I laughed my ass off. Completely wet, sitting on a puddle of rainwater, trapped under my bike. I had just fallen, after slipping in a curve on the stupid fucking bridge that goes from Nyhavn towards Papirøen. A passerby who saw me fall came to me. “Are you ok, man?” he asked me. I kept laughing, trying to get back on my feet. “Yeah, I’m alright. It probably looked more spectacular than it actually felt,” I said. “It looked good,” the guy said, and kept walking. I got back on my bike and continued my way home. My side hurt and I was out of breath after the fall. I just laughed it off. The irony was just too genius.

I broke up with L because I couldn’t take the pain of being in that relationship anymore. I was numb, spiritless, out of energy and looking into a grim future from my grim present. I broke up to save myself from a hopeless life, to go out in the world and find the happiness I had given up on. Being single was to be empowering, revealing, enlightening and fun. And it has been all that, and more, but it has come hand in hand wih a dark side. Singleness is killing me.

Last night it was windy, cold and rainy. I was comfortable, warm and pantless on my couch, watching TV, under a soft duvet. I posted a selfie on Instagram, with the caption “trying to convince myself that putting some pants on and go out in the cold is a good idea #single #life.” Why did I find myself riding my bike in the middle of fucking nowhere half an hour after that? Because, feminist, smart and all, I’m still a single heterosexual man. What’s the purpose of doing anything if not for pussy?

It was a birthday party, almost 10 kilometers away from my place. Add the shitty weather and that I don’t particularly like the birthday boy, and there was no motivation for me to be there rather the hope of meeting a girl on a Saturday night. Sounds sad? You have no idea how sad it was. The saddest part not being the fact that there were no single girls, nor the karaoke bit in the end. What was more depressing was that I wasn’t even the most decadent character in there.

After some hours, I didn’t want to drink anymore, nor I could keep pretending I was cool with the shitty karaoke music and the drunken Danish-American guy hitting on me in an oddly douchey gay way. My only friend there was too wasted to make any decisions, besides following the alcoholized mass. It was my queue. I put on my rain gear, said bye to everyone and headed back home on my bike.

Falling on my bike last night was a wake up call. Miraculously, I didn’t break anything but my dignity, which made me laugh at my pitiful situation. A situation that I have actively decided to keep, as a lame status quo of self-imposed, pathetic male search of empowerment via fucking around. As if my cock and ballsack weighted more than my brains. As if pussy were the quintessence of life.

I cannot snap my fingers and make a girlfriend appear out of thin air. I did change my Tinder profile recently. “Emotionally available and not looking for a hookup,” it now says. An accurate reflection of what I actually want. Now, I will be a good boy and live up to it. Won’t be easy, but it should pay off. I’m hoping it will. My life depends on it!