I came back home from Sunday brunch with my good friend A. It was still sunny outside and my living room was bright. From the entrance of my flat I could clearly see the lighter spots on the wooden floor where Interesting Girl had spilled wine. That was a month ago. Time flies when you are having fun. And, occasionally, also when you ain’t.
What’s left when there’s nothing left? I live surrounded by remains of my past relationship. Pieces of our life together in Santiago and here in Copenhagen. My ex is still, somewhat, present here. And her birthday is coming next week. December 1st. Maybe this makes me more aware of what we had, of what is no more.
Exes. Lovers, coming and going. I can’t do this any longer. I’m tired of the same old standard procedure. Tinder date. Booze. Sex. Writing about it. Being dumped. Writing about it too. More booze. Back to Tinder. Repeat.
The longer I go without my ex, the more I realize how much I loved her. And the more I fuck around, the more I long for a significant connection. Yes, I know I’m also seriously fucked up. I get bored quickly and being interested -really, truly, genuinely interested- comes hard for me. Yet, I can’t seem to lose hope. “Maybe the next one will be interesting. Maybe she will fuck me more than two times and then leave. Maybe she will stay. And, just maybe, I will want her to stay.”
I’m fucking weird. An apathetic, cynical, horny, ironic, dicklish, hopeless romantic. Should I write that on my Tinder profile? Should I be more open about my fucked-up-ness? I binge watched the whole You’re the Worst series in the last two weeks. It was inspiring, encouraging. Fucked-up-ness works in fiction. Perhaps it will work in real life as well. I mean, have you read my blog? Real life is weird as shit, and that is nothing but promising. Let’s wait and see what happens. Fingers crossed.