Beware the ibupromornings

“Because one doesn’t need any good reasons to produce monsters while slumbering,
do they?”
You are in a live show of your fetish band when, all of a sudden, two gangs of Latin Kings sprout out of the blue and start shooting all over the place like it’s no tomorrow. Oh, and then “where the freak is my nephew”, and “I can’t locate freakin’ anybody” and, mighty Freyja, “WHERE THE F**K IS HE, no, not my nephew but HE” and “gimme a chance to lay my hands upon that fitlhy sonofableach of the black-marblish eyes and the massive machine-gun and you’ll see, I’m making that bastard a nice necktie, one of those that are SO TYPICAL from his hometown and I’m making it WITH MY DARN CROOKED TEETH”, and “we all are going to die here, and when I say we all I mean EVERY FREAKING ONE OF US are going to die here’.
You wake up soaked in cold sweat, raging, and helplessly disoriented. You could use your tonge to strike matches right away.
Lambrusco + Reggaeton-grinding OST + playing your playlist on your way back home… Worst idea EVER.
Just saying.

Mañanas de ibuprofeno

 “Porque no hacen falta buenas razones para producir monstruos mientras se duerme…
… ¿a que no?”
Estar en un concierto de tu banda fetiche y que así, de repente, dos pandillas de Latin Kings empiecen a liarse a tiros como si no hubiera un mañana. Y «dónde está mi sobrino» y «dónde está todo el mundo, ay, dioses, PERO DÓNDE C**O ESTÁ, no, MI SOBRINO NO» y «como pille de espaldas al desgraciao de los ojos como canicas y la metralleta le voy a hacer una corbata de esas que tanto se llevan su pueblo CON LOS DIENTES» y «vamos a puto morir todos y cuando digo todos quiero decir TODOS».
Despertar sudando frío, rabiosa, desubicada y con la lengua para encender mistos.
Lambrusco + perreo + música de tu playlist de vuelta a casa… mala, pero que muy mala combinación.
Digo.
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