The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 104: Father figure

Too many things happening, nothing really developing into something worth telling. My hands tremble with the underlying burning desire of laying down the word. Yet, what about? The constant rejection of my romantic/sexual interests? My insomnia? The food poisoning that incapacitated me for a whole week? The discomfort of being the only non-white person in fucking Østerbro? My general exhaustion and distaste for life?

Maybe I’m just afraid of what’s to come. The clock is ticking and the calendar is shortening. My imminent trip to Chile is around the corner; the face of a home that is not really my home anymore, staring into my eyes. The weight of its gaze, awkward and unnecessarily long. Reminding me of my past. Giving me a dark outlook of the present and the future.

My dad shat the bed, figuratively. And, lately, literally. My sister says he’s showing the first signs of dementia. It runs in his family, which means it runs in my blood too. He’s fucked. I’m fucked. We are all fucked. But I can’t fuck anymore. Fuck to forget that my dad is dying. That my mom is also aging. That I am aging too, and someday will be, as well, shitting the bed. Alone, most likely.

I fear what I will have to confront when I land back in the motherland. A sagging, fading living memory of my partially deceased father. “Perhaps it’s not as bad in person,” I’m wishfully thinking. Hoping that the image of my dad is not a mirror reflecting my own future disgrace.

My father is not a good person. He’s a violent man, abandoned by his mother and abused by poverty and his alcoholic and -surprise!- also violent father. Yeah, that’s Eduardo Hernández Sr. for you, people. That’s the man who raised me and shaped me into the absurd guy I am today; full of conflicting ideas and values that are nothing but skewed and obscure concepts like homophobia, misogyny, racism, nationalist self-deprecation and blatant-yet-weird antisemitism. A work of art in the vulnerable mindset of a shy kid who grew up to be a writer. Or something like that.

I barely slept last night and the words come harder with each key I hit. I have said enough shit about my dad, haven’t I? Job well done, then. I vented that shit and now I can go back to talk about less complex matters. Like “Hey, I met my next door neighbor on Thursday. She’s hot, single and she clearly likes me. Maybe I’m gonna fuck after all!” Because that’s what you all motherfuckers wanna read, right? Eduardo’s fucking adventures. (To be honest, I prefer that too. The skeletons in my closet are not as good looking as the girls I fuck, and not nearly as fun.)

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