When it’s seven in the morning and you gotta get up, after a night of shitty sleep, you are not in your prime. You go through your clothes and grab whatever shit clean enough to wear. “It’s just for work. Fuck it,” you think. Then you shower, try to snap out of your hatred for the world, dress the fuck up and suck up the fucking long commute to soulless Hørsholm, the place were the dreams die -or so it seems in its gloomy surroundings and the faces of all my fellow commuters.
“Ah, shit… I’m wearing my Sundays racist t-shirt,” I thought, looking at my outfit in the office’s toilet mirror. The t-shirt in question is purple and has a black and white print of a black kid dancing with a 20-something girl. It also has a big bold text that says “Eight grade was awesome.” It was a gift from a friend for my birthday, like 5 or 6 years ago. Why do I keep it -and wear it- in a more racially diverse country is beyond my understanding. But it gives me something to think about. Something unimportant that I can make into a big intellectual discussion with myself, so I can get my mind away from things. Which, of course, I can’t. Not really.
I have decided to slow down. That’d be good; taking it easy. The other day I met this acquaintance/friend in my regular meetup in a Copenhagen downtown bar. He seemed not only relaxed: he looked fucking Zen. When I asked him how was it going with the ladies (he’s single as well), he just smiled and said that he was now only working on his own stuff and taking care of himself. “The motherfucker,” I thought; “he’s got it all figured out.” And me, still going around chasing pussy like a douche bag. All stressed out, burned down, insomniac and shit. Fuck me.
“I’m quiting Tinder,” I said to last night’s girl. “You are my last date.” And I meant it. The app worked fine when it worked, but I reached the end of the road. I won the game. Or I lost it. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I consider the idea of self-worth I get every time I fuck someone new to be quite pathetic. Fucking around is not a skill in itself, nor it makes you a better person. But here I go, over and over again, disguising my bragging about it with cheap writing and light existentialism. As if it wasn’t a great deal. Because it fucking ain’t! Yet, for me it is.
And as it seems that, finally, I am starting to go deeper into the casual sex conundrum; I remember that I’m still wearing my -maybe- racially insensitive t-shirt. But, who gives a flying fuck anyway? I’m alone at home, and I’m not even wearing pants! Which now leads me to think if -and how many times- my neighbors have seen my dick through the window. Interesting. Some more useless shit to keep my mind from wondering where it shouldn’t. The fucking bastard.