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Son bonitas tantas “g” juntas. Si las miras fijamente durante un rato comienzan a parecer renacuajos danzando en una charca y buscando comidita para convertirse en ranitas. Yo quiero alimentar a mis “g” pero no tengo con qué.

¿Se comerán mis “g” a otras letras? Si yo fuera “g” me comería las “j”. Las jotas joden a mis ges. Les robaron jefe y jirafa, pero todavía no han podido con geranio. Ni con gemir. Gemir es una palabra bonita, aunque también puede ser fea, depende de quien gima y por qué lo haga. Les voy a dar unas poquitas jotas y que las más fuertes se las coman, pura selección natural.

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¡Ahí están! Míralas, son ridículas tan juntas, realmente feas. Merecen ser comidas. ¡Son vuestras mis niñas!, alimentaros y crecer.

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Me quiero morir, a veces, me quiero morir. Cuando crece todo es feo. Pierde la inocencia y se torna vulgar. Mis ges que han comido son ahora feas y gordas. Las otras son chiquitinas y bonitas, pero se van a morir de hambre. Yo no debería haber crecido jamás.

Si pudiera, volvería a ser chiquito y a escribir tonterías. Pero ya no puedo, ya no se. Ahora todo lo escribo se convierte irremediablemente en una obra de arte. Ojalá no tuviera tanto talento, ojalá pudiera ser tan mediocre como casi todos los que escriben aquí.