There was a time when, in the absence of swamps, I opened bars. I used to go with Iñaki, which had a fine network of informants, which allowed us to know exactly what kittens are brand new (including the location and time, as in drug delivery), so there appeared, eager, silent, ready to drink for free while the liver to resist. There were always welcome. On one occasion, the day before a fucking statistical review, we present ourselves in a cafe too smart and we look immediately aroused the suspicions of the hosts. Good education is supposed to prevent rich people that we expel down the stairs, thanks to which, despite the disapproving glances, we gave a good account of confectionery. Canapés, champagne, fruit glazed and fragrant. But the gods we had booked a punishment for our courage and the next day, amid the bloody statistics examination, I suffered, preceded by an attack of nausea, severe stomach pain. I passed by a girl handed me his sheet and the teacher Acha, which boasted an ironic infinite patience and allowed me to go to the bathroom at my pleading face. Sitting on the toilet I swore to myself that I would never leave me tempted by the golden calf, nor (as I imagined champagne swamps where sirens heinous corrupted the soul of drunken sailors) would re-open a fucking luxury cocktails.
0 comments:
Post a Comment