So one night I want to write and it happens that I open a blog.
I've never done one of my really, that is.
will not last, probably, but what is it that hard these days?
an impulsive act, here. What I needed.
happens that tonight we go to dinner at a chic place to no avail. Fake
chic, that is. Like, let's tone.
You forget our orders and we remain there, an hour and a half, waiting for dishes that are prepared in five minutes.
I accidentally, with a clumsy gesture, I back him in a full glass of Falanghina. I soak
shirt and pants, altogether. I'm cold. The door of the restaurant is open and enters a persistent fucking draft of this young fall. And I'm all wet. And our dishes do not come.
stink of wine from head to toe, and I just drank two sips.
When I get home I think it would be funny if the police stop me. With the
alcoltest and everything.
I imagine the whole scene, really.
But then nothing happens.
Just like every time I try to imagine something in the details.
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