hate it when I leave the car and the sun shines on the front windshield and burns you to the optic nerve. I hate the heat, while rising from the pavement, the cars, the collectives, the sweaty armpits of those women in thongs that feet are not fixed and your nails or hair. I hate having to move at five in the evening in the streets of Rosario and suffer as mentioned above in addition to roadblocks for unknown reasons, cyclists and delivery boys who cross on red, the music shit going on in almost all radios, comments pseudoperiodistas cyclothymic of neurons with more microphones, humidity and low pressure Rosario climate that make me think I'm suffering from yellow fever in Manaus.
hate the discomfort of living in this city gringa uncomfortable being filled tower building High End but whose center is taken over by hordes of creatures with goat smell, loud, ignorant, ignorance children born in the nineties and and left us: shit hot, lint facts giving pity at the lights when we leave coins at juggling of six years should be in school and are there, barefoot, dirty, stuttering, with black snot and purple nails sticking their hands the opening of the window to ask a little more. Currencies no longer call. Now they say: Do not have two dollars Don? More than half a dollar request. Can not believe it. And Indec not recorded.
This incoherent tirade would be to hate but respect for the gentleman Bugman and fine humor, I chose to write here in this garbage dump, with 32 degrees at twelve o'clock. Total Who the hell is going to read?
an shit Shit shit me.
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