I am a fat, obese, morbidly obese, right-wing, far-right, far-right gun-girl lady. To my right there is no one, there is nothing, only an unfathomable abyss, an endless precipice. They are all on my left and are suspected of being fools, useful fools, useless fools.
Since I was a child I was on the right, although then I was skinny and no one suspected that I would become the hippopotamus that I am now. My parents had money. We lived in a house so big that you couldn’t see where the gardens ended. It was a joy. My father was a gunman, a firearms collector, an animal hunter, a lover of safaris. He did not believe in democracy. He said that the Indians of the town were so ignorant that they could not elect the government. He believed in the military dictatorship. He said that our ignorant countries should be ruled with an iron fist by their military cronies. All the generals of the dictatorship were his friends and they came to the house to get drunk and were always plotting a blow with some greatswords against others, a perfidious conspiracy that in the end they did not execute because on the day of the coup they were sleeping with a ferocious hangover. Dad was a conspirator, a coup plotter. He admired Franco and Pinochet.
My mother was also from the extreme right, although not from the right-wing gun, because she hated weapons and detested the military: she was from the religious right, reactionary, illiberal. He belonged to a conservative brotherhood, Opus Dei, of repressed men and chaste women, all more or less wealthy. Mom used to say that democracy did not work in our poor countries because people were very brutal in electing their representatives. Mama thought that the ideal dictatorship was a theocratic one and that the government should be presided over by bishops, archbishops and cardinals. Since my mother said that birth control pills were for soulless atheists and my father said that the condom was a satanic invention, they had a child every two years, religiously. So now we are twelve brothers, I am the fattest and the most whore of all.
I don’t know if because of rebellion against my parents or because it was my genetic mandate, I was very rough, very hetaira, I mean very whore, since I entered the university. I really liked religious men, repressed, tormented by guilt, those were the most fiery in bed. I was disappointed by the students of the left, the socialist poets, those used to be talkative, but, at the time of the erotic fray, rather melancholic, depressive, somewhat slimy. That’s why I was on the right intellectually and also on the right sexually. I defined myself as a capitalist, individualistic, selfish woman. When they spoke to me about compassionate or human-faced capitalism, I would laugh. I believed in savage capitalism and savage fornication.
Of course, I didn’t finish college, I got bored, I dropped out. Teachers seemed to me like zombies, ghostly creatures, dastardly people who knew neither prosperity nor happiness. Of course, I have never worked in my life bitch, I have always been a kept. Kept from whom? From my parents, especially my mother. My father came from a family of rich bankers, but my mother left him as poor: she came from a family of very wealthy miners. So when I needed a little money, I just had to ask my mother and she, a saint, the most generous woman in the world, transferred it to my bank accounts. To ensure the good time my mother gave me, I had to pretend to her that I was very religious. Then he accompanied her on her trips to the Vatican, on her pilgrimages to the sites of appeared virgins, and on her Opus Dei retreats with a lot of bearded and mustachioed women. That was my job: to pretend to be a believer by being with my mother, when, in truth, I did not believe in anything, except in mother’s money.
Since I had no academic degree or professional career, since I did not have to work for a living, since I was attracted to the lustful, libidinous life, it was perfectly natural for me to dedicate myself to drugs, especially marijuana. All day I was stoned, blown up, twisted. That led to me being fat. Marijuana gave me such cravings that it threw me like a seal on chocolates and ice cream. I hired a personal trainer to lose weight, but it was him who lost the weight because I made him my off-road lover and left him squeezed after riding it. Already in my thirties, I was fat, right-winger, lazy, pot-bellied, and mountaineer, always traveling, jumping from bed to bed.
Dad died of cancer and I inherited several million. Mom kept adding to her fortune because the Chinese were buying more minerals than ever and then silver and copper prices skyrocketed. I wrote a very lusty novel recreating my life of guiltless fornicating, but it was a complete editorial failure and caused severe displeasure to my mother and my brothers. I did a talk show on television, interviews with artists, writers, painters, on an almost clandestine cable channel, but it was a resounding failure because nobody saw it and I fell asleep at times, listening to the answers. I tried to produce a documentary on the advantages of savage capitalism and liberalism, but I’m so lazy that I got an eight-minute short that nobody saw or awarded. In other words, I was not born to work, and when I have tried, it has been an effort against nature, and logically I have failed.
What was I born for then? The short answer would be: to eat. I’m always hungry, I’m always biting something. Above all, I am hungry at dawn. At that hour I go down to the kitchen, open the refrigerator, and ferociously attack my supplies. I don’t know if I’m hungry, but I have anxiety, tension, a real desperation to eat, to swallow. What do i eat Mainly cheeses, smoked salmon, caviar and Serrano ham. I make croissants with cheese and salmon, with cheese and ham, and I mash them on the grill, the cheese well melted, and I am able to eat three croissants in a row. Then I move on to fruits: grapes, strawberries, bananas, peaches, pears, papayas, all smeared with fig, strawberry and guava jams, what a delight. Finally, I throw myself on the ice cream and it’s a feast, an orgy of calories. At three in the morning I go back to my bed and I feel identical to the German Chancellor Angela Merkel: a state woman: my state is the refrigerator in my house. Pachydermic, elephantiasic, I have to sleep on my back, because if I lie on my stomach, I suffocate.
Fat, very fat as I am, I am terrified of catching the coronavirus. I know that I would die. I have no defenses, barriers, immune system or logical system, everything in me is illogical or antilogical. That is why I have stopped flying in airplanes. That is why I have stopped finding honorable lovers on the internet. That is why I have stopped paying for sex. I can’t hang around with strangers, like in my glory days. I have to take care of myself, wear a mask, stay home, cloistered like a nun. My vaginal cave, which has been a hospice for so many strangers, which has provided shelter for so many visitors, is now a disused area, forbidden, closed to the public, like a theater in decline, dusty, like a haunted airport, without ships , without passengers, without free shop. This is not life: I cannot travel, I cannot copulate, I cannot go out to restaurants or the theater, I cannot visit my mother, who is already eighty years old and is terrified of catching it. What do I do then? To eat, to sleep, to watch series and movies, to play with my mood. How do I play with my mood? With pills and joints. Especially with pills. The man from the pharmacy, who is my lifelong friend, sends me home, with a Venezuelan on a motorcycle, all the pills I ask for, without a prescription or prescription. It is a joy, a delight, an astral travel. And the Venezuelan on a motorcycle is very nice and I would like to offer him my cuchufleta, my artichoke, but these are times of pandemic and I should not risk the virus blowing me.
Confined, saddened, choked, I dream of traveling again, of feeling like a whore again, of traveling in my mother’s plane, she praying in Latin, I snorting two snowy stripes in the bathroom of the plane. For now I must resist, survive. Already vaccinated, now free, very free, I am going to turn completely to the political conspiracies of the right, of the extreme right: I am going to visit Macri at his house in Acassuso when Juliana has left and propose a trio to him, me playing the role of mattress or Marker; I am going to visit Piñera at his house in Las Condes and ask him to vaccinate me with two doses separated by just one hour; I’m going to visit Fujimori in jail and read him texts from the suicidal Mishima to see if he inspires courage; And I am going to visit Uribe at his farm in Río Negro and we are going to ride a horse, while we pray the rosary, both very pious, very boar. I’m not going to visit Trump in Palm Beach or anywhere because he has the intelligence of a mosquito and the courage of a chicken. And because I know that, being so fat, it would reject me, it would make me ugly. Who I do plan to visit, with my mother, of course, is the Argentine Pope, I would love to take a picture with him and whisper to him: Your Holiness, your friend Cristina is the Antichrist, watch out for her.