Here in Doiccelandia people work seriously, you can not play with time and the holidays. So when a birthday happens in the middle of the week is what happens in Italy with religious holidays: move everything to the weekend.
here yesterday we had a big mess. A constant coming and going, a tear of nerves that I do not want to tell dovermelo not remember.
The bad things first.
Dishes galore to wash and dry this morning.
Two crystal glasses broken.
A seed fragments, sometimes microscopic, of pretzels on the floor and, ah, ah, on the couch almost new, in the sense that they were new a week before, made by two sowers of excellence, the devils of three years of the twins.
A celebration of drunkenness, which, taste it and taste this one, this morning there were six empty bottles are, of prized wines. Perhaps they expected me to give numbers, estimated idiots.
Beautiful things now.
A hangover of the birthday, which is thus able to rise over the misfortunes and sorrows of daily life in this short but not so much bitter Febbraro.
A mesh size of Inter in the Champions Leag-away white people who are not insiders, with Inter-band cross behind with writing "ENZO" and the number, of course, 77. Chicco gift, and whoever else.
A book of Paolo Coelho's "The Zahir", which gave me my niece Cristina. I do not know how did you know that I had planned to buy just set foot in Italy, beginning to search for books in the first rest area near Pontebba.
A Samsung GT - E 2550. Boh! Who wants to?
Of course now I'll have to get up to me, for I phones I've never had and I have always regarded with suspicion.
We'll see.
Then the general mess that started at sixteen, and finished late at night, time, I do not remember anymore. I was drunk.
So too is gone.
Next next.
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