“Being drunk fucking sucks.” 5:57am. Sunday. Yeah, I wanted M and at that time this seemed like a great conversation opener. “Maybe we’ll fuck,” I thought, in my drunkeness. Of course she didn’t reply to my message, so we clearly did not fuck. She probably didn’t even get the message until some hours later, at a decent time. By then, I had already puked and passed out. Fucking alcohol. Makes so many stupid things appear to be great ideas. So many lives get fucked because of that. Although, to be fair, I don’t need alcohol to fuck my own life up. Bad decisions come very naturally to me.

After some hours of shitty sleep, hungover and morally disgraced, I went for a walk. Bought a kebab on the way and let my feet guide me wherever they wanted to go. I was starving, but I got fixated with the thought of getting somewhere nice and sunny to sit and eat. It was all that mattered, all of the sudden. Like this “getting somewhere nice” was a metaphor of my own life.

Fælledparken felt like the right place to be. It was warm, sunny and green enough. A big and nice park. I sat on the grass and started devouring my kebab. I got full very quickly. So, when hunger was no longer stalling, it quickly hit me. The full extent of my decadence. The loneliness. The nothingness. The little importance I played in that place, in that moment. Surrounded by people who looked right through me, as if I was as thin and transparent as the air around me, around them.

I laid back and opened my book, in a “fuck you all” attitude. Reading Women by Charles Bukowski was also a way to feel connected to something, to someone. And we did have a lot in common, me and him. We both were slow eaters. Late bloomers, sexually and creatively speaking. Deep, passionate motherfuckers. Artists, in our own terms. He was an alcoholic, thought. And was very dead. Two things we didn’t have in common. Luckily.

My head wouldn’t stop running as I walked back home from the park. It had been a tough week. The certainty of the uncertainty of my life was no longer a notion, but crystal clear. And the loss of my last close connection, my last lover, was also a low blow. H had departed and there was nobody left to take her place, nor anyone I could foresee. And this annoying emptiness in my chest, as if my heart grew smaller every day. And the good old ex, always in my thoughts. The absence of Her, now more present than ever.

I had written to my ex on Friday. Cheesy stuff. Among many other things, I said I still loved her. Yes, that happened. I don’t regret it. I am well aware of my feelings. Letting myself loose and allow my feelings to take control is part of my new nature. If a near to death experience doesn’t do that to you, nothing will. But, was it the right thing to do? Didn’t feel much better after sending her that email. Felt one step deeper in the randomness of my life. “What am I doing? Where am I going with this?” Still don’t know.

Off from work today, walking towards the train station, I got so deep in my thoughts that pretty much felt at the very root of Existence itself. The sun was up and my ass crack was sweating with the heat. And then, as if I had seen God or something, I finally didn’t give a fuck anymore. Yes, I am decadent. Life is pointless and nothing makes sense. The world, the people, Creation, the Universe: everything is a big fucking random mess. Why worry anymore? Why seek Meaning? Asking big fucking questions with open answers. Blah. Fuck that shit. Too much work, too little reward. If any.

For a couple of weeks now I have been going on and on about my existential crisis. It kind of sounds cool to say “I’m an existentialist.” But I have been the odd guy long enough to also say, honestly, that I have been balls deep in a crisis for as long I can remember. And that is too long for my taste. And the words “balls” and “deep,” put together, are both pornographic and philosophic at the same time. That’s just too fucked up. Even for me.