That truth is stranger than fiction is a phrase worthy of analysis in strictly nominal sense. If we consider that the" beyond "in terms of implausibility would be saying that fiction always be unlikely or fantasy and reality are not. Almighty error.
Anyway, recently I spent reading the boring tests on medievalists who assume two years moving the start of the Middle Ages lead an earthquake academic record. And, lately I spend living situations worthy of being counted in a burlesque storybook. Here is the brief story of one of them, to the delight of you, followers of EBO blog.
***
was already midnight on Friday. Friday culminated a long and included an operation on my mother and three hours of civic religion in my school assembly. I did not want more to be deposited in a corner and end forever with him Friday and he was not nor wanted to be, one Friday he dreamed a Sunday, since Saturday I waited six consecutive hours of medieval history (starting at nine am). So that Friday I was screaming at me power Sunday I went to a corner and ended with him forever, or your essence first, which was an equimolar mixture of boredom and fatigue.
But no, I had to lean back against the totem of friendship and to go with her to meet a boy. My friend, I needed to know the boy that he would be present in the rigor needed to meet any guy, then chose to ask us, his friends, who will introduce you to some, is not something that we knew we wanted guys who did not present and she will stay single forever. So her friend was going to present to the boy who had a birthday and celebrated in a corner of this city.
And there we were then, my Friday, the boy, my friend, a little nutritious hot dogs and me. I say hot dogs because that was what had to eat, although it could refer to the friends of the boy. Could, in a hypothetical level above this story, these subjects qualify hot dogs, but given the low cognitive level of my presence (absence) in this meeting, I have no basis for determining such value judgments that, in my view, will affect so that the structure of the story that would make the trial itself is diverted and, as we have several diverted in this brief event, we prefer, the central administration of the narrative and I, its coordinator, to emphasize the subject in question is ultimately, along with my friend, my Friday and I, the substrate most noble of this event.
was all ready then for my friend and her boyfriend (we can do except to use the possessive adjective merely a syntactic substitution content though, as we know, the subject was far from being the possession of someone other than at a level that overcomes potentially the case) were known to the innermost of your being or, failing that, will add to their lists of MSN, which is the form taken by the love interest in recent years: so that, far from being a sinful approach between human beings, involves intrinsically rare that we will not discuss here. But the problem was not the intention (clearly defined) by my friend met a guy, or the friend of my friend and the boy's submission to be presented. The problem was I tired. No one ended up in him and so was that the poor echoed such rudeness and stood between my friend and her boyfriend, joined of course my carnal existence, leaving the two lovebirds separated by the writing, which incidentally , regret to the bottom of the eternities not having understood that, in amatory matters, the spatial arrangement has to be coupled with time, a crucial variable to consider. So things stood
buried forever in the role of mediator of that conversation would be between the aforementioned subjects. His memory is vague but firm and I use the same to portray as accurately as possible what was one of the most pathetic scenes of my life, to the delight of any unauthorized biographies writer or yours, dear friends of the foreign , who read these lines in search of the truth revealed:
She: But it happens that the power or resources or resources Troska
The facade: how about you what you are, Troska or facade? She
: Y. .. I'd say you shot for the Trots, but neither
Him: Look, I went to the military academy
(Unconscious: dialogical field erase any hint of generality that all soldiers are cut from the same faulty scissors, hand out, ouch)
She: Really?
El: Yes, and I read Che Guevara in high school
She: Ah ...
(Unconscious: find out if there is more of a Che Guevara)
El: And once grabbed me and asked me what I did read that
She: What did you say?
him: "To fight you have to know"
(Unconscious: go before I fight to know)
The: And then, when I studied poetry, I was told I facho
: Yours is a radical absence of sense of timing
The: What?
Me: Nothing, "more beer?
He: Sure. (...) For me, these distinctions are ridiculous
She: Yeah, well
El: I went to high school and I am a poet
(Unconscious: Strike from the list of respectable people to that which is defined as a poet)
Ella: but you have somewhere be
Me: And you friend ...
Him: (with pride) It happens that I am apolitical
Me: No one is apolitical
El: Yes, because I do not want to convince anyone to do anything. Each does what he wants and I am not going to tell anyone what to do, but nobody wants to do anything. I'll teach you to read and write in an orphanage and no one wants to do and everyone can do
(Unconscious: Well, thanks for everything, happy birthday)
She: And yes ... (...)
El: (my friend) And you how are you? She
: Y. ... (Response triggered by the flow of beer in the blood)
El: (my friend) and what things make you angry? She
: Y. .. (Response triggered by the flow of beer in the blood)
El: (my friend) so what makes you happy? She
: Y. .. (Response triggered by the flow of beer in the blood)
El: (my friend) and what you reading? She
: Y. .. (Response triggered by the flow of beer in the blood)
El: (my friend) And why study history? She
: Y. .. (Response triggered by the flow of beer in the blood)
El: And you Let, why study history?
Me: For the money (response triggered by the anger in blood flow)
El: (my friend) You're very copada Blumberg what do you think? (!!!) She
: y. ... (Response triggered by three years studying law)
The: Same Blumberg is better than the picketers
She: And I do not know ...
El: I lost two jobs for being late for picketing the picketers can not stand
I (in a futile attempt to channel the conversation to somewhere smart): But I thought labor picketers had never
On: because they would not
(Unconscious: --- beep beep beep ----)
(...)
El: (my friend) and what music are you listening? She
: y. ... The
: I write songs
(Unconscious: Aldon, Aldon, Aldon Pirulero)
(...)
El: (my friend) and you like sports?
She: Yes
El: (my friend) are going to play tennis one day?
She: Well
(Unconscious: An elephant, swinging ....)
El: (my friend) Do you like sailing?
She: No I know, I was never
The: Come a day
Me: Are we going?
(Unconscious: Will there be the universal law that says people with boat will never be worthy of my love?)
(...)
El: (my friend) and 're Catholic?
She: Yes
The (exultant) Hottie, you're perfect!
(Unconscious: Clearly, subtlety is a value that has been lost over the years ....)
(...)
El: (my friend) I love it! Give me your phone
She: Well ...
(Unconscious: Mission completed. Evacuate Now! Evacuate now!)
And so we left, (my unconscious, my friend, my anger and I) on Friday, the awkward predicament of knowing boy that my friend wanted to know and meet more ridiculous in years. We were walking down Santa Fe and did not say a word. We leave the subject with her birthday and her knowledge of poetry and Martial Law and we only take us 12. We arrived at my house. As we ascended the elevator, my friend asked me what I had found their candidate. In one of the most candid statements recently said, "y. .. is pretty asshole, but I think it can go "
After six hours medieval boy I met my acquaintance (who is not military but read Che Guevara and is not Catholic, but taught to read and write) and asked me very seriously if you have experienced this sequence does not completely degrade my vision of my friend. I raised this issue for a moment like a contradiction intelligible. Then the left slope, my Friday and I had finished and that was all that mattered to my poor life.
Avellaneda sighed as she walked, the evening was between us .-
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