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My eldest daughter, Camille Barclays, a law student, hired before finishing her degree by a prestigious law firm, must choose with whom she wants to spend the end of the year parties: with me, I am an agnostic and I do not install a pine tree in my house (grow a Pine tree until it's tall enough to sell at Christmas time is something that takes at least seven years, and cutting it down is a crime in these polluted air times), nor do I serve turkey on Christmas Eve (killing turkeys in November and December is an act of barbarism, a slapstick in which I do not wish to be an accomplice), or with his mother, who is a believer, he decorates his house with pine trees and colored balls and flashing lights, flashing, and also bakes a turkey on the twenty-fourth of December and another on the twenty-fifth (in They are actually baked by their cooks, maids and maids.)

Naturally, Camille Barclays decides that she will spend the parties with his mother, not with me. It is not an arduous or complex decision: she knows that with her mother, with her maternal grandmother, with her mother's French boyfriend, with the French boyfriend's polo children, she will spend smiling, splendid days, irrigated with the best wine and the best champagne, And that, on the other hand, if she came to spend the holidays with me, she would have to sleep in a nearby hotel, because she does not feel comfortable in the guest room of my ghostly house, and above all she feels uncomfortable because we sleep like ghosts until noon and She gets up at six in the morning, and to this is added the discomfort that we have no employees, maids or maids, and that the display of decorations and food is rather austere, limited, if not non-existent, because my wife and I We do not decorate or cook and we prefer to eat in a nearby cafe or hotel on the island.

Since my eldest daughter knows that I love her deeply and I am very proud of her, her academic triumphs and her passion for excellence and nothing less, I He feels confident asking me to pay for the air ticket to travel to meet my enemies, that is, his mother and his maternal grandmother. Are they my enemies, or am I exaggerating? They are, no doubt. They wish me to die soon, they have cast incantations, spells, ties and witchcraft against me, they have stolen my underpants and stuck pins in them to render me impotent, they have slipped poisonous spiders into my bed to stealthily inoculate me with the poison and kill me as if it were an accident . I could then tell my daughter that I prefer not to buy the air ticket, since she will go to celebrate the holidays with my enemies and not with me, but it would be stupid, spiteful and mean if I did such a thing, because my daughter is not to blame that her mother and her maternal grandmother hate me, I am to blame in any case, because they do not forgive me for the things I have written, remembering them, distorting them in fiction, exaggerating them for the worse, always for the worse, turning them into harpies, bitches : but this is how I remember them, and one does not write about what one has lived, but about what one remembers having lived.

So, good loser, respectful of my daughter's freedom, I buy the air ticket without delay and without qualms, in the best class for Of course, it is what she deserves, and I am sending it to her, wishing her very happy holidays, although secretly wishing that the hotels owned by her mother and her maternal grandmother remain empty due to the pandemic and all go bankrupt, soon: but this, of course, not I'm telling you, I'm not telling you that I wish the physical, economic and moral ruin of your mother, of your maternal grandmother and, if you hurry me, of your mother's French boyfriend, whom I don't know but who is also, just in case, my enemy.

My second daughter, Paula Barclays, a rising executive of a global technology company, who works from home or from a hotel, always traveling, because her field of operations is the free world, all the countries where that avant-garde firm that is worth billions operates, knowing that her older sister will go to spend the holidays with her mother, she naturally decides second her and, incidentally, ask me to buy an air ticket for her as well. It is fair, of course. I do it immediately, the very day you ask me, on the dates you suggest, and in the best class, too. The rates are onerous, it was to be supposed, because in these weeks of the end of the year it is much more expensive to travel by plane, but it is not appropriate to complain or ask for a discount. Nor does it seem appropriate to tell you that the television channel has not yet confirmed that it will renew my contract next year and that it has recently cut my salary, once again. My daughters know that I am a solvent person, endowed with certain resources, and that said wealth is not due to my talent, nor to my industriousness, much less to my literary inventiveness, because with books I only win problems, but my mother , to the generosity of my mother, who bought me the house in which I live and gave me more money than I had ever seen. That is to say that I am a kept, a parasite, a bloodsucker, a mother's son, and my two daughters know it well and that is why they ask me for air tickets, knowing that I must pay them without question, since, if I object or I do a hysterical or decadent divo scene, they will ask my mother, making myself look ridiculous, once again.

