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They call me Adrian Rudolph Valentine Aquilini, but only the professors during exams or the cops checking my criminal record. My future will be a blend of sweat, smells, and bad moods, but I almost never think about it. Lately, I often dream of running away from something or someone, as if I've committed a robbery. My guilt is not being liked by others, not saying the right words, not owning the right material goods. Whatever you say will be incomprehensible to someone, someone else will find it in bad taste, someone else too presumptuous, yet someone else will find me not courageous enough.
Selfishness made me who I am, but I can't stop thinking about others, always thinking the worst, of course, I underestimate everyone and everything, and nothing gives me the illusion of an emotion except staring death in the face. Fortunately and out of necessity, I remain myself, alone, individualistic, an evolved(?) monkey searching for the salary that lets me consume as much as possible, that allows me to buy an iPhone and play the part of the radical chic just to convince myself I'm different, but different from whom? Who knows you? Who are you? What brought you to me? Boredom, the desire to see if my life flows amusingly or is a slow rise of unforeseen events, chaos, and miserable mistakes like yours, the more I look at human beings, the more you disgust me; it's not just a matter of physical appearance, your mustaches, your moles, your skin color, your internal organs, your genitals, your breath, your hypocrisy, and immorality make me happy to be the sleazy man I pretend to be daily, with my frivolous, convenient relationships, my solitude, my slow march toward death, while you travel, are "NOTAV" and vote PD, I swear and remain local in a uniform world.
The only thing left for me to do is to reject those who reject me, so I target anyone near me, I've lost my inhibitions and taboos, and it's all exquisitely true, without deception, genuine, down to earth, I oppose the liar, the tactical, the desire to please at all costs, to whom? Who are you? Human beings for profit, university kids with guaranteed jobs, master's degrees, specializations, protests, bike rides with groomed mustaches, convinced you're outside a system that wants you just the way you are, fake rebels, from Saturday night at the illegal party to Sunday afternoon at the Japanese restaurant, end your freedom of speech, yours is not a life, it's a climb toward mediocrity.
You disgust me, you, the supermarkets, the capitalists and the anti-capitalists, the intellectuals and the ignorant, but most of all I hate those who take pictures, what art with a small 'a', who do you think you are, you should consider yourselves lucky to have the chance to press a button with a finger without causing damage, you are empty regardless, and everything that was once truly lived drifts away into representation.
Elio Germano is certainly a good actor, but anyone who has made friends around Rome will know well that today the best actors are right next door, and if you are at least a bit sensitive, you will see that the end of our pseudo-friend, as good as he is, driven we don't know by whom, should be a fate we all share, it is a duty, an obligation towards the planet that hosts us. I leave you with this reflection as macabre as it is stupid: and if to live in a happy world, we talking bipeds should no longer exist? Until I love again, I dream and strongly hope for a magnificent catastrophe.
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