I cycled down to Marie’s flat to feed her cat, Proppen. I was, as usual, not wearing a helmet, with an “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. Because I don’t. What a dull death it would be, anyway. I’m too old to die young. Already too ripe to be part of The 27 Club and join Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse in Heaven (or wherever the fuck they are.) Although, ironically, too young yet to pull a Bukowski or a Hemingway. Fuck me dead, Death.
I have been all OCD about writing the 100th episode of The Decadence Chronicle. Too much pressure. “It must be perfect!” “It’s a round number, make it count.” “It’s the last one. This time for real.” Fuck you, Eduardo. (Yes, as in “Fuck you, self. Or idea of self. Or other half of my -seemingly- split personality.”) The Writer doesn’t work under pressure.
Days and weeks have passed and my fingers have hardly put down the word in these blank pages. A part of me wants to just get it over with, and the other nags the shit out of me to make this a great finale. But, what can I say? “I made out in a crowded hostel bar with a 19-year-old that I lured into meeting me for some beers, because she read my blog once.” Not much to be proud of there. Plus, we didn’t fuck. “I have flirted for weeks with a nerdy Finnish girl who is my ex’s doppelganger.” No fucking involved there, either. “We got super high with Marie.” There was some fucking there. Took her from behind and didn’t even give her time to fully pull down her pants. But, is that worth telling? It happened a while back and I came like in 5 seconds, so not really. Old news. Flash cum. Fuck all that.
So, that’s where I stand. And here is where I sit. In my poorly lit apartment, a week away from leaving it for good. Angsty. Frustrated. Tired. With no tv to watch Netflix on, chewing on dry oatmeal to calm the hunger and the nerves. Listening to 90’s pop rock music on Spotify (with the fucking noisy ads in between, because I’m too cheap to pay for a subscription.) And that’s the status quo.
“You have a deep pain… a loneliness from within,” my mum said, doing a tarot reading through the phone.
“Yup, that sounds about right,” I replied, with an exhausted voice; feeling said pain in the very bottom of my soul.
“But pain is not always bad, son,” she continued. “Sometimes we get wounds we don’t realize we have until we see them bleed. You need pain to feel these wounds. Pain warns you that something you are doing is hurting you.”
I sighed. It made sense. “That’s beautiful, mum,” I said.
“So now you that know why the pain is there in your life, do something to change it.”
“What? What can I possibly do to change?”
“Just do something. Anything. Find something that motivates you and do it.”
Tarot. Too much poetry, too little clarity.
Proppen seemed quite happy to see me. He had been locked in the flat for a whole day. Poor beast. I pet him a bit, disregarding my hatred for felines. “You were hungry, huh?” I said, while feeding him. As if he could understand my words. He of course didn’t. But it didn’t matter. In those brief minutes, we were the same. Gray. Bored. Unfucked. Profoundly lonely. And furry. He more than I. Furry, not lonely.