In my neighborhood, as elsewhere, in recent years has been a proliferation of shops run by Chinese, either bazaars, grocery stores or bizarre mixtures both. An example of this latter is what is in front of my house, and we call as it's poster store "Gift-drink-candy."
He takes a couple who have a child of about three years, usually playing in a hall or drawing from the parent's lap behind the counter, and as they say my daughter is hyper mega bonico. The father is rather ugly to make you grind your teeth, but it's so very nice to meet you soon and not you realize that, just see the smile from ear to ear that looks good. It's a luxury to remember at 11 o'clock on a Saturday that is not bread at home and can download up to buy shoes, and when they'll Mr. you pay says in low voice: "this bread mu calo, the balata otlo more and more good." Or when my son down almost daily to get ice cream, go see this man smile and ask, "Masibon nat-ta?"
The kid is a monkey that I drool. One day he asked his father what it was called the boy and the man smiled at me, should not be a question he is asked often. As I feared, it sounded something like "lychwñyñ", and seeing my face in dismay told me that within the school called him Li Yuan, which we could call it that.
I like a fucking that family. Currades impressive stick together, and after fourteen or fifteen hours holding people still are able to be kind.
Yesterday my daughter Rachel went through the door of the Chinese way home from a friend, and noticed he had a kid about 11 or 12 years with the phone looking at the door of the store, such as photographing or recording something. A few seconds later came flying a rocket that fell in the store, pulled by two kids who went running for the little grace Spielberg could hang on the internet and then teach others asshole proud of its kind. His first thought my daughter was in the Chinese boy, and ran to see if they were good. Fortunately he had been a firecracker had caused little damage, but the fear and the stink of gunpowder left in the store. And sadness.
I know that this is the day our daily bread and maybe some day I get used to these larvae asshole, these little children of the very great bitch dwell among us and their parents too. If Heinlein was right, if the father publicly whipped next to her son in the square, as a true responsible for the acts of the child, the world would be infinitely better.
But for now can not get used.
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