I’m halfway through a big cup of coffee and a partly-fresh spandauer from Meyers Bageri. Sitting at Gonzo, buzzed up in caffeine, sugar and a touch of sleep depravation and hangover; I look through the window, getting in the writing mood. Outside, the sun finally decided to come out, as if it suddenly remembered -too late- that it was fucking summer a while ago.
“Hej, jeg hedder (insert hippie Danish name here),” a girl says to me, with a friendly smile. “Sorry, I don’t speak Danish,” I say, coming out from a blank-stare-into-the-wall induced trance. “You are in your own world,” the girl says, and courteously lets me go back to my nothingness. I take a picture of my breakfast and post it on Instagram, with the mandatory filters and lame caption. Social media nothingness.
Flashbacks of my lovers flooded my mind last night. “The things I’ve seen, man. The things I’ve done…” I said to a colleague, at a coworker’s birthday party. He smiled, politely; safe from truly knowing what I meant with those words. Then we had cake. “Do not go gentle into that good night,” I said to the birthday girl, as she served me a big piece. People laughed. I don’t think anyone knew I was quoting Dylan Thomas. A random snob act. No need to say I didn’t get to fuck anybody. As usual.
This is my last Sunday in Nørrebro. Next Saturday I must leave my dear flat, so I have slowly stripped it out of the things that make it feel like home. My infamous red sofa was taken by two angry Eastern European movers, and most of my winter clothes are safely stored in a friend’s place in Søborg. Now I’m counting the days to temporarily move to an apartment in fancy Østerbro, and then depart to Chile for a couple of months. Lots of thinking to do, closing my 2017.
Writing saves. These words might not be appealing nor interesting to anyone but myself, yet I lay them down on these virtual pages anyway. This is my own version of a shout in the darkness of the night. I howl like a dying wolf to that distant moon in the black sky, in the hopes that any of this makes some fucking sense. How pretentious does this sound?
I self-published a book called Sex/Life in Amazon, a couple of weeks ago. I simply compiled a year and a half worth of posts from my blog, and then proofread them and edited them to flow like a novella. Now, 4 copies of the paperback are due to arrive in the next couple of days. “You misspelled ‘laughter’ in the cover of the book. You are missing a ‘t’,” one of my colleagues said when I proudly showed them the cover of my book online. “Ah, fuck,” I thought. But, honestly, is anything we do ever really perfect? Nope. (Still I’m gonna add that missing ‘t.’ I’m a perfectionist little bitch.)