Today the alarm was sounded at 6.45, as every day at work morning. Usually it takes me an hour and a quarter to retrieve my, wash, make me that little pussy to deal head-on the world out there. Then at eight o'clock I'm going to go out and seize the train. Instead
Instinctively I turn off the alarm this morning and I continue to sleep and dream. I have to thank my dream when I arrived on time at work, because he had the good manners to finish at 7.50. With his mind clouded realize that I have 10 minutes to wash the face, armpits, ass and teeth and get back the clothes of yesterday. A neuron uses it to choose (in the dark, I wonder why ...) and clean underwear and socks to put another bag in the cosmetic bag of tricks, with the intention to restore the face by train in peace.
I leave home breathless with the coat and scarf in hand. I am in time for a quick coffee and a pastry at the bakery (very good) clear, I think, also very close to the station. I'm happy. As I put on my coat, I look down and come ababgliata by the color of socks, which have nothing to do with the clothes: for the fluorescent green and blue stripes of the latter is ill according to the rigor of my all-black clothes and even , a closer look, with gray-cleavage mouse port at the foot. Oh well, Sbat E CAZ, I say, and later in the bakery. While the bartender
I prepare the coffee, since I have 4 minutes left, biting voraciously and Ravano my dough in my bag-suitcase full of crap looking for the wallet to pay immediately breakfast. But alas not find it. The portfolio is in fact not in the bag, but red on the table at the entrance to my house. Last night I placed there for no apparent reason, and I said to myself: "Sarah, if you leave it there, then tomorrow it ends up that you forget." Here is a clear case of prophecy autoadempie. I could make the effort to put it back in stock, but I did not. So today I find myself in the bakery to say that I can not pay for the breakfast that I'm already consuming. The bartender, when I put the coffee in front, with little reassuring face that says there is no problem and that the coffee would have denied me. I say: "But I bring you the money this afternoon, because now I have to take the train and go to work." The girl, her face taut as a violin string, states that do not have to worry. I leave the bakery with him all looks moralizing old men of St. Peter there, and I go in a gallop toward the station.
Arrival at the track with the train, on which I get no more than one cc of saliva and the heartbeat acceleratissimo. Luck, however, my help and I am in a car enviable happen without people talking to their phone and how the dinner had already duly expelled, due to the positive influence of Activia and two kiwi diugiuno. I take three minutes to relax. Then take off my coat and scarf, I open my bag and I take my cosmetic bag of tricks. Before beginning the restoration, my eye falls down again, precisely on the lapel of my black wool cardiganino. I see there stands at mo ' badges, a dried-up drops of ketchup. Now, only now, the memory goes to yesterday evening, at dinner in a pizzeria squalid St. Peter's with my friend Pika, my greedy desire for chips and at the time when one of them is a waterfall on the gallons of Ketchup my sweater. Sure, I could clean it while it was cool last night. It would have been easier and certainly would not have struggled as I did this morning in the toilet of the train, with a giant tomato become one with the mixed viscose fiber of my mohair cardigan that yesterday was black, and perhaps never will be more .
Instinctively I turn off the alarm this morning and I continue to sleep and dream. I have to thank my dream when I arrived on time at work, because he had the good manners to finish at 7.50. With his mind clouded realize that I have 10 minutes to wash the face, armpits, ass and teeth and get back the clothes of yesterday. A neuron uses it to choose (in the dark, I wonder why ...) and clean underwear and socks to put another bag in the cosmetic bag of tricks, with the intention to restore the face by train in peace.
I leave home breathless with the coat and scarf in hand. I am in time for a quick coffee and a pastry at the bakery (very good) clear, I think, also very close to the station. I'm happy. As I put on my coat, I look down and come ababgliata by the color of socks, which have nothing to do with the clothes: for the fluorescent green and blue stripes of the latter is ill according to the rigor of my all-black clothes and even , a closer look, with gray-cleavage mouse port at the foot. Oh well, Sbat E CAZ, I say, and later in the bakery. While the bartender
I prepare the coffee, since I have 4 minutes left, biting voraciously and Ravano my dough in my bag-suitcase full of crap looking for the wallet to pay immediately breakfast. But alas not find it. The portfolio is in fact not in the bag, but red on the table at the entrance to my house. Last night I placed there for no apparent reason, and I said to myself: "Sarah, if you leave it there, then tomorrow it ends up that you forget." Here is a clear case of prophecy autoadempie. I could make the effort to put it back in stock, but I did not. So today I find myself in the bakery to say that I can not pay for the breakfast that I'm already consuming. The bartender, when I put the coffee in front, with little reassuring face that says there is no problem and that the coffee would have denied me. I say: "But I bring you the money this afternoon, because now I have to take the train and go to work." The girl, her face taut as a violin string, states that do not have to worry. I leave the bakery with him all looks moralizing old men of St. Peter there, and I go in a gallop toward the station.
Arrival at the track with the train, on which I get no more than one cc of saliva and the heartbeat acceleratissimo. Luck, however, my help and I am in a car enviable happen without people talking to their phone and how the dinner had already duly expelled, due to the positive influence of Activia and two kiwi diugiuno. I take three minutes to relax. Then take off my coat and scarf, I open my bag and I take my cosmetic bag of tricks. Before beginning the restoration, my eye falls down again, precisely on the lapel of my black wool cardiganino. I see there stands at mo ' badges, a dried-up drops of ketchup. Now, only now, the memory goes to yesterday evening, at dinner in a pizzeria squalid St. Peter's with my friend Pika, my greedy desire for chips and at the time when one of them is a waterfall on the gallons of Ketchup my sweater. Sure, I could clean it while it was cool last night. It would have been easier and certainly would not have struggled as I did this morning in the toilet of the train, with a giant tomato become one with the mixed viscose fiber of my mohair cardigan that yesterday was black, and perhaps never will be more .
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