So I quickly learned that Trine (yeah, T’s real name was on my last book, anyway) is not ready for a relationship, at all. The whole “My way or the highway” approach she pulled, plus her shallow and judgmental approach towards me, did not fly. Never again, baby! So, luckily, she cut me off with perfect timing. And, as if my sixth sense for bullshit was triggered, I didn’t quite care. I was sad, of course, but continued my life in Chile and did my own thing until my return to Copenhagen. Exchanged a couple of messages with her yesterday, just in case (no need to be a cunt about stuff, right?) But, as expected, she continued saying we were incompatible and, you know what, I said that I agreed. I didn’t survive a toxic relationship to jump, headfirst, into another one; specially not with babies and shit.
So, still jet-lagged, single and unemployed as fuck; I can say am anxious, but fine. I’m off my looney meds for a few weeks now and can notice a tendency to insomnia and restlessness, though I’m confident it’s all temporary. I do have an overly annoying side effect, though. My brain’s like “What the fuck, dude? Where’s the juice? Are we dying!?” and it’s easy to see. Suddenly, my libido is off the charts, as if being constantly at the edge of a panic attack is a telltale sign for my body to secrete more sperm, in a last-ditch effort for survival. Somehow.
Fortunately, I’m already on my second day back to Frederiksberg and already planning my first date tomorrow, with a pretty 27-year-old Dane. It’s so easy with this whole dating thing, nowadays. But I already told her I wanna take things slow. Though, man, this is mostly a command to myself: “Take it easy, cowboy! Put that dick back in your pants!” I won’t -our shouldn’t- rush into a sexual affair in this weakened state of mind, where I can quickly develop feelings of attachment and infatuation. I cannot risk fucking up again and falling for yet another potentially harmful woman. Not now, four days away from turning 39. The final frontier to properly say that I’m pushing forty. Forty, for fuck’s sake!
I wanna do things right, this time around. It’s 2022! A celebration of my penis still working without any chemical booster, and now with my brain’s strict supervision. Maybe tides will turn in my favor. Maybe, against the idiom, fourth time’s actually the charm. And then, maybe, I’ll make it out the other side unscathed, no longer riding solo into the sunset. Just maybe.

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