burgundy.
is the color of the scar that I find myself on the left knee. what remains of the operation that he stole the last two months of life. the souvenirs of a holiday in the country of inflammation and curses.
maybe not burgundy, but I like the French.
I like to see the scar as the signing of a framework. the picture of my surgeon. his brushes are scalpels, drills and various Ferretti.
I like to imagine my surgeon with a cap style street artist in Paris. horizontal striped t-shirt, a little panzella.
and mustache.
I like to imagine him working with a baguette under his arm.
and another in the ass.
ice.
every ten minutes so I put myself on the scar, is always good. and then I do not keep shit to do. I'm going to take the bag from the freezer. rests on a glass paper, in order to take the curved shape of the knee. this is a thought of my father, of course.
but I do not want to talk about my father.
my father has several fixations. is picky and almost mental illness. to suck a lot of things. is a manic cleaning. indeed, it is just a maniac.
office put a fine double rope between him and the rest of my colleagues, not to be touched. once put a lemon in the ass to a chicken and laughed. has made so many that my mother always told me "please take note: you must write a book!" .
course I've never done.
I have the bad habit not to listen to anyone. if not, now I would be already working on some kind of project in some kind of remote place in northern Italy.
if I took some simple notes, it would come out a masterpiece and I would be filthy rich. it is useless to be able to write notes and just enough. it is he who is already pretty funny. makes me laugh even to cartoons. and does not do it on purpose. never does it on purpose.
could be years to tell absurd stories.
but I do not want to talk about my father.
we are in the hospital, just hours before the operation.
my father picks up the remote and the TV goes to the bathroom. I feel a very strong sound of water. after a couple of minutes out and start zapping. the remote control does not work. removes the shield of rubber, those that protect against drops and squirts a lot of water.
HAS WASHED THE REMOTE CONTROL.
shakin 'and strike out to look, when it enters the nun.
"does not work the remote control?"
"oh no .. it is wet."
"wet? But was out on the balcony?"
"no, in the drawer. BAH. Maybe if you have a hair dryer .."
BAH.
the nun goes away and I laugh, but laugh much. are now resigned.
after five minutes, the remote seems to work.
"less evil" , says Dad, "otherwise it brought a new one and had to detect."
but I do not want to talk about my father.
I always end up talking about him.
Berlusconi has an effect on me: good or bad, I talk about it forever.
only that Dad does not do it on purpose. never does it on purpose.
but I do not want to talk about my father.
me taste a piece of bread with Rio Sea Food, one of those supermarket products full of crap that they only hurt. But it's good.
sounds the alarm that I had forgotten to remove. I was too busy talking to my father.
I have the phone in his pocket. I suddenly vibrates a ball.
I shit down. and is not a manner of speaking.
go to the bathroom as a kind of walking crab and laugh. I shit on me.
step by step, minus a couple of jastemme against the bedroom door of my father.
but I do not want to talk about my father.
I decided to write a book about him, it's never too late.
PROPANE call him for no reason.
will laugh. will do much laughing.
well to cartoons.
.
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