1) Once a year, since the invention of Internet, thousands of Argentine immigrants living in the northern hemisphere give the ancestral ritual beginning to wonder about, and expressed by every means possible, fucking snow. Somehow those who stayed to fight it like, Crushers belly cool them on the tiles in the living room, the neck in front of the turbo full of lint and now that we, the famous split or SPLI, no banana. Or do not like ya, tired of seeing pictures of the guys in the snow, the kids on sleds, noel papaes really warmed by sudan need not drop fat and die of Faint handing out flyers.
2) The problem with being Morrudo is that you dress up as Santa Claus ask me but you're stuck and you can not complain, I say come on, what's going to hurt you, fat! And a pineapple shake you and you can not complain. The fat is a severe type of expression, a type stoic, laconic, a Spartan out of shape, say, that advances to step firm, PSAL, as a hoplite of anatomy, to tomorrow, with the buckle of his pants hurt, maybe the bow up, at worst agitated and breathless, with his shirt like a shabby bag, the seat of his pants hanging, ass absent but pride on.
The fat is an Atlas holding the globe of the world and they want to put on a diet.
3) Snipping found in an old email:
wrists Why do the things they do at home chiquititas open walls or shoe boxes where shaggy throw his arms raised to the ceiling, with badly painted mouths, trying to give courage to fix their doodles Hair? And dream of little meals aromas, perfume doll food, things that look like ordinary houses, those simple things that are put in vases next to the windows and the days are passing away, swallowing the little water they and put a lot of the burning sun. tired wrists And will not dream and with nothing, badly dressed, dropping back to close the ever-transparent tab lids heavy, suspicious, tired, conviction of the eternity of indestructible plastic.
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