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VI Dialogues with my three year old daughter Martina V

M i woman is trying to shower at Martina. She grumbles, is resisting.
"Well if you take a shower and come the flies will eat you," he says Pilar.
"No, because the flies are very small mouth," she says Martina.
"It's like, come many you eat. Martina
looks at the ceiling and looked around the entire basin. Finally says
- Do you see a fly here? Is not that right? Well you do not exist.

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L to news of the porn actress of twenty years of age who has died of a heart attack as she underwent her fifth operation breast augmentation makes me think of the legacy we leave when we die. I think of his family, how to explain, below, in what circumstances did the death of his daughter. Confess "that its aspirations of setting the record had more or less enduring threesome in two hundred, and, falling exhausted, only able to complete seventy? Does your family will consider it a failure not to break the record or because you go through your head even try?

The truth is that they reflect little times about the potential legacy that I leave. I am of those who show indifference to the fate that once my body shall cease to belong. Just ask one thing, and it strongly: whoever is in charge of confirming my death, please be a professional in the industry, not the butcher of the neighborhood, not to meet one of my recurring nightmares, that I buried or give the fire being still alive.

Mataró remember in a few years ago, when running at full speed, the famous local brothel, Calipso is situated on the banks of the N-II, in a dangerous change of gradient in which the atrocities were the order of the day, I remember writing that an individual died after being struck seconds after leaving the premises, it is assumed that after a few minutes to enjoy the company of one of those ladies whose resemblance to a nun is merely circumstantial. I always thought how his wife and children react when you explain how the death occurred and whether, despite having been an exemplary father living in the family worn a glimmer of doubt about how many things they thought they knew him were far from be true, and yet they were, if the circumstances invariably held his death would lead to a legacy prevailed undeserved.

One morning in January 1984, if memory serves me, in Sant Feliu de Guixols, we were at home my mother, my two sisters and me. They knocked on the door. It was a woman I remember no more than thirty years, short hair and well dressed. My mother made it happen, and as soon as they stood in the middle of the hallway and as he looked at my sisters and me, still dressed in pajamas and tousled and bleary around the skirts of my mother, explained that the reason for visit was that he had learned of our situation and wanted to lend some help. The situation alluded to was, in broad strokes, that my father had committed a crime and had absconded, leaving us in a somewhat precarious economic position. The woman he picked up his bag and took out some money deposited in the hands of my mother, sobbing, took the door and went at full speed he had come. The goodness of this unknown woman is also a legacy, and, somehow, to remember with some frequency is an obligation and a duty to impose me to pay tribute to that legacy.

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Mala leche:

16 days and 4 hours without smoking.