«¿Pero, a dónde vamos?», se preguntaba. «¿Cómo es posible que haya gente que no sepa escribir bien ni su propio nombre?».
I’ve seen many strange things in my life. But nothing is anywhere close to what happened last summer. I refuse to believe in paranormal activities, but I guess now I have no choice, but to believe in a parallel world… inside my washing machine.
Sometimes I think my life would make a great novel. Well, to be more precise, it would be many novels, each of them inspired by different episodes of my life: when my plants used to die, when I discovered that my neighbour lays naked in bed with her curtains open, when the mosquitoes don’t let me sleep in summer, or when I scream because I dropped bleach on my clothes, just to mention a few.
Broccoli and I are good old friends. I remember very clearly the first time we met: I was 19, and I was staying a few weeks with a family in London (the Gimsoms) while I was studying English at a school. One evening, I sat around the table for dinner with them and I found […]
La oficina de empleo apenas acababa de abrir, pero en el pasillo de espera ya había un grupo de ocho personas sudorosas haciendo cola en silencio para ser atendidos. En la puerta de entrada, una cucaracha de imponentes dimensiones nos recibía tumbada panza arriba.
Are you new at blogging? Do you want to write about your hobbies, work/business, or just about your life; but when you put your fingers on the keyboard, don’t know where to start from?
These book titles are fake, they don’t exist. However, I believe they should. Because I’m pretty sure we all know someone that would need to read any of them. That’s why I couldn’t help getting in front of my laptop, opening Adobe Illustrator and giving free rein to my creativity (and sarcasm).
I put my diary in the toaster and poured some coffee in my shoes.
I measured the speed of clouds and hung my raincoat under the shower.
I left home when the alarm clock was still singing.
I took a selfie in the lift just before my colours disappeared completely….
There is something romantic about traveling by bus in the evening. You feel like a postmodern version of Caspar Friedrich’s ‘Wanderer above the Sea of Fog’. The horizon is road, lights and concrete, and everything is wrapped in the beautiful evening darkness.