I'm smoking and I shouldn't be, because I can tell I have a sore throat coming very soon, and very soon new year's eve is coming too, and though I still haven't made my mind about what to do on that sacred night, I don't want to have a sore throat when it comes. In a way, it's Ensiamada's fault, the woman of Croissant. Tonight she lighted one cigarrete after another and, so, I had to light one after another too, because I'm a gentleman, you know. Women should never smoke alone.
Ok, suddenly now I think it would be nice to spend it with jojo, but he's far. We would smoke (I'm a gentleman, and you know, gays should never smoke alone either) and dance, and we would talk about what those three years have operated on our souls, and we would see how our faces have changed. I wonder what would be the first sentences we would pronounce. "Joder, hola, tío, qué tal, cómo estás?" I don't know: what would be that first sentence, jojo? But I can tell we would go out of the last pub together, and we would walk back home, completely drunk and gay. And still, I know I would miss a woman by my side, and he would miss a man by his. That's life. The sore throat's definitely crawling up my neck.