fallen behind:
I swear, it's not my fault.

(continued)
(maybe)