"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>awaiting la tomatina

>tomorrow morning i rise before the sun hits my sheets and sprint for the town of buñol with a riot in my muscles.

i will watch, as the sky turns from pastels to deep images, the sturdy legs of spanish men climbing a greased pole that stretches through the clouds. kiss the ham as you wrench it free.

the sirens will blare and the hoses will splatter across my bronzed skin. with windows sealed like sacred scrolls, the trucks will tear into town carrying all the blood-red fruits of the earth.

we will jump up in down like dolphins trapped in plastic, chanting through humid throats and sweat-soaked rags.

and then the biggest food fight your mother told you never to engage in will paint the sky the colour of carbonara.

i am breathless with anticipation, that nothing i´ve done yesterday or today can even come close. the valencia bus tour of gothic bridges, churches, markets, wars, and art museums . . . the audio tour of catedral de valencia which houses the supposed holy grail, the arm of st. vincent, the first works of goya, and a plethora of 15th century relics that dazzle my insides . . .

nothing.

“epiphany at la tomatina” starring christine louise estima as herself.

(post script: as my voice screeched with unrepaired chords, i felt sad for the first time in ages as i stupidly looked at photos of orlando bloom. i need a bunñol replacement pronto.)

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