It is such a nice, warm night. “I should be out there, fucking someone,” I think, opening the door to my building. I go upstairs to my flat. It’s Saturday night and I sit at my table, trying to type words that make sense. Trying to understand whatever the fuck is happening in my life. I talked to Anna in the morning. It was intense, hard to process. It went from sad to fucked up in the span of an hour and a half. I ended up with a bitter aftertaste, lost in a mixture of anger, disappointment and confusion.

“Don’t worry about the blog. I’m not gonna write about you again,” I told Anna. I lied, unintentionally. I was pissed, somewhat offended by the last part of our conversation. Now, I don’t know. I know nothing, really. Not anymore. So, fuck it. I crack open a beer. Take one, two sips. Stare into my dark kitchen, swallowed by the night. Happy Chilean music plays in my speaker and I realize I’m alone. Completely alone again. “Nunca the haría daño,” sings Jorge González. “I’d never hurt you.” Well, now I am hurting, Jorge. You know what it feels like, don’t you? Let’s drink to it. Wherever you are. Wherever the fuck I am.