On my daily commute, on the treadmill at the gym, in the shower, in my sleepless nights and lazy mornings; I’m always writing in my head. But to put these imagined words and sentences down on my laptop, down on the virtual paper of my screen, that’s a whole other story. It takes time, dedication, inspiration and a hint of not giving a fuck -while giving a great fuck- about it. And it’s tedious and wearing if any of the above is missing. So I will write about nothing. Just to get over with it: the writer’s burden.

I’m shocked by the racism I have encountered in Scandinavia. I didn’t want to acknowledge it at first, and most white people seemed surprised to hear about it whenever I mentioned it; specially my ex. But in time I realized that this so-called paranoia I had was based in facts, and that I wasn’t the only one experiencing this racism. And that fucking pissed me off, so I wouldn’t shut up about it. “You are also white,” a blonde Dane said to me when I was discussing this with two non-Danish colleagues on the train. “I am, but not the right kind of white,” I replied to him; “I am the Turkish-or-Eastern-European-kind-of-white. And being a Muslim or a gipsy is not very welcomed here.” The whitey went quiet and began staring out the window. He stayed silent until I left. “Good,” I thought. “He knows I’m fucking right.”

And I could go on and on about racism, but I don’t want to talk about it now. As I said, I’m writing about nothing. A little exercise to loosen my mind and fingers up. To feel that this boring and sober Thursday afternoon is worth a damn. Because what I would really like to do right now is drinking some nice red wine and have a deep conversation. Or fucking T. Or cuddling with Marie, losing myself in the comfort of her bed and her chest. But none of that is gonna happen. Sadly.

Of course, it was easy to shift the writen monologue from racism to nothing, and then to women. I simply love women. I’m a walking cliché. The struggling writer-wannabe who seeks love in all the wrong places. But am I really looking for love? I’m kind of proud of reaching my all-time high of ten months of singleness in a row. That’s a personal record, believe it or not. Although I’m not counting the wasted years of my adolescence. They didn’t count for shit, anyway. But from my first breakup and until today, this is the longest I’ve gone without engaging in a relationship. A bit fucked up, huh?

So, what do you say? Is four paragraphs about non-connected stuff enough to call it a night? To say “well, at least I wrote something”? I am not familiar with the rules, so I vote “yes” and will follow my day as planned. Will cut my own hair, take a long shower, go to the supermarket, drink some relaxing tea and go to bed. Nothing magnificent happens on Thursdays. Usually.