Ok, so I'm on the bus, I get home and when taking the keys I realize my wallet is missing.

And here comes the problem because, idiot as I am, I keep everything in my wallet. Not just the money. So here I am with the following missing:

- identity card
- driver's licence
- sanitary card
- bus travelling card
- pre-paid postal office card

which where just the most important things and I'm not taking the cash into account. I run home and call some supposed friends who were still at school for an art work I am supposed to do tomorrow and plead for someone to go to a near newspapers stand to see if I had left it there before taking the bus. I barely eat, in forty minutes no one bothers to call and I go there myself. No wallet there, so I find myself next to school and I decide to report the whole thing near there and not home, as I was there anyway.

So, in Italy we're cool. So cool that we have THREE police departments, not one. THREE. Normal police, finance guard and another one called Carabinieri.

And I'll say. I have nothing against police or carabinieri. Heck, the father of my best friend is one. But DAMN, there's a reason for the fact that three quarters of the most common jokes here are about them.

I go to their quarter near school and the guy looks at me like I'm completely mad and then says 'I can't report this.' Me -> 'O___O why?' 'Because I can't know who you are, you ain't got a document.'

OF COURSE I DON'T, JACKASS, THEY'VE STOLEN IT.

So, end of things, I have to call my mother to testify that I am me. It seemed like some Kafka book or something and I kind of wanted 1 to cry endlessly, 2 to kill the idiot there. Anyway he took the report, where not only he said that I was saying I was me, but also that I came without identification, but he also managed to get my mother's name wrong AFTER she showed him her identity card three times. And to top it all off, he went in contact with the motorizzazione, dunno how it's in english, it's the place where they get you the driver's licence, got into the database and what he gets? My driver's licence number with my birthday and the date of expiration. Which means that it identified me, right?

Then WHY THE FUCK you didn't THAT before? -_________________________-

Next round, post office for the card. And I'm banging my head against the wall because after the carabinieri, post office clerks are... well... the most DULL gang of statal employees of the whole country. And I have to get all the documents redone.

WTF.

Then I realize I have to study arts still and so I try to go but wow, can't focalize. I see that the download of a csi episode with Ian Somerhalder aka his Prettyness is over, so I'm like, well, let's watch it so I can relax and give my eyes some fix of Prettyness. So it starts. Nothing. Forward. Nothing. Forward. Nothing again. Twenty five minutes into it. I SEE HIM *_* awesome and Pretty as usual. For three minutes. Then we see him again at the end only to find out that he was the murder. I mean, a kid who killes another one in a clandestine race to avenge his mother? °__° laaaame. But he was Pretty, at least. And was on for six minutes on 40.

Why the HELL did he have to die? The next one I have to see is his funeral. And today is not the day, really.

And tomorrow I have to skip school because of the identity card, hoping I don't need two witnesses.

This sucks.

 Dunque. Scendo dal bus, arrivo a casa e scopro che il portafoglio è sparito. E che c'era dentro, a parte i soldi?

- carta d'identità
- tessera sanitaria
- poste pay
- abbonamento dell'autobus
- patente

e queste sono solo le più importanti. Quindi, completamente in panico, chiamo a scuola dove c'era della gente che faceva un lavoro di arte che io dovrei fare domani chiedendo se qualcuno poteva chiedere all'edicolante sotto scuola se l'avessi scordato lì. Passano quaranta minuti e devo andarci io perchè non rispondono. E vabbe'. Sto zitta va. Dall'edicolante niente; ergo, carabinieri.

La prossima volta vado alla polizia. Io contro i carabinieri non ho niente, davvero. Cazzi, la mia migliore amica è figlia di un carabiniere. Ma... dio. A volte le capisco, le barzellette. entro dentro e non mi prende la denuncia. Perchè? Non ho un documento.

Grazie al cazzo, me li hanno un poco rubati tutti.

Quindi finisce che chiamo mia madre. Dio se volevo 1 piangere 2 ucciderlo. Entriamo e prende la denuncia. A parte che è riuscito a scrivere che ero sedicente e sprovvista di identificazione e che riesce a scrivere male il nome di mia madre dopo che lei gli ha dato due volte la sua, di carta d'identità. Sembrava un libro di Kafka, davvero. E poi che fa? Prende il mio numero di patente dal database della motorizzazione.

Ma dico. C'era data di nascita, nome e data di espirazione. Farlo prima no eh?

L'idea che la prossima puntata è all'ufficio postale mi uccide perchè gli impiegati postali sono una categoria che di solito arriva a livelli anche peggiori ma.... ok. Basta. Sopporterò.

Torno a casa, vedo che è scaricato il csi con Ian Somerhalder, me lo vedo per rifarmi un po' gli occhi e si vede sei minuti su quarantadue per scoprire che è l'assassino. Aha.

E domani devo rifare la carta d'identità.

Solo una cosa. ARGH.