Estoy constantemente sorprendente subida

I was slapped in the face.  The perpetrator was a really cute, short, blonde girl I knew from childhood, from Sunday School, where hitting was not allowed.  But we weren't children anymore.  We were performers in a play.  And my costume included white shorts.  They were rather long and the set designer asked me to have them tailored.  I rolled up the legs and asked her what length.  "You can make them a little shorter," she said.  I frowned.  I'm not sure these will cover my ass, I thought, but obeyed.  "My Mom can fix them for you," the Sunday School alumni said.  "Great!  Thanks," I said and resumed folding up the legs and they became shorts.  The white blue-jean kind that people wore in the eighties or in high school.  I then handed the shorts to the girl but she just glared at me.  She denied ever saying that her mom would tailor the shorts.  "But, you just said it."  "No, I didn't.  You're weird."  "I promise I heard you."  "Stop saying I said stuff I didn't say."  And then she hit me.  Once on the arm.  And then right across my face.  I was in shock and left.

Once again I trudged uphill.  I had the feeling I was about to spit up blood and then I did.  I watched as it rolled down the hill.  And a guy I used to keep the scores of basketball games with looked up from his seat on the sidewalk, "Should you really be drinking while you're..."

"Spitting up blood?"

"Yeah." 

"I'm not drinking."

I was pretty angry at this point and wound up in the practice room of the university orchestra.  I went into the hallway and practiced my boxing moves.  I was throwing punches and I had no shirt on and red pants.  I didn't intend to actually hurt anymore, I told a passing professor, just blow off steam.