Sat on the toilet, to shit out last night’s drunk McDonald’s €10 menu. There was no toilet paper left, so I looked for some, pants down, in my new bathroom. “Luxury,” read the package of the one I found there. Sat back on the toilet and took a picture of it. Captioned it and put it on Instagram. “Have come a long way, from shitting in plastic bags in the slums of Santiago to wiping my ass with luxury toilet paper in one of the fanciest areas of Copenhagen. #livinglarge” Broadcasting my life again. Who gives a shit?
I never talk about the old days. They were tough times. A less existential and more down to earth struggle, back in the ghetto. I ate and dress poorly. Heard distant gunshots at night. I didn’t have a hot shower home until my early twenties. And once, the toilet at my parent’s clogged pretty bad, so we shat on supermarket bags for a whole year, because my dad didn’t want to spend any money to fix it. But now I wipe my ass with like 8 layers of the softest fucking toilet paper in the market. And I overeat, indulge in mild-alcoholism and on a very First World country white depression that isn’t quite real, but just an excuse to keep myself grounded. To have some struggle going on.
Yeah, I don’t talk about the old times. I don’t want to be a “good writer, considering.” No, fuck pity. I wanna be a good writer. Period. But I don’t write. Not enough. I’m unfocused. Uninspired. Lost.
I moved to a new place yesterday. Left Nørrebro, my old gentrified turf, and I changed it for a completely different spot. Now, I’m living in a boring, quiet high class neighborhood in Østerbro. You can go knock on all the doors, open every window, leave no stone unturned; you’ll find no soul here. Just white families and successful-single-highly-skilled-professionals-in-their-thirties. And me. Kind of fitting in the latter, but not at all. Not in the slightness.
Look at me. Complaining about being well off, having an okay career and earning an above than average salary. Living in one of the most developed and richest countries in the world. Working from 8 to 4, sometimes from home. Sitting comfortably in a nice studio apartment, located in a safe area, with a working toilet and a warm shower. Things that I take for granted now. How easily one forgets.
If you come from the bottom, don’t talk about it much. It gets old, fast. But, my friend, if you have a match with a pretty 24-year-old on Tinder, fucking milk it. “I’m a complex man. But, in a nutshell, I’m the rare breed from the ghetto of Santiago de Chile that somehow made it all the way to Denmark.” As I said, this teat runs dry quickly. Fucking milk it while you can. We, the poor, will always be poor inside. And all these little things might be as luxurious as it gets.