There is no double meaning in this title. I'm not tasting the fruit défendu some nymphet (Absite iniuria verbis), and this afternoon is not that of a faun. I'm really duped the decline of sugar siting of 17.00 with a woody and dry. Who am I doing this? The waist, for one thing. The headway healthy that I have difficulty self-imposed calorie after the flood that preceded and partially followed the Christmas holiday. That to me were little vacation, even though I was on vacation, but that's another story. And 'certainly challenging re-establish a "diet" healthy and balanced, when you feel like walking on uncertain ground. What happens is that compensations seem inevitable tribute to the trembling child within me, and those foods are cheaper and available. And, after all, still less harmful always in moderation. Clear that a chocolate bar or a bag of crunchy puffed corn are much more intriguing - for the child, but not only - that of the pear that, unfortunate choice, nor is it juicy, sbrodolante, as many sugary pears can be. (A memorable description of it in Meg Ryan "City of Angels" ). And of course a Campari Grapefruit or a tin of Jack Daniels & Coke, give much more satisfaction and blunting of a beautiful mezzalitrata of mineral. But, as the wise, there is a time for sowing and one for the harvest. So now I am going to destroy the Tibetan monks have created mandala during the last two weeks of painstaking work.
So I feel a little 'less frustrated.
PS, but the Tibetan monks are the Carthusians who knows?
0 comments:
Post a Comment