Last night I went to a dinner party at the Argentines luxurious compound, complete with butler and mirrored bathroom. To help bring down the luxe, I drank more red wine than anyone else. I think this cements my place as favorite dinner guest. Upon leaving, and post inviting everyone to play soccer, my Argentine hosts told me that I have an accent. A foreign accent. French, they said.
Wrong.
My accent, as Andre would describe it, is Latina, when I've been drinking. It's been gone for a while and it's good to see it has returned to me.
All good things in time.
Milan Kundera might hate women. It's hard to tell. It's easy to tell that he is highly confused by them and in turn, dissects them. Not quite like the human centipede, but not too far off, save the actual physical gastric system connections. And the cutting.
My birthday is next week. I have a kickball game on the same day. There will be a bridge party to follow and a real party to follow on the weekend. I'm easy to please.
