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.)

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.