The old “Alone for Christmas” shit, again

The jolly times are coming and I got into this winter/loneliness-induced depression of the “Looking back, trying to make sense of it all” bullshit. There are so many things I didn’t do that I should have, and plenty I shouldn’t have but I did anyway. And the “Here and Now,” in these short, cold and dark Scandinavian days, feels as the hungover of a party that should have been worth well above this fucking daily price I’m paying.
I’m just back in my flat after the night bike ride I took to shake off the anxiety of feeling trapped in my apartment. Mid-way down the lakes, I saw someone who looked exactly like my ex C. I almost crashed my bike when, in some sort of animal urge, turned my head to follow her with my eyes into the crowd. What the fuck was that? As if the emotional and psychological scarring our relationship left me wasn’t enough to deal with already. What am I trying to accomplish here? What’s the “I run into C” scenario that plays in the back of my head every time I spot one of her doppelgangers? I just fucking freeze every time; my heart skips a beat. Fight or flight instinct kicks in. “Should I face her? Say something?” Like what? Nothing I ever said to her mattered. Is trauma running so deep within me that blurs every single line of reality (and dignity)?
Sitting against the light on my colorful IKEA sofa, I dry the tears from my eyes and the damn snot from my nose onto my stained lunch’s napkin. I feel miserable. Been feeling so for the last few days, but it intensified on Monday, when they announced new COVID-19 restrictions. We are having a “soft lockdown,” if you will. Restaurants, bars and cafes are closed for the next four weeks. Away goes the daydreams of having some cosy mornings sketching on some artsy coffeeshop or meeting friends for draft IPAs in some hipster bar. Getting ready to spend a lot of fucking time locked in my hygge, comfy Frederiksberg prison.
Loneliness hits me like a spiteful bitch, right across the face, with a baseball bat. With rusty nails with AIDS sticking out from it.
Is this what “The Top” feels like? Because, technically, I am the most successful motherfucker in my family. I think I have even made it to the world’s top five percent. But making thirty thousand Danish kroner each month (around four thousand euro,) after tax, is worth nothing if it means feeling like this: completely alone.
Nothing is happening. Nothing that gives me hope of things changing in the near future. Despite my frantic swipes and likes on every decent looking profile I see on the six dating apps I’m in. No matches for weeks, and zero “successful” dates or interactions with women in months. I have become a sad, blue-balled incel. And to top it up, I’ve been dealing with an incessant existential crisis for months on end. Thank you, 2020!
So fucking tiring, innit? My body aches, my soul is crushed and my mind is in the ER. And, again, how fucking lonely must I feel to keep falling back into my exes. Checked out L’s Facebook and Linkedin profiles last week, and yesterday I wrote to my first ex-girlfriend from Chile, just to catch up. Damn this emotional void, and fuck all these dismissive women on Tinder. I just want a motherfucking hug and being cuddled to sleep. But all I’m left with is dwelling in the past; redecorating my memories to make it okay in my head to fuck my ex C again, just for the sake of skin, warmth and feeling embraced by someone familiar. To feel loved and cared for, even if a little. Even if unreal.
I dreamt about my brother last night. In these “Oh no, I lost my job in Denmark and now I am back home with my parents” nightmares, I’m always fighting with him. Well, to be fair, really with anyone from my life back in Santiago. But maybe, subconsciously, I envy his life. He’s 35 years old and have never moved from our childhood bedroom at our parent’s. Yet, he seems to be doing great. And look at me; the skinny cunt, freezing my ass and my spirit in fucking Scandinavia. For what? None of the women I’ve been with are here now. Most of my friends I haven’t spoken to in months. What’s the goddamn point? Alone for Christmas for the second year in a row. Living the dream, huh? Yeah, right. I have fuck-all but money. And people like him has a safe, predictable life and, guess what: never have to spend a single fucking Christmas on their own.
You know what? He’s got it. My brother fucking cracked the code and hacked the system. Me? I, instead, fucked dozens of women who are, just like him, not gonna be alone when the time comes to sing those Christmas carols, open those gifts and stuff their faces in that dinner.
Well, ho, ho, fucking ho!

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