Indian Average Boob Size

"Saving Love"

I am 13 years old. It's hot every day. The blazing flames. Or jacaranda.
Every day I come home from college, balance my bag on the green marble, and over me in my cool air conditioned room. It makes an air conditioner noise, but what is good for collapse on the cool sheets of my bed. Incidentally, the unit we used to make the short ladder to climb onto the roof, my brother, her boyfriend and me.
I've never really talked about my room. Remember that the house is a big white cube, with a spacious patio in the center, where also several pairs of parakeets cavort.
To reach my room from the entrance, I walk through a corridor-shaped L. This corridor distributes the right hand first room of my sister and my parents, the bathroom and finally my brother's room.
A left hand, the toilet, then the angle of the L that goes around the patio. I am after the patio, on the end opposite the boys' room. We always said "boys," the friend of my brother is almost a brother since he is here every day.
My room is big and clear. There is even a small shower, I do not like, because of the brown tile. But I have a large door window, which opens onto a balcony red. It's funny when I think of this balcony, because it is the height of the garden, I do not understand the need. The shutters are "shielded", designed to withstand hurricanes, dark brown, heavy, they scrape red concrete, when I close each evening at the hour of my prayer to the stars.
When I get home from St. Charles, so I run, make me cold, even before they go snack (banana fritters of Amelia, for example).
On my desk, I do not know at all how it looks like I have not had to spend enough time on my desk, there is the cassette player of my father. A rectangular black plastic cover with a faux black leather. Heavy. Almost architecture USSR, as it was again. I'm so worn that gear.
I press "eject", I put my tape, I closed the hood, and I turned the wheel volume.
"What could save the Amu-o"?
Balavoine.
My idol at 13.
listened tirelessly "All the SOS cries," I think I still know the words by heart.
I do not believe, I know I know them by heart, for adventure when the car radio broadcasts any song from this album "Save the love," I sing with him, as the senior low m'égosillant if necessary, not even fear, if I am alone.
I cried on his songs. I was already in love, no I will not say who he has a life (public) also miss more than that.
One day in January 1986, 14, was summer vacation, I saw the sand of the Paris-Dakar on the news of RFO. I saw debris. I saw faces and heard the songs Balavoine. I do not like the Paris-Dakar. (Look, a dead Argentine yesterday, not a competitor of course) .
is the first time that a singer's death touched me.
This morning when I heard the nice column on France Inter, Didier Varrod I heard 25 years. It's been 25 years.
And yet it seems like yesterday.

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