The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 103: Godsent

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.

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 102: Luxurious

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.

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 101: The one-o-one

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.)

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 100: Proppen

I cycled down to Marie’s flat to feed her cat, Proppen. I was, as usual, not wearing a helmet, with an “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. Because I don’t. What a dull death it would be, anyway. I’m too old to die young. Already too ripe to be part of The 27 Club and join Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse in Heaven (or wherever the fuck they are.) Although, ironically, too young yet to pull a Bukowski or a Hemingway. Fuck me dead, Death.

I have been all OCD about writing the 100th episode of The Decadence Chronicle. Too much pressure. “It must be perfect!” “It’s a round number, make it count.” “It’s the last one. This time for real.” Fuck you, Eduardo. (Yes, as in “Fuck you, self. Or idea of self. Or other half of my -seemingly- split personality.”) The Writer doesn’t work under pressure.

Days and weeks have passed and my fingers have hardly put down the word in these blank pages. A part of me wants to just get it over with, and the other nags the shit out of me to make this a great finale. But, what can I say? “I made out in a crowded hostel bar with a 19-year-old that I lured into meeting me for some beers, because she read my blog once.” Not much to be proud of there. Plus, we didn’t fuck. “I have flirted for weeks with a nerdy Finnish girl who is my ex’s doppelganger.” No fucking involved there, either. “We got super high with Marie.” There was some fucking there. Took her from behind and didn’t even give her time to fully pull down her pants. But, is that worth telling? It happened a while back and I came like in 5 seconds, so not really. Old news. Flash cum. Fuck all that.

So, that’s where I stand. And here is where I sit. In my poorly lit apartment, a week away from leaving it for good. Angsty. Frustrated. Tired. With no tv to watch Netflix on, chewing on dry oatmeal to calm the hunger and the nerves. Listening to 90’s pop rock music on Spotify (with the fucking noisy ads in between, because I’m too cheap to pay for a subscription.) And that’s the status quo.

“You have a deep pain… a loneliness from within,” my mum said, doing a tarot reading through the phone.
“Yup, that sounds about right,” I replied, with an exhausted voice; feeling said pain in the very bottom of my soul.
“But pain is not always bad, son,” she continued. “Sometimes we get wounds we don’t realize we have until we see them bleed. You need pain to feel these wounds. Pain warns you that something you are doing is hurting you.”
I sighed. It made sense. “That’s beautiful, mum,” I said.
“So now you that know why the pain is there in your life, do something to change it.”
“What? What can I possibly do to change?”
“Just do something. Anything. Find something that motivates you and do it.”

Tarot. Too much poetry, too little clarity.

Proppen seemed quite happy to see me. He had been locked in the flat for a whole day. Poor beast. I pet him a bit, disregarding my hatred for felines. “You were hungry, huh?” I said, while feeding him. As if he could understand my words. He of course didn’t. But it didn’t matter. In those brief minutes, we were the same. Gray. Bored. Unfucked. Profoundly lonely. And furry. He more than I. Furry, not lonely.


So I decided that dignity is something I can live without. And, in a ridiculous play on words and as a -hopefully successful- marketing stunt, I started a series of videos to promote my new book, Sex/Life. Below, the first two videos in the series. It’s about time you get absolutely disgusted by me (if you haven’t so far.)