The Writer 2020

Kill your darlings.
Nah, that ain’t gonna cut it. To release this putrid pain, you must go all in.
Kill your father. Fuck your mother. Drink a gallon of vodka and burst into flames. Die and be reborn, like a motherfucking phoenix.
Figuratively. Mostly.
Did you miss me, kids? Well, dry those tears because The Writer is back! Sort of. A more pathetic, yet less decadent version of himself.
My past relationship really fucked me up, guys. Been pushing myself hard to get out of the shit I’ve been drowning in. Got my game face on and started going on all these dates. Kissed a few girls, shared some beers and laughs and hugs and cuddles, but everything’s dies out soon. I end up every night alone in my room, taking over the side of the bed that my ex used to sleep on. Frustrated and angry at her and the literal emptiness she left behind.
Last night I woke up in angst, after having this horrible nightmare with her. She and I were on this beach house in Chile with my family. When she finally came in the scene, I was shocked by her frail and extremely thin look. “She’s got an eating disorder, you know?” my mom whispered in my ear, as I tried to fake a smile when hugging C, my arms wrapped around her weak body. Just thinking about it now makes my eyes water. Behind my anger towards her, still after everything that she put me through, I still care for her. A whole fucking lot.
I’ve started writing dozens of angry posts about her and how she ruined my life and fucking destroyed me, but I haven’t finished nor published any of them. I’ve also avoided talking about how we started talking again in May, and how she hopped on a train to be with me for a whole week at the end of the COVID-19 lockdown. All of which lead to a few more trips back and forth until the end of July, when I threw a tantrum at her before leaving her place, to finally cut her off until now. There’s so much to this story, but I can’t put it out there in the fear of, directly or not, hurting her. I simply cannot do it.
This whole dating again so soon after this bloody mess has been a desperate attempt to move on, which has ended in me compulsively bringing her up to whomever is -probably at that point- absolutely regretting having that goddamn beer with me. So I’m done trying. Gonna delete all the fucking apps the second I publish this. And already feeling great about that.
There’s no speeding up this ordeal. I can’t just get it over with when in my mind I resent the fuck out of her, while in the meantime my soul and flesh want to penetrate every cell of her so deeply, that our bodies fuse and melt together into a new entity. Then my brain is in a constant battle with my dick, and my furious, spiteful words are piling up in my Notes app on my iPhone to -very likely- never see the light of day.
The Writer 2020 is not as controversial as it used to be. But he’s back.

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