corroded I got the seat of my old blue Volkswagen had given me at the graduation of linguists. Started the engine, with the feeling of having the lengthy processes, and left the garage. The Perucho out his hand and glanced at me, like accusing me of being an alcoholic. Well, at least I felt that way. The Perucho was in a BMW that had brought him a gray lady who died not long ago in circumstances that have never quite understood, but I think that's a trap. Perucho cursed gigolo moralistic murderer "cove" asshole with silver! Bah! I wish I could hold my aunts and to get paid. That's life. Now I understand my teacher of filosfía - dipsomaniac-worthy when he said, "! asshole you've got a future, give me what a shame!" the future in this country is a curse, it screws the future, the future is a crack in the past. Go old sage! What a discovery!, All have a future, but perhaps no one knows the future is only the future, not money, not wealth, is no better person is-maybe-nothing. Would lie to think that I have never clung to hope, and certainly the future is a hope. Borges himself knows, all writers have an intrinsic ability to be liars, so if there is something to which I cling, apart from my very old blue Volkswagen is to life, although it sucks, even ethereal, even a hope, albeit future.
do not know what drink I drank yesterday, I do not know how many women kissed and perhaps I could have kissed the queer Brian staring at me lustfully. He was drunk, as always, and nobody thought I was a writer. When you're drunk, it hurts to accept that others see you as trash, as a friend of the cold tiles, really hurts. But when you're sober, it hurts more, and the vent comes on its own. Yesterday, when "libaba" liquor in the company of the lady in red used as a resource the "Our Father" of the current romantic poetry, Neruda is already well spent, "Tactical and strategy "of the teacher Benedetti plagero I became a rogue. He put his chest horondo and smoked a few cigarettes in her jacket, she looked at me, stroked my face, kissed me and I fell asleep. When awake, she" dog in the corner of the room with a musculus "Giant Squid" who moved the body as a mannequin that has just come to life. And it hurt me, being a writer was also a future that is, a life. It was nothing but had an air of exquisites irreproachable. People do not think I can sit down and write, I do not believe it, now I do it when it goes to the gym Perucho, is a routine. Jahir if I believe, he says, "Sitting down to write is easy " and I know, write history - that literature is a story-not the same as writing an email on the Internet. Instead, when I'm sober, people think I'm a Cortazarian a benedettiano or even a "Vargitas" in process. It is ironic, because when I am with liquor Benedetti me, but when I'm away from him, sometimes I do not think I exist. I am sullen when I should be chatty and talkative when it should be low profile. I'm a writer when it should be human, and I'm human when it should be a writer. Something very different indeed. Now trial and may not be the right word-to be literary, not in the strict sense of the word, I never liked the extreme, but I always end up being terribly extremist whack. Human or writer, it does not matter, what matters now is that I have no money (my noveluchas junk) I can not do anything else other than these two mundane features, hybrids seem cool, so usurps the oldest profession world, they say.
Math is not my field, the numbers are great, but not my field, operations, logarithms are so mysterious worlds of literature, but again, not my field. Try to do something so simple on the board of scores that I used my old to learn to play cello. My old self was an artist, this fifth luxurious Baroque-style mansion was once old, was a work of art made by my old and sick when we had to sell it to a Uruguayan company that gave us the best house and indemnisó so that he could heal. Tell me if that was not future, hope to recite one tenth the cost of my old meintras he played a piece by Vivaldi in the amphitheater of mother went to hell. He died, life is fucked up to smoke and drink as much as me. I left the house, was his only son to high professional and trying to be artist of the lyrics, I also left the "frog" blue and the salary that pays the state. Enough to live, "said my aunt, and now I think that's a lie," enough to die "I say now, four thousand suns to buy nicotine drink and go that's life, forgiveness, death.
be gigolo I was fine man and a writer could make that outcome in the myriad of results which might be supposed . I went out and I thought that this picture could not care lamar any aunt. I went home to ask for the Toyota sports phone to my aunt Ingrid. He said he was busy and wait ten minutes for me back call. I sat on the sofa and I took to drink orange juice. I turned on the TV and always heard the big nose of telling the news on TV. He was accustomed to hear senseless deaths, rape and fascinerosos strange superhero clothes. The big nose of the fabric was concerned, among trivulaciones and slight stammer said last night 300 writers died in mysterious circumstances and today sucedanias deaths were being reported. The driver's side believed that the big nose was mad and changed the landscape of news. Received a call from a neighbor Miraflores to give their opinion on the traffic report, the driver attempted to make some notes on paper, and the news finally became a truth without exaggeration, the driver fell dead on the side. The signal was gone. I immediately thought yesterday had smoked a lot and maybe even a joint of marijuana. Disvariando was not, were not delusions, ran to the bank on the corner and saw a commotion of people running in terror. The bankers who made notes by hand, were dying.
The solution was, again, technology, science had won the archaic, as I expected. PRINT in hand was to be sentenced to die, the machine age had begun. And be gigolo was the profession more worthy of the universe. If anything was certain was that I flap my engorged penis, it would replace any machine. At least I thought, until I woke up and psychedelic lights twinkled in the club, her "bitch" in the corner of the room with a musculus "Giant Squid" who moved the body as a mannequin that has just come to life. And it hurt me, being a writer was also a future that is, a life. It was nothing but had an air of irreproachable exquisites. It was a dream, as Quevedo, Cervantes, as Aligheri like Cortazar, and Benedetti, like Gabo, and ironically ... like me.
