I fucked and I fucked and, guess what: I fucked. I spiraled out of control, blinded by a mission nobody assigned to me, trying to prove a point no one asked me to prove. Women became a means to an end, my own end, “The End.” And I lost them all, and lost myself in them. Into them. Aimless and hurt, I wouldn’t see them. Couldn’t feel beyond the obvious. They were there, but I wasn’t. And I became numb. Senseless. Digging inside dehumanized body parts. Soulless shells of the female form. For I was nothingness. A drunk, depressed, anxious fucking sack of skin and bones and existential gore.
I quit writing. The “write.” tattoo on my left wrist stared at me with a cynical smile. As if it was saying “You fucking loser” to my face. But I had cryptocurrencies, the sense of a purpose and some “happy pills” to keep me going. And The Moroccan, an unexpected source of emotional and sexual contention in the midst of a disappointing, rough and deadening 2018.
There’s always a woman, isn’t it? As if everything I did was because I wanted to get, fuck or dump one. Or altogether. A never-ending cycle of rinse and repeat. But I don’t think I can (nor want) to have it any other way. I’m straight, unfortunately. I like women, and they seem to like me. What’s not to like? I mean, except for the obvious.
I tried to end this whole fucking decadent creative spree on a sunny rooftop in Marrakesh; drinking mint tea with a hot African woman in a bikini, smiling back at me with her messy black curly mane in the wind. “This is it,” I thought; “The perfect end for The Decadence Chronicle has come to me.” But I never laid down the word. And life kept going. And decadence never left. It just waited until the time came to strike again and devastate any sanity left in me.
Saturday. June 9th, 2018. It’s hot outside in Frederiksberg, as I sit on the sofa with my laptop slow-cooking my balls. I feel like writing. “The sum up of the last 6 months: I fucked somebody I shouldn’t have fucked, I fucked some randoms, I fucked an older woman and I landed a good African lover to keep me -somewhat- lucid.” Sloppy writing. The muse flies over The Writer, but she doesn’t land on his lap. What a shame. Maybe I’m just too sober. Maybe I’m not a writer at all.
The many faces of my lovers melt into an amorphous blob in my memory. “The past.” What a useless concept. Where are they now? Where am I?