The white blood of Casanova

... I know that many will consider my life depraved and wild. And only units guess its real essence. I don’t know if I can write about her so that they believe me. I'm not a writer. Just a woman with whom all this really happened. If I had forced myself to share, for example, with my mother or with my closest girlfriend, I would not be allowed to give me to the end: people could not stand such a truth. They clamp the ears and clap the door. As if some cleaned and debugged reality awaits them outside the door, without spots. But they will read the book. I am sure of this, because the book creates the illusion of fiction, and even my recognition that all this is pure true, it will go through not noticed by most readers. I will not reveal my real name, because it will immediately cause an unhealthy interest in myself, and I do not want to become the famous cost of my own experiences.