Cad Drawing For Beer Keg

That is my family heavy

A heavier things in life there is one family. This what I have proven over and over again and there is nothing to do. It would be so great without it, in my case of my aunt, a cousin a uncle. But the family is as inevitable, or we assume and we are well breaded.

My Aunt Angelina is not that bad, quite the contrary. It has a good heart, so they say. But it is heavy. And it is heavy because it does not understand that I am happy without being married or having children. That she not only understands but does not feel like you do not understand. Then it is always the same, provided that calls me say the same words, repeated a text that could almost know by heart. It's a can but it is.

When my aunt called Angelina always ask if I have a boyfriend. I answered that my age and the couple are married and not aunt, who I have boyfriend. She then said that I would have loved to marry me. When he says this stupidity I raise my eyes to the ceiling and I bite my lips. My aunt then pronounce the words, always the same:

- You know they pay you if you marry the honeymoon trip

.

And I always answer:

- Auntie, how are you going to do this if I have boyfriend.

- A two-week trip to Cancun.

- I would have preferred to Tehran.

- Tehran!

- The most dangerous country on earth is Mexico, aunt. As of the drug.

Then my aunt at this moment doubt. Do not know whether to continue and stop this conversation that we both know is not going to lead anywhere.

As I tell my aunt that I am happy with my cats and my dogs, my books, with the simple life I've chosen to live consciously and good heart in a village of 20 inhabitants. Do not need anything else, especially not need a man in my life. Not that the men, these beings as strange, drop me wrong, is not it. I simply say that men are just as heavy as the family. And men I ever met, and the list is relatively long, all without exception but I found very boring, or were fans of football, or were extremely religious and conservative or just had some empty minds, such as zombies, oblivious to everything. And course, no one was interested in the First World War. And that if I can not stand it.

My aunt is not the only heavy in my family. I have a cousin who is the summit of gravity, poor man. From time to time decide to come to me when passing through here (mobile phone seller) and stay the night in my house. His name is John, is high blonde but is a staunch fan of supersonic aircraft and ... aliens. I now suggest to my dogs and my cats to be patient with him and not to misbehave with her incredible portfolio, plenty of pictures of these damn declassified U.S. military aircraft, UFO and strange characters that my cousin has been accumulating throughout his life. After dinner we always do the same thing: we sat in the living room, my cousin out the portfolio of his luggage, dogs and cats sit and watch right next to it and start the roll, and come passing planes, planes supersonic aircraft odd shapes, planes cost millions of dollars but have only been maneuvered once, planes that have the power to go unnoticed, others who are capable of being invisible. I hear and my role is to look interested but basically what I'd do is open one of my books (the last time my cousin came was just reading Berlin Diary by William L. Shirer ) stretch on the sofa surrounded by my dogs and cats with a good cup of Indian tea, and I'm also a fan of teas strange and good for the palate. But no, it can be. When we reached the section of the aliens always ask the same question:

- And how many types or classes of aliens come regularly on the earth?

- visit You mean, why not stay here, this is hot.

- Okay, go.

- Well ... I'd say about 5.

- 5 that.

- Five types of aliens.

Then I do the person concerned. It is simply out of compassion.

- Five!

- Exactly.

- is incredible.

- A type of aliens posing as humans.

- not tell me.

- could be your neighbor or ...

- ... President Obama?

- could.

- I convinced that Obama is an alien.

And so, until the dogs and cats get tired of listening to us and ask us to open the door to go to relieve themselves. They know that when I frantically scrub the ears is the time to ask. My cousin John was not aware of anything, poor.

the thing does not end there. The weight also causes familial Eulesiano my uncle, a fan of Pancho Villa. Thus, there is nothing to do, is, as I said, inevitable. I see my uncle Eulesiano occasionally makes me sad because he is a widower and no one supports this history of Pancho Villa. So when I decide Irlo to see (I'm almost a month Metallic and I have to do a lot of thought before that I will not take a hysterical) my guy gets very happy. All his walls are decorated with pictures of this strange and revolutionary character that Barbara W. Tuchman bandit is drunk and mary smoker in his book so well known on the First World War, The Telegra Zimmermann. My uncle loves and is so heavy Pancho telling me about his life I know by heart, since he was born on July 5, 1878 until his assassination in an ambush on July 20, 1923. Commander, governor, leader, Sancho as hero, villain, and just. The 75 wives, their struggles against the dictatorship of Porfirio Diaz ... His whiskers, their hats, their horses, their farms, their struggles and fights, all in my uncle Pancho Eulesiano great admirer of a revolutionary energy. But my uncle is a heavy, no doubt.

Irremediable family, small yes, but so present in my life. I love her, yes, my way, and she wants her way. But heavy it is!

Maruti Wagan R Indicators

my mother's anger and my love of reading





During
my childhood I always noticed something strange about the behavior of my mother to me and to my advanced age I did not know what it was: my mother was possessed by rage, a rage extreme, unconscious and quiet. This anger is still present, although more meaning in my genes. pain I remember when my mother got angry with me, I remember your face, remember his facial expressions that I studied his eyes wide open. My mother was my goddess and all that it was my turn to or lived near and arrows that someone had embedded in my skin. For children the parents are all powerful mystical characters. They have the right to life and death over our lives and our feelings.

remember my mother's anger over me like a heavy black cloak and lived my life for many years and continued to inhabit my days though I had left home, just to escape from this rage that messing around, the grisaceava everything. It was a rage, bound, controlled, very black. My mother was a monster and bad girl while she did the impossible for rabies not inundated or not do him lose his head. This, in those days I did not know. This I learned little by little, studying my own anger, the legacy of my mother and my father. Since my father was possessed by it, but instead he let go of control and screaming with all his might. My father was the ogre of my childhood.

Why so angry? I wonder now from space that separates me from them, from this spot produced by the years, his death and my own inner journey. The misery of my parents I know it was real, and very few happy times I've seen between them. Continuous fights swollen by rage sent me the sad message of a man and a woman's relationship was not possible. My mother hated men and did not stop to say to my sister and me that they were crooks. My idea about them has changed, but after a long time. I mean, for many years followed the almighty words My mother and my way was just men scoundrels. Then, when mature saw that my mother had lied.

The only place of peace, from my childhood, I found in books. I, by force of things, addicted to reading. A psychologist told me one day that my passion for reading was because I found them knowledge that is power. Not true. In books I found the peace and quiet, this place of meditation and inner recollection that my parents and their endless fights could not offer. reading calmed my fears, my heart, my fear of this child and monstrous evil that produced the anger of my mother. My books were my allies, along with my loneliness. Today I am happy when I'm alone, and alone with books.

But I say, my mother left me a rage that is present in me, in my genes. When I look out her face in surprise, eyes wide open face. Sometimes I apologize to exist, sometimes I appreciate your presence is to me a mirror of reflection and knowledge. Sometimes I hate it with a force that could bring down bridges and mountains. But I always calming picking up a book, going into the pages and at sea, enjoying peace with infinite patience, always just ahead.