I don't want people who don't know how to share the umbrella. I don't love the people who walk too fast when it's not me, nor the ones who walk too slowly (well, that's a little, but only a little). I don't like people sitting in the hallway seat on the bus. I don't like reckless people. I don't want people talking out loud on purpose. Nor do people who sit on the metro with their legs well open (well, men). People who don't salute. Not even the one who doesn't hold the door. I don't like people who squeeze the computer keys too hard. People who speak unknowingly. Who doesn't take you to the party bathroom. People who write slowly on WhatsApp, very slowly (encouragement zuoi).

I'm impatient about small things, but I don't want these people too much either. Excuse me, I don't do it on purpose.

Lately I'm especially concerned about the smallest things; I don't know, I'm not particularly in a good mood. The yellow sequin dresses of the Stradivarius hurt me every morning when I go to class; in the shops there are nothing but dolls and drawings of Santa Claus; every day I have to see the English Court in white and green, very ugly, by the way, and yesterday came to my phone a notification: “His sister’s secret gift.” Shit, Christmas.

I would also like to be able to interpret Christmas, romantic or, at least, that I like. But we're also going to spend this hot, nice, superguous Christmas in the library. Last Sunday, we put the tree at home. Izaro's new album purchased at the Durango Trade Show animated me for a moment, but then also came a statement: “June, have you delivered lite?” Take.

I don't know when I stopped loving Christmas, maybe when I closed the door to the Olentzero and started looking at the world. Who knows? But Christmas is about loving and caring for people, celebrating that we're together, and as the happiest person in the world climbing up the Instahisti and BeReal. But just for Christmas, eh! In the other 300 days of the year, I won't remember what you're learning.

Tomorrow will, however, be one of the most beautiful days for me, so it must be. On 24 December it is, without excuses, a day that I can approach very well the people I love: those who make a particularly bad umbrella, those who are too fast, too slow, those who sit next to the hallway, those who are always late or those who speak loudly, too high. Because by itself I want a lot of batteries. Hold it? Tias, not always.