Hot blooded! Hot blooded!

Ooooook, Chile, back off a little.

Stop being so beautiful, first of all. Everybody hates the prettiest girl at the party, and your cans are like, as firm and rotund as the heads of newborn babes, with that supple sweet spot of areola.

Second of all, where do you get off being so unseasonably deliciously warm? I've now sweat through 3 (not kidding) shirts, and don't know how to say DRY CLEAN ONLY in Spanish (thanks Widgets.)

Thirdly, as if I was just petting actual wild horses on a mountainside. I was reading Isabel Allende under some unpronouncable tree and 4 horses and a colt come bucking down the fucking mountain. Colt = baby horse. For real. Francisco came over with some lettuce and I fed them. And pet them. And realized all's right with the world.

Chile, you little tease, I love you so much already, I'm plotting a crime of passion.