Last Sunday I was trying to explain to my wife why my fascination with disco-summer terraces abound in the malls on the periphery.
see many muscles in the air, a lot of hair-ashtray, many Latinos and many españoleto wanting to anger and chest hair removal. Almost all wear miniskirts and fabulous cleavage. There are waiters gorgeous Guinean dance like bastards. There are bad people, music and warm the whole host of shit cocktails at a price of vertigo.
feel sorry for those who seek a polvete and are not well-filled wallet, because all are partners. Greasy glamorous couples dressed in their most expensive clothes. Hundreds of couples in which she is bored and seeks always encouraged to see how her boy for her part, Jerol any unwary. Generally security is the bully that work over to the unsuspecting boyfriend while she yawns sitting in the bar next to a middle-aged bald with a ponytail, recently divorced, who invited her to a drink.
music sounds increasingly noisy and slightly drunk, take a look at the tables. All pouches covered party, moving with the flag of Spain on the screen surrounded by cups and glasses of melted ice tube with butts and off.
smell the hormones, the Farla and the hosts.
turned in my argument I had no choice but to bring up the fabulous album James White and the Blacks. Was the most obvious didacticism and also unnecessary, as always, she and I had understood before he had opened his mouth.
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