Phonograph damn Dear lord:
My name is Romano, Peter Roman, but everyone calls me simply Romano, perhaps my head too reminiscent of Augustus, no idea ... thank the gods, live alone. When I finish my story, you will understand that it is fortunate not to share my living space with anyone.
all happened a fortnight ago, my downstairs neighbor, a lovely old man who climbed the post, he moved because of health problems to a residence. In return to my care for him gave me a wonderful phonograph, in perfect condition. I was so excited. He knew of my love music and so was enchanted with the gift. After thanking the gesture, place it on a shelf next to a half dry plant crown room shelving writer who inhabit most of the time.
Ah! It is true that he had not said I'm a writer in my spare time, but while the success I played with his hand still working day from eight to three in an office.
At night, as every week I took a shower and I watered the plant. I know it is half dry but obviously I will not let it die. A drop splashing due to the phonograph. It had to be that because the next morning observe a lump protruding from the phonograph. I felt sorry, he was so beautiful, so bright, I spend the morning thinking about how to get such a bump.
The surprise was on the way home, a newborn phonograph played the "Aria of the Flowers" while devouring two stories that had finished last night. I had butchered right there, believe me, but it was so funny that I could not. I took it out to the terrace to avoid to continue feasting on my stories. Being isolated and began playing "Night on Bald Mountain." He was so smart and so beautiful that I ran into the room as a writer and gave him four or five stories that would binning. Satisfied fell asleep.
was clear that the original phonograph had somehow created this small, I thought it was water. So, leaving my lazy side, I covered with a plastic bubble to avoid in the future to have new home phonographs.
The little boy was growing rapidly. The next morning was not as mischievous, even had evolved in their music, playing "The Typewriter" by Leroy Anderson. I liked the change in his music. As an adult was going to give it to Sara, my partner and confidant, I wanted to do and not just payment for his efforts. My Sarah. I was so happy that I went to the office bouncing down the street. Two phonograph in a modest house like mine are ostentatious. He had found the perfect solution.
I'm dumb, in his infinite wisdom you may have noticed, I covered with a plastic phonograph and my house has central heating. With a cold from hell, the heating is started. Condensation laws are universal and internal heat against the chill of the street, formed inside a few drops in the big phonograph, to be exact two hundred forty-five drops which were born two hundred forty-five phonographs dwarfs played like crazy when I opened the front door.
I almost fainted when he saw the phonograph eating all my work, my years of amateur writer, notebooks filled of stories and ideas that were being devoured, swallowed up by those wonderful machines that speak the language of music.
is just punishment for my stupidity, I admit. But I think too much punishment, all my work, all the noise that filled the house and pierced ears. Nothing but open the door of the room as a writer came as crows in search of literature, I saw them eating some of my books. I managed to save some. I caught a few of my favorites, the locked in the bathroom. Neighbours called my house and threatened to call the police if he kept this mix infernal noise.
I took about fifty phonographs in the shopping cart and tried to sell an antique to me believed a burglar and call the police. Upon hearing the sirens went abandoning those fifty phonographs, the shopping cart and jacket, but I still had almost two hundred ... I was desperate ...
When I get home the sight was gruesome. All my library reduced to shreds, eaten door, at least was quiet, except for one who played "Alabama", with a sad sound excited while the rest listened. I was thrilled for me too, but understand me lord, I could not stay with them. While the sax
rose around the room, taking advantage of all of them were reunited with the remains of my great library on the ground in that room he had so loved, spilling alcohol boat I had for my cuts and set it on fire. Get
close the door. The rest of the building also caught fire but I do not see myself responsible, the only fault was that little old bastard who gave me the damn phonograph without instructions. Text
Maite Diloy
http://brisne.blogspot.com/
Stock
Sergio Piquer
http://www.flickr.com/photos/srgblog/
My name is Romano, Peter Roman, but everyone calls me simply Romano, perhaps my head too reminiscent of Augustus, no idea ... thank the gods, live alone. When I finish my story, you will understand that it is fortunate not to share my living space with anyone.
all happened a fortnight ago, my downstairs neighbor, a lovely old man who climbed the post, he moved because of health problems to a residence. In return to my care for him gave me a wonderful phonograph, in perfect condition. I was so excited. He knew of my love music and so was enchanted with the gift. After thanking the gesture, place it on a shelf next to a half dry plant crown room shelving writer who inhabit most of the time.
Ah! It is true that he had not said I'm a writer in my spare time, but while the success I played with his hand still working day from eight to three in an office.
At night, as every week I took a shower and I watered the plant. I know it is half dry but obviously I will not let it die. A drop splashing due to the phonograph. It had to be that because the next morning observe a lump protruding from the phonograph. I felt sorry, he was so beautiful, so bright, I spend the morning thinking about how to get such a bump.
The surprise was on the way home, a newborn phonograph played the "Aria of the Flowers" while devouring two stories that had finished last night. I had butchered right there, believe me, but it was so funny that I could not. I took it out to the terrace to avoid to continue feasting on my stories. Being isolated and began playing "Night on Bald Mountain." He was so smart and so beautiful that I ran into the room as a writer and gave him four or five stories that would binning. Satisfied fell asleep.
was clear that the original phonograph had somehow created this small, I thought it was water. So, leaving my lazy side, I covered with a plastic bubble to avoid in the future to have new home phonographs.
The little boy was growing rapidly. The next morning was not as mischievous, even had evolved in their music, playing "The Typewriter" by Leroy Anderson. I liked the change in his music. As an adult was going to give it to Sara, my partner and confidant, I wanted to do and not just payment for his efforts. My Sarah. I was so happy that I went to the office bouncing down the street. Two phonograph in a modest house like mine are ostentatious. He had found the perfect solution.
I'm dumb, in his infinite wisdom you may have noticed, I covered with a plastic phonograph and my house has central heating. With a cold from hell, the heating is started. Condensation laws are universal and internal heat against the chill of the street, formed inside a few drops in the big phonograph, to be exact two hundred forty-five drops which were born two hundred forty-five phonographs dwarfs played like crazy when I opened the front door.
I almost fainted when he saw the phonograph eating all my work, my years of amateur writer, notebooks filled of stories and ideas that were being devoured, swallowed up by those wonderful machines that speak the language of music.
is just punishment for my stupidity, I admit. But I think too much punishment, all my work, all the noise that filled the house and pierced ears. Nothing but open the door of the room as a writer came as crows in search of literature, I saw them eating some of my books. I managed to save some. I caught a few of my favorites, the locked in the bathroom. Neighbours called my house and threatened to call the police if he kept this mix infernal noise.
I took about fifty phonographs in the shopping cart and tried to sell an antique to me believed a burglar and call the police. Upon hearing the sirens went abandoning those fifty phonographs, the shopping cart and jacket, but I still had almost two hundred ... I was desperate ...
When I get home the sight was gruesome. All my library reduced to shreds, eaten door, at least was quiet, except for one who played "Alabama", with a sad sound excited while the rest listened. I was thrilled for me too, but understand me lord, I could not stay with them. While the sax
rose around the room, taking advantage of all of them were reunited with the remains of my great library on the ground in that room he had so loved, spilling alcohol boat I had for my cuts and set it on fire. Get
close the door. The rest of the building also caught fire but I do not see myself responsible, the only fault was that little old bastard who gave me the damn phonograph without instructions. Text
Maite Diloy
http://brisne.blogspot.com/
Stock
Sergio Piquer
http://www.flickr.com/photos/srgblog/
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