Merry Christmas

Don't buy the hoax.

There is not a Spain that gets up early and another that stays up all night.

We are almost all the same, depending on the day of the week or the stage of life in which it catches us.

The one that does exist, from the time you get up until you go to bed at whatever time it is, is the Spain that wants and cannot, but pushes ahead with the lanterns, worth the redundancy.

All you have to do is stop by an

on a silly day between a holiday and a holiday for the longest bridge of the year to observe some of its specimens in all their splendor and misery.

I know because I am one of them.

These days, the beneficiaries of that kind of social work of the luxury brands so that the poor do not rob the bar and fight over their waste from last year at half the price, we are the

that we have not been able to escape to dive in the Maldives, or to ski in the Alps, or to New York to buy gifts from Santa Claus and skate at Rockefeller Center, as those who could rub us on Instagram.

So there we aspirational mobs go, to console ourselves in the temples of consumption catching the bullshit of the invisible friend for brothers-in-law and their own Kings and others with the XL logo for a trophy.

The metamorphosis begins from the

It must be that kind of social Darwinism, but, as you get out of the car, you feel as if a stick was being inserted up your ass, your S's were liquefied to the point of snow and your hand was left as silly as you were swinging your bag on the hollow of the elbow to blend in with the environment.

Absolutely, not at all, because the saleswomen see you down to the kilometer and, apart from the age to the minute, they calculate the budget to the cent, they label you as a half-baked maruja trying to appear hairless and they treat you accordingly.

Of the posh, posh, those who neither look at prices nor pay attention to expenses, not a trace.

They are merging the Visa in their respective analog or virtual gold miles with the latest cries of their favorite firms at uranium prices.

But you leave so happy with your booty of chichinabo bargains in those good cardboard bags to take the tupperware to work.

On leaving, stretched out in the chesterfield of the cute tea shop where you celebrate how long and smart you are, a kid who could be your neighbor, and your grandson, she lets you go, raising her voice a little more to make herself heard over the turra of the looping Mariah Carey Christmas carol:

miss, what do we put on?"

a

with soy”, you hear yourself reply, with all your rennet.

We deserve to go extinct.

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