You left me and I don't forgive you for it.

The bakery, the only establishment open at the intersection where I'll be picked up in the early hours, has a Catalan name that suggests tradition. The young, uniformed, Latina workers speak Spanish. Many of the customers do too. To avoid the cold from the automatic glass door, which opens and stays open, I stand at the back of the establishment. The speaker with the music is above me. Reggaeton songs play nonstop, and I understand that it's more for the enjoyment of the workers than the customers. I can do nothing but pry.

They dedicate their lyrics to the same themes: sexual disinhibition as a virtue, the desire to spend the money earned in an alienating job on partying, and infidelity. Literature is full of these three themes. When Bad Gyal talks about a sexual partner's fat penis and exclaims,I can handle the pressure"He's doing what Catherine Millet does when she says 'I had to do' something, mixing a certain obligation with enjoyment. When this unknown singer tells us he wants to alienate himself this weekend, he's explaining the mythical..." Saturday night, Sunday morning by Alan Sillitoe or reminds us of that song by Moris, Saturday nightThe "you sleep around, but we've talked about it" refrain from every singer I hear these days, one after another, is a classic theme in literature. They, however, complain in a very childish and, therefore, tiresome way. They repeat the same thing over and over. They're just songs, for crying out loud. If this guy who's now saying you hurt him but he'll get over it and that he hates your new lover were telling you all this in a voice note, you'd block him.