I was at ease with my new life. I had focused on replicating the story of Nathan Zuckerman moving to a country house in Connecticut which ruled only their discipline and disappeared women, politics, the need to review and uphold the opinion and there was only developed self obsession . So he lived.
When you emerge, I looked in the mirror and said Zuckerman in the world you would not mind and went on living content. Responded stupid, style is turning out a new nose, I'm developing a facial penis to make more complete my act of oral sex and things like that smiles and silence started questions.
But in two tragic days, the pond disappeared Zuckerman anything, the table where Philip Roth writes stopped and started to import. Someone told me, dude what you got there? That sucks. told me someone smart , perhaps the most intelligent friend I have. I shit. A day later, my boss told me the story of a guy who came one like you in the same place that you saw the light and died of polio in two days. I shit. Naturally, my boss fucked me.
From there, everyone started coming to my house outside, sat on my porch, brought the children to meen the pond, my ex again send messages, call me, and as is now in the YPF guidebook came the strangers with cameras, with their notebooks to write poetry uncontrolled instincts. Thus, receiving the bags in the cloakroom the sink, watching me every day and tell me what you've got worse today, you're fucked skinny and do you have bad luck, the baker looked at me and tells me how disgusting what you came in the face, everyone wants to squeeze.
Invaded, cornered, unable to hide despite turning off all the lights of my life, my existence is ridiculous. I teach facing the blackboard, and when I ask a question, I notice how all of glaze and are looking at, how no one understands my answers and are left with more questions, questions about how you went. The only time where I return to collect the ashes of my former existence is when I have wearing the dark glasses. In the subway, on the bus, in the elevator, medical consultation, at the supermarket. I look at all, I still find beautiful but I can not improve yourself, I can not think of having to stand as the idiot brother who accompanies me everywhere.
Today I went to the dermatologist. He is young, beautiful and called Dr. No. It's great to be called that, makes me want to be a superhero and she try to kill me or invite me to dance a-gogo. You looked at me and said you have it worse. More red. Larger. More swollen. No antibiotic can against you. You're invincible even for my archenemy sexy, Dr. No. He asks me how long I took a blood test. A year ago. First I think this: I have cancer, I have AIDS, I die, I'm dying. It's logical. My life has always been a baseball player whores.
Then tell why I asked. Why are you going to have to do surgery and you will be asked examinations. I'm going to die. As I take the subway so I have decided. I'll kill you. Pronto. One hit is too formidable in terms bard but scenic. Pills. The everyday bore me open my mouth. I end up going to the surgeon that day.
The plastic surgeon is all that surrounds the clinic is either typical of a hospital of illegal abortions for the upper class or to get silicone. I'm going to get boobs. I'm going to put three boobs. And then I forcible unlocking the skull. Activity. Surgeons do not look at me. Are attracted by you. Within seconds, I pull on a stretcher, I took the last moments of life around me (a halogen lamp, a white roof, fear), I get a gillete and hear the noise of internal fat jump to infinity and there, like a porn ejaculation. Even the surgeon, before I leave the world says, were full, eh.
I get out of bed and I turn to on Friday.
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