In Argentina, indifference isn’t just a bad habit — it’s an unofficial national sport, with millions of active players. The phrase “What do you want me to do?” is practiced everywhere: in the face of inflation, theft, the dollar hopping like a rabbit, corruption… and even when the neighbor’s dog leaves a little souvenir on the sidewalk.
It’s the philosophy of whatever, a cocktail of resignation, lukewarm mate, and mystical faith that, sooner or later, someone will save us. Because if General San Martín doesn’t come down from his horse, there’s always Saint Perón, Saint Messi, Saint Evita… and, for the more modern faithful, Saint and Saintess Milei — ready to redeem us from fiscal hell with two chainsaws and a dog taller than most politicians.
The problem is, while we wait for this national miracle, we keep doing what we’ve always done: complain at the lunch table, rage on social media, and then, five minutes later, go “Alright, don’t ruin my day.” And so, divine hope becomes a human excuse for not lifting a finger.
The result? A country where the procession moves inside… but the paralysis stays outside. And where there’s always a new saint or hero ready for the altar, while we sit in the stands, watching history pass by and muttering:
—Whatever… what do you want me to do?
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