Walking around the Copenhagen airport, killing time before my flight to Paris, I check out the girls in the area. I say to myself “I wouldn’t mind,” every other time I see one passing by. It basically means that I wouldn’t mind fucking them, though they don’t arise any special interest in me rather than just a meaningless, good old fashioned fuck. Not that I would invest any effort, time or energy to achieve that goal. Not that I would go talk to them to dig in their minds and souls, to find a significant and fulfilling connection. No, nothing like that. It’s more like, if they happened to land, legs spread open and pussy first, right onto my erect penis, I wouldn’t mind fucking them to completion. My completion, that is. Because, in my egoistic, misogynist male mind, I don’t care about them. These are all hypothetical fucks that will never happen. But they are good for a laugh. And for self-deprecation and those annoying deep existential questions. “What am I doing with my life?”
Being single isn’t as glamorous as I thought I would be. It’s 6:12 PM and I’m on the couch, playing with my balls; my jeans unbuttoned and my belt loose. Have just washed a homemade Angus burger with cheddar cheese down my gut. I’m full. Could sleep. Could watch some piece of shit series on Netflix or a few forgettable videos on YouTube. But no. Here I am, fondling my balls and staring at some distant neighbor doing the dishes by her kitchen window. A genuinely responsible adult with grown up responsibilities, doing her shit. What a life. What a motherfucking life. While my balls continue to be grabbed.
I ran into my hot neighbor on Sunday afternoon and it was as awkward as you would expect. She was sober, unlike the time we met by our doorsteps. So, yes, I don’t think the “fucking the girl next door scenario” is gonna happen anytime soon. Or ever. You see? No glamour. No nothing.
I’m lonely. An undertow of desperation is building up in my insides. When is this dry spell going to end? When will I find somebody? Or, is there anybody out there, at all? It feels hopeless. Maybe I should give up and do as many Danes and Norwegians do. Just pack my bags and go to Thailand to buy the unconditional love of a younger woman in need. A pathetic, yet practical business transaction.
There’s still some pride in me, though. I am sober now, for example. Sixteen days and counting. I feel better, actually. My gut is almost not bothering me anymore. And waking up without a hangover is priceless. Or is it? I don’t know. It does take a toll on me. I’m isolated in the confined space of my ugly-ass overpriced studio apartment in Østerbro. Can’t cope with my drinking buddies without alcohol rushing through my veins. Can’t pretend I give a fuck about meaningless bullshit. And can’t seem to shake the fear of -finally- becoming a full-blown alcoholic once I break this self-imposed sobriety period.
I obviously stopped playing with my balls now. Couldn’t write if I didn’t. But, mentally, it’s like I’m still sitting on the couch, joggling with my testicles. Contemplating the boring lives of the people around me. Thinking of the life I chose. Disappointed of the outcome of the decisions I made to just end up… here.
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.)
June 27, 2017. Mark that date, boys and girls. That’s the last time I fucked, properly. My French affair came to an end, and so did a successful roll of varied lovers. Then, an abysmal dry spell. And all the thoughts and existential angst that came with it.
I miss fucking; the tender denial of reality that comes with it. Sex is highly overrated, but you already know that, don’t you? Me too. But, while engaging in it, in the whole process of attraction, flirtation, seduction, foreplay, intercourse, completion and repetition; you don’t spend much time questioning it. Or anything. You are gone. Maybe not completely -I never am,- but enough to exfoliate the pain from the thin skin of your meaningless being.
So you seek it. Constantly. Relentlessly. The sweet release of the little death. La petite mort.
Last night I drank liters of beer to wash down some gin and tonics and a couple of shitty cocktails at the annual company party. I finally dared to tell the “most beautiful girl in the whole building” that she made my days bearable, every time I saw her in the canteen. She was drunk and overly approachable. “Aw, you are so cute,” she said, which translates to “I will never fuck you.” She, of course, has a boyfriend. Also, fun fact, she had never even noticed me before. “I’m the creepy guy who you have probably seen staring at you during lunch,” I explained. But no; she was absolutely unaware of my existence. Quite a hit in the feels. So I drank more, until the bar closed and the party was over. I was a drunkard. A cute one.
This afternoon, I walked home on the cold streets of Østerbro with my kebab menu to go in a cheap plastic bag. I was feeling lonely. Hungover and lonely. Suddenly, a puddle of vomit revealed itself in front of me, on the sidewalk. It was slowly being washed away by the rain. Was it some sort of sick sign God was sending me? Perhaps. Did I care? No. I walked around it. I was hungry. Nothing mattered.
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.