Being a Ferrari while she, the other one, is just a Twingo

If the appeal of social networks, tabloids, and confessional literature is any indication, it is that there is something alluring about observing other people's privacy. We want the other to be honest with us, to share his rage, his pain, his sorrow, and his tantrum with us so we can examine him, discuss it, stand up for him, or remove him.

We enjoy grouping together emotions, particularly pain, because they are what bind us together. For example, pain helps the unemployed graphic designer from 5oC understand the affluent mother from 2o and the woman who constantly snorts and swears in the fruit shop. The philosopher's stone of relationships is honest communication from a place of woundedness; it is what forges strong bonds between people and, unfortunately, what frequently ends those bonds as well.

In my case, there is nothing I enjoy more than a good oversharing or a daring opening up, regardless of where it comes from. We're referring to the practice of excessive, overwhelming, and shameless sharing of personal information, for those who are confused by the language that is constantly being invented.

The phrase first appeared in The New York Times in 2008, and Webster's New world dictionary named it the year's most innovative word in the same year. Shakira's decision to reveal intimate details of her relationship and her natural rage toward her ex-partner are more in the realm of artistic decision, media, or business today. We no longer need the tabloids' intervention to learn what is going on in the life of this or that famous person. They are the ones who decide to claim their own voice, in Shakira's case, singing to us to the beat of her own song. I don't know if we can consider her song as a clear case of.

Shakira sings in her song about how she is a Rolex while the other person is just a Casio or a Twingo, or that she is a Ferrari while the other person is just a Casio. A story that anyone going through this situation can use to transform the pain into something else, whether it be in a song, a patch, a conversation with friends that is wine-tinted and everything in between.

The striking thing about this situation is how the singer's desire to spill everything about her relationship with soccer player Gerard Piqué has suddenly elevated her to the status of a feminist icon. And it is empowering to see a woman express herself freely, defying political correctness, by dancing to her rage, dancing through the duel on the back of a sequined horse, and embracing her anger even to the point of making money off of it.

We still adore Chenoa because she made the choice to invoice rather than cry, but Shakira has shown that invoicing is a practice that is not always done in the most effective way. Crying is a necessary and cathartic exercise, but it is too frequently viewed as shameful or inappropriate. Whether the singer's decision to throw the other into the broth should be praised or despised, her story serves as an unmistakable illustration of a prevalent trend in modern cyberfeminism.

Every person with internet access is aware that there is a feminism that is expressed at the click of a button by everyone with a keyboard and a brain, and that it is expressed more on social media platforms like Instagram and Tiktok than it is in local assemblies or on the streets. A feminism that seems hyper-disposed to regard any act performed as empowering or deserving of admiration, one that builds altars every time a woman says or does something that prompts commentary—altars, yes, but altars nonetheless—of ephemeral architecture.

a woman's cape. An illustration of female emancipation made flesh: not legitimate and not respectable.

In all of this, there is a naive essentialism that makes us all deserve — or suffer, without asking for it — our small measure of fame at said altar, despite the fact that what we have done is something so old, so lifelong, like complaining about the new partner of our old love. It's possible that the woke culture, which is so strict and pure and, dare I say it, so exhausting, is producing resistance that is harder to see and reviving sympathy for discourses that we had at first appeared to want to reject.

Perhaps Shakira can serve as a role model for women who are sick of being complacent, of feeling obligated to win battles with grace, without temper tantrums, without inflated egos, without asserting ourselves like a Rolex, and without a sequined horse to mount. Perhaps it permeates us because of the understandable urge we all have to say and do the unexpected and the forbidden: spit on the new girlfriend in spite of having read Relational Anarchy, smash the dishes on the floor rather than going to the gym and committing to the treadmill, as the playwright—who is, on the other hand, never correct—angelica liddell does to get over her breakup in the House of Strength.

What makes some of us flake and generates a certain rejection may not be the song itself or the decisions of a singer who is not, of her own accord, a champion of anything, but rather the feminist cheers towards a song that represents romantic values ​​that, despite being still valid, we had learned to see them as harmful. I'll see you on the track, whatever the case may be.

Instead of going to the gym and dedicating ourselves to the treadmill, we should smash the dishes on the floor and spit on the new girlfriend despite having read Relational Anarchy, as the playwright Angelica Liddell does in the House of strength to cope with her breakup. On the other hand, she is never right. It's possible that the feminist applause for a song that represents romantic values that, while still valid, we have come to see as harmful is what makes some of us flake and causes a certain rejection rather than the song itself or the choices made by a singer who isn't, on her own, a champion of anything.

I'll see you on the track, whatever the case may be. Instead of going to the gym and dedicating ourselves to the treadmill, we should smash the dishes on the floor and spit on the new girlfriend despite having read Relational Anarchy, as the playwright Angelica Liddell does in the House of strength to cope with her breakup. On the other hand, she is never right.

It's possible that the feminist applause for a song that represents romantic values that, while still valid, we have come to see as harmful is what makes some of us flake and causes a certain rejection rather than the song itself or the choices made by a singer who isn't, on her own, a champion of anything. I'll see you on the track, whatever the case may be.

Angelica Liddell acts similarly to the playwright, who is, on the other hand, never entirely accurate, in overcoming her break in the House of Force. What makes some of us flake and generates a certain rejection may not be the song itself or the decisions of a singer who is not, of her own accord, a champion of anything, but rather the feminist cheers towards a song that represents romantic values ​​that, despite being still valid, we had learned to see them as harmful.

I'll see you on the track, whatever the case may be. Angelica Liddell acts similarly to the playwright, who is, on the other hand, never entirely accurate, in overcoming her break in the House of Force.

What makes some of us flake and generates a certain rejection may not be the song itself or the decisions of a singer who is not, of her own accord, a champion of anything, but rather the feminist cheers towards a song that represents romantic values ​​that, despite being still valid, we had learned to see them as harmful. I'll see you on the track, whatever the case may be.

We'd grown accustomed to seeing them as negative. I'll see you on the track, whatever the case may be.

We'd grown accustomed to seeing them as negative. I'll see you on the track, whatever the case may be.

Perhaps it permeates us because of the understandable urge we all have to say and do the unexpected and the forbidden: spit on the new girlfriend in spite of having read Relational Anarchy, smash the dishes on the floor rather than going to the gym and committing to the treadmill, as the playwright—who is, on the other hand, never correct—Angelica Liddell does to get over her breakup in the House of Strength.