Retirement

Fuck everything. That’s the mood now. The fucking “fuck everything” mood. Remind me not to get a long nap next time I fuck to exhaustion, please. Thank you very much.

“Why do you wanna be a writer?” asked Anna, wearing nothing but some sexy pink undies and a bathrobe.
“Wow…” I said. I’m not a fast thinker before my motherfucking morning coffee. “I don’t know… Maybe because I think I’m not like most people. Being a writer makes me different, I guess…”
“Do you know that 99% of writers don’t ever make it?” Anna inquired, blocking my way to the water boiler at the end of the kitchen.
I smiled. “I like to believe I’m in the 1% that will make it,” I said.
“Ok,” she replied, with certain satisfaction in her look.

Failing is not an option. Failing to become a successful writer, to have a healthy and long-lasting relationship or to be good at life; those are certainties. I am wired to fail. Overcoming that and all the obstacles on the way to actually make it, that is the option. To bend fate in my favor. To say “Fuck you, Universe” and have it my way, that’s the real challenge. Tough shit.

But I will start with the easiest shit. Or the seemingly easiest shit. This whole blog thing, for example. Why the fuck do I write what I write here, the way I write it? Most people that have met me only after reading my blog get blown away by the real me. “You are much more fun in real life,” they say -maybe a bit disappointed. So, I wonder then, who the fuck is writing this shit then? “Who” as in “what version of myself.” Or, to make the question more relevant: who do I wanna make people believe I am? A well-adjusted, young-ish Charles Bukowski? An alternative version of Hank Moody, from Californication? A walking cliché?

Perhaps I should stop writing for a while, until a figure out what’s truly my style and my purpose as an artist. A pause filled with “normal people activities.” Working out, cooking dinner, having a committed relationship, meeting up with friends, having a decent amount of alcohol, watching Netflix; stuff like that. It won’t hurt being part of the cattle for a while. Said The Writer, not believing a word of it.

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