inside the body: once at home in Delicias (if we miss your light and people) we broke the toilet. Pissing in the bath and body did (ie poop) in a bar downstairs, mostly to the Jamaica, where once limpiérrima franchise Ale, which was pooping, she found an old mink coat climbing to defecate in the position of the skier. He was shocked: that mixture of stale bourgeoisie and shit. It all fit: it was a revealing and powerful image.
As I was saying: When we had drunk many Mahou (and that happened and happens often) We entered the itching urinary and, before returning to stain the tub, pissing in Mahou empty, as he returns to Mother Earth what Mother Earth has given (in Asturias this is a mythological explanation of why the ass cider was thrown to the ground). I said: piss in there, inside the bottle of Mahou classical arrejuntarse the mouth of the urethra to the mouth of the bottle. It was a curious experience: the crystal was heated, under the laws of thermodynamics, and one absorbing the heat of his body with his own hands. The Mahou was filling and seemed, at one point, that one was going to overflow with yellow agüita. Never happened: a kind of external physiological and parasympathetic control made the piss end up just at the moment when the capacity of the bottle was the limit. We, there, always on the edge, youth. The bottle, on the edge.
Then I lived in the home of Guillermo Aguirre a month that welcomed me as a good friend who is (sometimes) and also there pissed and crapped in bags and bottles of Mercadona, because the honorable writer was under construction at home without bathroom and no kitchen, with many workers in the world stinging their floors and walls. But I will not bore you with stories scatological, the move of all this is, in their bladders can be an odd Mahou beer. Bladder graphics biology class (high school, or COU?) is a small vesicle, disgusting and sad relegated to oblivion and ammonia outdated. But there, in you in deeper, it is a Mahou: I've found: it is science.
Our body is a strange beast within ourselves. I sometimes think of my liver and my pancreas (I want but not what you say), and I have never seen sunlight, bored in my inner darkness, eclipsed by my muscle and my skin, but working every fuckin 'second of my eventful life, and continue. They have always been inside our being so we do not know in person, we have not touched or seen, and so it's hard to love a person. Or an organ.
(the blonde comes up in google images when you put "female bladder." Is it called so? Bladder Jones?)
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