Blah 15: Nineteen

19 years old. Reminds me of that time. “19 + 9,” we used to say. “9 months in the womb and 19 years of your life, jerking off.” Me and my friends were all nineteen and virgin back then. Two years had to pass for me to finally pop my cherry with the girl who was my girlfriend for the next 8 years. What a waste of time. Of life. 19 + 9. Fucking 19.

She’s 19. Ah, lovely age. She’s not the first one. I wonder what the sex will be like. I wonder if there will be sex, at all. What a little fucking pervert I have become. Running away from commitment or any kind of significance by engaging in immature sort-of-relationships with immature people. Girls. Almost literal girls.

Who am I, anyway? What are my credentials? I have none. No great achievements, no success. So here I am, a heretic turd in the temple of their juvenile bodies and minds. “That older man who fucked me once.” Something like that. Improper. It makes me uncontrollably excited, turned on, aroused. The idea of doing something wrong. Of being, somewhat -maybe- bad. Giving the finger to society, to its rules, to the submissive people of this conservative country and this hopeless, goddam world. Taking them all, in togetherness, up their asses.

Blah 14: Leviathan

She was an unstoppable force
“Leviathan,” I called her
in my mind

until she crashed
into me.

The Writer listens to an old song from Dave Matthews Band and tries to figure out how the fuck to come up with a decent poem. Or how to finish it. Is it worth finishing, anyway? Is anything worth anything? “The space between…” the music goes. “Who’s Leviathan?” wonders The Writer; “Which one of them?” He’s thinking of his lovers. He’s only wearing a bathrobe, his workout sweat drying on his naked skin, untidy chest hair, trimmed down pubes. Just the right amount of anxiousness and an undertow of angst and horniness are lingering. The future, sitting in some dark corner, gives him the finger. “Fuck you too,” he thinks. YouTube now plays Round here by Counting Crows. He watches the video for a few seconds. “Note to self: never get dreadlocks,” he says to himself. Quietly, he laughs. He would rather be fucking somebody instead. The newest, definitive Leviathan.

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 99: Agendas

We talked, messaged back and forth, agreed to meet and never did. So, just like that, the whole Anna situation came to an end. Not an unexpected outcome, but it hurt anyway. Enough to fuck over my hungover and tiresome Sunday evening.

I couldn’t sleep much before Monday kicked in and I found myself stressing at work again. Luckily, I escaped from the office earlier, heading to the city for an apartment viewing. Fucking homelessness, closing in day after day.

Tinder shouted on the train. I had a new match. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” I said when I unlocked my phone and looked at who she was. I had matched with Kirsten, one of the first girls I had been with after my breakup. One of the prettiest.

“Hi E. Long time no see,” she wrote. Messages were exchanged for the next couple of days. Anxiety and expectations built up in me. “I just wanted to know how you were doing,” she texted. Then, just as randomly as she came back into my life, she disappeared again. That bitch. “Why? What for?” she left me thinking, as my guts were hurting and inflamed, with stress and frustration chocking me on the restless days and sleepless nights that followed.

I’m sick and tired of all this bullshit. Why is everybody so fucking selfish? Is there not empathy left in the world? Or decency? Fuck it. I won’t date weird women anymore. Enough is enough. They just wear me out with their emotional instability, strangeness and hidden agendas. Not that I’m much better, though, but at least I am transparent about being a dick and what I want. I’m not a fake nor a hack. I don’t think I’m made for their stupid fucking games. I just want out.

Blah 13: Ass

My ass hurts. The price of, seemingly, being normal. Or feeling normal. Or pretending to be normal, to the point in which it doesn’t look as fucking unnatural as it usually looks for me. I don’t get it, though. Why do people come to these pretentious coffee shops in Jægersborggade, sit on a fucking uncomfortable and poorly cushioned bench, sip on overpriced and low quality cappuccinos and pretend to be fine with their asses hurting while they are at it? Fuck if I know. Why caring? I’m one of them now. Stricken by caffeine and a bad posture. Looking out the shop window to the pretty people walking by on the most hyped of all the hipster streets in hipster Copenhagen. I’m a tourist in the realm of normality. Just visiting, anxious and unrested. I hope my mum is well. I hope all my lovers are well too. And I hope my ass recovers from this undeserved punishment.

Blah 12: Urine

“I am a man of simple taste who likes complex women.”

I’m sitting on the train, the sun hitting my face through the window. Trying not to fall asleep, I look at people getting on and off the train. A middle age man comes in the scene. He’s wearing normal clothes, an average haircut, grey beard; all the works. He walks down the aisle, past me. The stench of dry piss follows him, nauseating. I look around. Nobody else seems to notice. He walks back, lost. Stops a couple of meters away from me. Looks around. I’m trying not to breath, but the urine’s sweet fragrance percolates into my nostrils. It’s disgusting. He wanders away, out of sight again. The air lightens as the minutes go by and his presence vanishes into anonymity. I repeat in my head “I am a man of simple taste who likes complex women.” Thinking I should write something with that sentence, not to let my creativity go to waste. Feeling, somewhat, connected to the dry urine man and detached from the world who ignores both of us.