Let’s put things in order, when I refer to her I’m obviously talking about Shakira and when I talk about him, I’m alluding to Mario Vargas Llosa. Then, I think that now everything adds up.
It turns out that in Spain there has been another rupture almost as famous as ‘BZRP Music Session #53’, starring this time on behalf of Isabel Presyler and the Peruvian Nobel Prize winner (2010).
I will not deal with Shakira because millions of women have already done it with their “likes” that are even more eloquent than the quality of the same hymn that has identified and grouped millions of wolves (I say it to be faithful and literal with the lyrics of the song). In this way, I have been shielded from any onslaught coming from gender ideologues and, of course, from Shakirism which, according to what I have been told, proclaims itself as a kind of transnational social movement or something as bizarre as that of foreign policies. feminists.
Well, focused on my fiefdom, I return to one of mine: Vargas Llosa. I will not deny that when Mario said: “The only thing I confirm is that I am separated” I let out a loud and strident laugh. And I immediately thought: this is definitely not an inconspicuous hero. Marito, with his almost 80 clubs, never ceased to amaze me.
I immediately began the task of reading the tabloids and each time I did so I enjoyed myself more, because while I was thinking of Julia Urquidi (Aunt Julia) I also imagined García Márquez talking bad things about the event with Merceditas and forging the terms of a hypothetical call to comfort Patricia for a new whim of Mario’s “pichula”; ultimately, for one more mischief of the old bad guy.
And of course, while she bills (read: Shakira, Isabel or whoever) the writer does his thing because, in my opinion, here is the real “crux” of the matter. By virtue of all this, we have witnessed two ways of facing a separation, what Shakirism has exported with very high levels of popularity and what Mario has taught in these tough times.
Obviously, Vargas Llosa would never get millions of “likes” for what he has recently written*, much less for entering the French Academy with all the implications that this has entailed. A good reader will know how to judge them properly.
Continuing with the pink theme, it is not that I was completely happy about what happened eight years ago within the Vargas Llosa family, but I understand it. That is why he believed, at the time, that Mario and Isabel could reconcile two apparently different worlds but deep down very similar. Clearly, the affair turned out to be a posthumous chapter for the civilization of the spectacle.
But, now that everything is over and Mario has returned to the reality of a writer, locked up alone in his library, in order to feed his notebooks even more like Don Rigoberto, it is opportune to suggest, very disrespectfully, that this shit will only be repaired with one hundred years of solitude
In a personal capacity, the creator of “Don Panta” must stoically assume the price of dying surrounded only by his books for having allowed himself to be tempted by the impossible and for having believed in a paradise on the other corner.
Mario, Marito, Mario: we already know that, as usual, all this has been a crush on your pichula and not on the heart. Of that pichula that now serves you only to pee. But, even so, what can we do, this is life! and you have not regretted anything at all. He continues writing that, meanwhile, she invoices.
*“The Quiet Look (by Pérez Galdós)”, “A Barbarian in Paris. Texts on French culture” and “The winds” (story).