My daughters Camille and Paula Barclays should love my mother as they love their maternal grandmother, the harpy, the owner of the hotels now empty by the pandemic, God willing they will go bankrupt soon. But they do not love her, they do not love their paternal grandmother, that is, my mother, Dorita, who is a saint and does not deserve those slights, those contemptuous treatment. She does not deserve them because, when the mother of my daughters divorced me and decided to return to the city of dust, fog, melancholy, where my mother also lives, a city from which I escaped to feel free, she, My ex-wife, the mother of Camille and Paula Barclays, Mrs. Casandra Mesías, the outraged, the humiliated, the spiteful, the most dignified, went to cry crocodile tears to my mother, and told her that I, because I was an atheist, because I was libidinous, For batting in the world of eroticism with right and left hands, for playing on all teams, a mountebank from bed to bed, an explorer of the most improbable human orifices, he had left her without a home, without a conventional family, without a reputation, without a future. , without a north or compass, desolated, and she, Mrs. Casandra Mesías, the most dignified, according to the glossy magazines said, showing solidarity with her, the victim of my unbridled erotic appetite, deserved a stately home, in a noble neighborhood, to be possible very close to my house Mother, who, a saint, the most good and candid woman in the world, promised her grieving daughter-in-law that, in effect, she would buy her a house, you choose it, little daughter, and let me know, and I will buy it for you with all pleasure, And incidentally he hugged her and cried with her and then ordered her to pray the rosary together, to see if I would become a believer and a hitter for a single team, the men's team. A short time later, Mrs. Casandra Mesías and her friend and gang member, the sumptuous decorator Jordi Jordano, chose the house that my mother had to buy, just two blocks from my mother's stately home, a property that cost a whopping one million two hundred thousand dollars, money that Mrs. Cassandra, who was very worthy of her, asked my mother in cash, in a large suitcase, although after buying the house she asked her for another hundred thousand dollars to decorate it. But, in addition, Mrs. Mesías demanded that my mother never tell me that she had given her that money, bought that mansion, believing that my mother would be loyal to her and would keep a secret size for her, an elephant in her living room, But not a year passed and my mother ended up telling me the truth, because she doesn't know how to tell lies. Since then, Mrs. Mesías, my ex-wife, and our daughters Camille and Paula have not forgiven my mother, and they do not greet her on her birthday or Christmas, and they do not even write her a concise email to fulfill the formalities. My mother having bought the house in which these women will spend the end of the year holidays, I am afraid that they will not have the delicacy, courtesy or gratitude to visit her at her house, just two blocks away, and leave her gifts, and thank her. eternal for being so loving: it is certain that the harpy of my ex-mother-in-law, if I had gone to mourn my sentimental misfortunes, my love misadventures, she would not have bought me a house, chalet, flat, apartment, hiding place or burrow, and slap clean from her house.

So, I hope that this year my daughters Camille and Paula visit their paternal grandmother, hug her, say you love her very much and give her gifts: it is what my mother deserves. The adorable Dorita Lerner, her paternal grandmother, is not to blame for the things I have written, for the scandals I have starred in, for the diverse lovers who have stained my beds, for my lawsuits with the most worthy Cassandra Mesías because she loved me more male than my decimated hormones gave me. My mother has suffered me as much or more than all of them, and even now she dreams of reforming me, getting clean, returning me to the club she enrolled me in when I was young: that of manly, virile, believing men, that of men who get up early. and they offer their day to the Most High and work from sun to shade, that of men who would not take a false step that could damage their reputations, that of men who go to rooster mass, leave gifts at the foot of the Christmas tree and eat turkey on christmas eve. My life is a sum of missteps, meanders and forks, trails on the edge of the abyss, and my reputations are already a lost, irretrievable thing.

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