Took a shower at 5:15 PM. Needed to wake up, put my thoughts together. It was another one of those weeks. Felt the uncontrollable urge of writing, laying the words down and make sense of the latest developments -and setbacks- in my personal story. I felt beaten-up, my whole body hurting. It wasn’t a good idea going to the gym. Not under my circumstances. The usual heartache, existential debacle, mild hungover, general confusion, anxiety, insomnia and lack of energy. (The Writer implies he’s living an intense writer’s life. Gets off on that.)

Walked into the kitchen and chuckled. Two empty wine glasses, waiting to be washed, next to the sink. “Fuck.” I had spent Saturday afternoon’s cleaning my wooden floor up, removing a red wine stain. Not what I had planned for the weekend, yet, somewhat, a partly comforting activity. (The Writer likes to feel he has certain control over his life. Although he knows, in his deeper self, he doesn’t.)

.write says the tattoo on my left wrist. I got it to A. seem cool, B. because it makes sense to have a tattoo that -for a change- literally means something to me, and C. it pushes me to write, acting as a reminder of what I should be doing when I’m not doing much. But, to write about what? I saw the 10-pack of condoms ripped open next to my bed. There is certainly a story waiting to be told, but going on and on about the randomness and emptiness of my -now- promiscuous sex life seems like creative stagnation. Then, what else is there to write about? Perhaps a tell-all piece in Spanish, for a change. Nah. Too much to say there, and hard to tackle and narrow it down to a blog post instead of a fucking novel. Fuck it. A long shower should help me figure things out. (The Writer doubts himself. He’s his own worst critic. Perhaps he perceives it as part of the creative process. If he believed himself he was creative.)

“Should I write PM, pm or p.m.?” Let’s google that shit up. Yup, have being doing it wrong for a while. Will stick with uppercase from now on. And aim for some substance, for fuck’s sake. The ex, the Mancunian who got away, the unexpected casual sex, Marie, racism, the existential vacuum, life in fucking Denmark… they don’t cut it. I need more Hunger. More Sex/Life 27. More Re/Start 01. More life, more experiences. Less fear, less shame. More Spanish, better English. Either go full-on Bukowski, or find my own style. Or quitting. Or getting new inspiration. I will read “50 shades of Grey.” Everyone says it’s shit, but the author made millions with it and wrote a trilogy of the same rubbish. I can be shit too; maybe I am shit already, so I’m half way there. “Eduardo slipped his hard cock into her wet pussy.” There you go, some erotic writing. Fuck. It really is shit. (The Writer rambles, a self-deprecating dialog with himself meant as a public declaration: he knows he is talentless. Yet, the purpose is to deflect the reader, for the underlying message is more in the line of “I am sure of my greatness, just going through a rough patch now.”)

Tinder starts beeping through the music on my expensive Bluetooth speakers. “Aha! A distraction,” I think. Will stop the writing for now. Have to do some more “research.” Ah, God… back to my decadent ways. (The Writer runs out of inspiration. Fails to make good use of the title intended for his column -“Beaten-up”- within the narration, and forces the concept of “decadence” instead. He’s tired, ran out of ideas for the night and believes that writing clever comments at the end of each paragraph is his contribution to Modern Literature. That’s to be discussed.)