I reiterate that I write this crap with the intention to offer the flavor of my life poor Algerian Canadians who have shoveled their snow day, and otherwise living in concubinage with their love without having to validate their practices with the guy who lives next door.
This is the Mouloud Monday.
First, what I know is that it's Mouloud a) the name of the owner of my gym (nice big young guy who lack teeth on the left side of the mouth but is otherwise HYPER sexy. Note to readers) and b) the Muslim Christmas. We celebrate the birth of Muhammad. We celebrate with the explosion of firecrackers (no joints, small explosive devices). It should keep car windows closed to prevent a young thug launches a firecracker in the cabin. Moreover, it is fireworks in their hands while they unload their missiles Sulphur in the windows of neighbors. Each year, dozens people are treated for burns and missing fingers.
... I do not silly. Pantoute. Seriously.
Again, I plan an escape from the city during a religious festival. This time however, my ex does not depend on the availability of an Algerian woman who changes his mind as often as their necklines. My new colleague, Olivier (a nice young guy who looks - and it is quite disturbing - to Michelle Pfeiffer in Scarface, but it suits him) proposed décrisser and go celebrate in the desert Timimoun. I instantly called Samia and we organized a trip back in time to say.
... I love my little slut to me.
short, as far as I can get out of the house and into my car without incurring fireballs, I'm in the Sahara desert for four days. I have NO idea câââlisse what I'll do without a) my little slut for me, b) my Internet connection and c) a suitable coat (I have only my own sweat for work. You can see in my collection of photos Tipaza). In short, j'me launches. At
adventure!
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