​I’m not Charles Bukowski

I want you.
I just came back from a walk (without crutches nor my bike, yay me!) and it’s 22:33 and emptied the last gift of my ex C, a nice bottle of Australian Merlot, in a glass. Why? Because it’s Friday and I’m the only sober motherfucker in Copenhagen tonight.
I need you.
Was that real joy on the streets? The laughs and the people and the fucking Christmas lights all over… Is it real happiness or is everyone drinking their COVID-19 angst away and killing the winter darkness and depression with luminous LED ornaments and songs and gifts and good vibes?
I desire you.
Don’t wanna sound like a dick here. I know I have many things to be grateful for. I’m still among the top earners in one of the most expensive countries in the world. I eat okay, go to bed and get up whenever I want and do whatever I please. My old company is, technically, paying me to patiently wait for my new job to start in January, while doing fuck-all throughout December. Paid staycation, baby! But free time means ruminating time. And guess who’s the King of Overthinkingland? Yes: yours truly.
I long for you.
So, where are you? You, the perfect woman all the tarot readers I watch on YouTube have been predicting for the last year? You, my future wife and mother of my unborn, big nose children? You, who’ll give me healthy, selfless, passionate love, and a lifetime of bliss? You, who are mature, intelligent, honest, strong, sensible, open, positively challenging, and beautiful inside and out. You… You…
I’m fucking waiting for you!
Please come along. I’m sad. I haven’t been this pathetically single and lonely in… Well, forever. My therapist told me that I am experiencing an early midlife crisis. Questioning everything, trying to figure out what I want and how to get it. My inclination to self-reflection and reclusion is just a symptom of that, according to her. Which, in a way, is relieving. Knowing I’m not self-isolating because of depression or my -finally, receding- PTSD is fantastic. But it doesn’t deviate me from my tendency to cry over spilled milk. Constantly flirting with the past. As if confirming that my ex C continues to read and reread my last blogpost is healthy. As if dreaming every now and again with her, my other ex L or even both of them together, wasn’t concerning. (I mean, we both know it is. So does my therapist, who did not like those dreams one bit.)
So please, I’m begging you. Show up!
You, Hot Legs, are essential for me to focus. Without your sweet lips I trip over and over again on the source of my existential and emotional angst. I’m not Charles Bukowski! I can’t soak this pain in alcohol and write amazing poems or compelling prose. I’m not such a great writer, poet nor even artist. I’m almost 38 years old and haven’t reached any heights nor recognition. So if fame, glory and the Arts (them bitches!) are simply pipe dreams; I have nothing. Then let me at least have you. And I’ll feel full and, who knows, even ready to take on a boring life in the hygge, warm and cosy comfort of your arms. It’s a good deal, don’t you think? Specially because I’ll do the same for you.
Are you coming any minute now? If not, at least send help.
My mind can’t take any more of this “past love memorabilia.” At this point, I am ready and willing to settle for any lover, friend with benefits or rebound I can get. And I’m tired of waiting for you. I hope you understand, babe. But if you don’t, then, well, come along already! I have some more wine. This one I bought myself at Netto; the best Italian wine that 60 kroner can get. I’m sure Bukowski would approve.

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *