Courbet, Self Portrait with Black Dog , 1842 My blog has just celebrated its first birthday and me these days, I play bowling with those of my own birthday cake. The little girl in me flourished, as to crush the woman who, ordinarily, he struggles to walk on head.
That's the fault of the holiday.
Just arrived at my father, I began to hop. Internally first, until, in the amount of oak staircase leading to the rooms, I surprised a singular movement of spring in my legs. The latter escaped calaient on a samba rhythm of my cranium, which pounded a perky "papaaa my, my papaaa. "Look, I'm happy to be there," remarked that remained sensible.
Since I'm here, the girl just arrived enthusiastic grew a pet. I'm just the eighth house cat. In the morning, I ran to assist in the service of the paste. You should see the embarrassment of my father holding a giant bowl of venturing hesitantly on the terrace, and plumes of fur moving around his ankles, mewing. The bowl is filed, the cats ranged in sunshine all around, I take their giries and my father soon finds himself sporting a big girl purring in his legs.
From time to time anyway, I leave my post for the computer. But his respite never lasts long.
I hear the front door. I hurry out trotting behind him. My father stands in front of the pond and seems to see something. I plant to its side by imitating, arms akimbo. At that moment I realized the limits of my business. I have no objective reason to fix the landscape of the sort, but as I scan my father - who surely must know what he is doing - looking for a clue to the water surface. In vain. I discovered existentialism family.
My father began to walk carefully between the flowers and I am. My feet knowingly facing the same stones as his. There are probably better to do but at this point, I have no desire for anything other than being near him. Sometimes I want to talk, so I asked about names of flowers, trees, animals around. I try to remember everything. I may yet another stupid question on seeing one of our cats roux:
- "Who's he?
- It Rouquinet.
- How do you do to distinguish Ginger, and Chapi Rouquinet?"
mischievous eye of my father announces that nebulous answer soon:
- "It's simple: they are not the same."
Tomorrow I return to Paris. I leave you, I must go ironing my costume adult independent.
That's the fault of the holiday.
Just arrived at my father, I began to hop. Internally first, until, in the amount of oak staircase leading to the rooms, I surprised a singular movement of spring in my legs. The latter escaped calaient on a samba rhythm of my cranium, which pounded a perky "papaaa my, my papaaa. "Look, I'm happy to be there," remarked that remained sensible.
Since I'm here, the girl just arrived enthusiastic grew a pet. I'm just the eighth house cat. In the morning, I ran to assist in the service of the paste. You should see the embarrassment of my father holding a giant bowl of venturing hesitantly on the terrace, and plumes of fur moving around his ankles, mewing. The bowl is filed, the cats ranged in sunshine all around, I take their giries and my father soon finds himself sporting a big girl purring in his legs.
From time to time anyway, I leave my post for the computer. But his respite never lasts long.
I hear the front door. I hurry out trotting behind him. My father stands in front of the pond and seems to see something. I plant to its side by imitating, arms akimbo. At that moment I realized the limits of my business. I have no objective reason to fix the landscape of the sort, but as I scan my father - who surely must know what he is doing - looking for a clue to the water surface. In vain. I discovered existentialism family.
My father began to walk carefully between the flowers and I am. My feet knowingly facing the same stones as his. There are probably better to do but at this point, I have no desire for anything other than being near him. Sometimes I want to talk, so I asked about names of flowers, trees, animals around. I try to remember everything. I may yet another stupid question on seeing one of our cats roux:
- "Who's he?
- It Rouquinet.
- How do you do to distinguish Ginger, and Chapi Rouquinet?"
mischievous eye of my father announces that nebulous answer soon:
- "It's simple: they are not the same."
Tomorrow I return to Paris. I leave you, I must go ironing my costume adult independent.
