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As túas balas » Blog Archive » pesto

Algunha maldade houben de facer pra encadear tantos castigos, así que cando penso que vou meter un ferrete cun guapiño postadolescente loiro plántaseme na casa un tal Fraser, administrativo do hospital local e que, se ben na cara coincide lixeiramente coas fotos, no bandullo decididamente non. Un trazo típico local é a acumulación de hamburguesas á altura do cinto, e outro son sen dúbida as rarezas, e este di que quere foder con lentes, que aquilo mellor non o fai, que istoutro non che sei, que lle dá reparo que eu non estea limpo, e cousas semellantes. Eu penso no veciño, que ten a radio a todo meter co disco da scottish-quenlla, e procuro non darlle demasiada importancia. Pouco a pouco empezamos, pero a falta de sintonía é total: competimos a torpes, golpeámonos cando facemos manobras pra quitar un pouco de roupa, e cando lla zugo retórcese e berra, aparentemente máis por cóxegas ca por outra cousa. Mais ao cabo, polo propio peso, a cousa acaba indo ao rego. E cando parece que queda pouco, supetamente detense e pregúntame con cara de susto: comeches algo con pesto nas últimas horas?
Suspiro e, sen responderlle, penso “mandarinas, paspán, mandarinas“.
E volta empezar.


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