The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 111: Rinse and repeat

I fucked and I fucked and, guess what: I fucked. I spiraled out of control, blinded by a mission nobody assigned to me, trying to prove a point no one asked me to prove. Women became a means to an end, my own end, “The End.” And I lost them all, and lost myself in them. Into them. Aimless and hurt, I wouldn’t see them. Couldn’t feel beyond the obvious. They were there, but I wasn’t. And I became numb. Senseless. Digging inside dehumanized body parts. Soulless shells of the female form. For I was nothingness. A drunk, depressed, anxious fucking sack of skin and bones and existential gore.

I quit writing. The “write.” tattoo on my left wrist stared at me with a cynical smile. As if it was saying “You fucking loser” to my face. But I had cryptocurrencies, the sense of a purpose and some “happy pills” to keep me going. And The Moroccan, an unexpected source of emotional and sexual contention in the midst of a disappointing, rough and deadening 2018.

There’s always a woman, isn’t it? As if everything I did was because I wanted to get, fuck or dump one. Or altogether. A never-ending cycle of rinse and repeat. But I don’t think I can (nor want) to have it any other way. I’m straight, unfortunately. I like women, and they seem to like me. What’s not to like? I mean, except for the obvious.

I tried to end this whole fucking decadent creative spree on a sunny rooftop in Marrakesh; drinking mint tea with a hot African woman in a bikini, smiling back at me with her messy black curly mane in the wind. “This is it,” I thought; “The perfect end for The Decadence Chronicle has come to me.” But I never laid down the word. And life kept going. And decadence never left. It just waited until the time came to strike again and devastate any sanity left in me.

Saturday. June 9th, 2018. It’s hot outside in Frederiksberg, as I sit on the sofa with my laptop slow-cooking my balls. I feel like writing. “The sum up of the last 6 months: I fucked somebody I shouldn’t have fucked, I fucked some randoms, I fucked an older woman and I landed a good African lover to keep me -somewhat- lucid.” Sloppy writing. The muse flies over The Writer, but she doesn’t land on his lap. What a shame. Maybe I’m just too sober. Maybe I’m not a writer at all.

The many faces of my lovers melt into an amorphous blob in my memory. “The past.” What a useless concept. Where are they now? Where am I?


Consumed by consumerism, starving to death while drinking your last Coke. The world is going to the gutter and we celebrate it like there is no tomorrow. For there’s none. Zero. ¿Comprendes?

Enter the end of the day. Listen to some generic, watered down folk indie songs on Spotify, as you hide from the sun you sought-after all winter. That bloody, fucking endless winter.

How much must a man fuck up til the tipping point? Open question, no rush to answer it. Let it sink in. Have a drink. Make it double. One for you, one for the sober me. But don’t stop the wondering. Ponder away. Existentially. Spiritually. Sexually. Unethically.

Birds chirping, out in the street. I sit in front of the window, only in my yellow undies. Playing with the million hairs on my arm. Letting things roll down the engines of my mind. One too many questions going around.

A someone

Woke up exhausted, the summer sun piercing trough my thin curtains in the early morning. Sunday. Another day in the excruciating anxiety-packed life of The Writer. Fun. Fun. Fun.

I can’t complain about loneliness or these creeping feelings of abandonment. They all left me, yes. Though in hindsight, most of them could have been more than fugitive flings, but I was closed up. Was. Am.

I will reach for her, or the idea of her, in the middle of the night. My hand will meet nothing but the cold empty space of her side of the bed. There’s no her, and the concept of that (im)possible person vanishes with every fleeting thought of “a someone.”

El parque

Me he tomado el Lunes libre, hastiado de un trabajo que no pensé seguiría haciendo a mis 35. El sol brilla sobre Copenhague, 22 grados quizás. O 23, sin viento. Si mi ánimo se guiara por la temperatura, quizás esta ansiedad que me carcome no me perseguiría por todos lados. Quizás.

Si siguiera viviendo en Santiago de Chile, no podría estar escribiendo libremente como lo hago ahora; sentado en un parque con mi Macbook Pro en mi regazo. Tampoco me sentiría seguro de tomar mi bicicleta y cruzar la ciudad en hora punta, menos un día Lunes. Me encantaría poder extrapolar esa tranquilidad a mi infierno interior, extinguir las llamas negras de mi angustia con la idea del confort escandinavo. Pero no. Mis demonios son independientes de toda lógica. Unos anarquistas del dolor.

Le escribí a una de mis últimas amantes por Whatsapp, acorralado por la asfixiante soledad de mi departamento en Frederiksberg. Quizás si la follo esta noche logre acallar por algunos instantes el tormento de mi cabeza. Pero he fornicado a más de 20 distintas amantes en los últimos dos años y el resultado es siempre el mismo. Culpa. Vacío. Arrepentimiento. Hastío. Y de vuelta al mismo círculo. Repetirlo hasta el cansancio y volverlo a repetir.

“Muchos matarían por la oportunidad que tú has tenido,” me escribió papá por Facebook. Se ausenta de mi vida por 34 años, pero su sabiduría parece trascender el resentimiento y el olvido. Pero no me basta. Todo esto ya lo sé. Es obvio. Nuevamente, mis demonios desconocen la voz de la razón. Sordos.

Tetas y culos por doquier, cuando levanto la vista y miro a mi alrededor. A las vikingas les encanta tomar el sol en bikini, dónde sea. Dinamarca me llena de aparentes bendiciones, pero de a poco me he vuelto inmune al optimismo. Un cínico de mierda. Demasiado sobrio. Demasiado solo.

De regreso en mi departamento, Whatsapp permanece silencioso. Al parecer, no habrá sexo esta noche. Volveré a trabajar, otro Martes más de nada. Y luego, Miércoles de lo mismo. Y así, hasta quién sabe.

¿Qué viene ahora? ¿Quién viene ahora? Y, sobre todo, ¿importa una mierda?

Asses and shit

I look out the window and I see a middle-aged man wiping his little dog’s ass, as it looks back at him, probably wondering how pathetic human life is. My dad has a take on that: “A man has to stomach a lot of shit before kicking the bucket.” He also wipes his dogs’ asses, like it’s no big deal. He has probably endured plenty of shit in his life already; enough to make him comfortable removing it from some beast’s hairy asshole.

On the asshole note, I lost my adult anal virginity to a 70-year-old man, a couple of days ago. I went to the doctor because my gut has been acting up, all swollen and bloated again. “I have to check your anus, get some samples,” he said, smiling. I laid on my side, facing the wall, my naked ass sticking out towards him. The man got the job done with three different anal swabs. I sighed. Life just keeps getting better and better. My guts, worse and worse.

Going cold turkey on my pills might not have been the best idea. Anxiety came back and settled in, feeling all nice and comfortable, at home in my fucked up head. I haven’t been a good boy, though. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of saying “Fuck you. This is what you get.” Or something.

At least my writing drive is slowly returning. Angst squeezes more words out of me than the sense of happiness, that’s for sure. Writers, you know, are such clichés. But I’m not drinking. Haven’t done it in seven months. We could agree that I’m a cliché with an edge.

The Muse haven’t sit on my lap yet. She stares at me from the other end of the bar, as I sip a lemonade with mint and a touch of ginger. “Faggot,” she thinks, as she downs her third whisky, neat. But I’m okay with it. I have a 5-year plan to fulfill. A gut to cure. Anxiety to deal with. And an ass to wipe. Luckily, my own. There’s still some dignity left in me.