The roof is on fire

​Let the motherfucker burn. Burn, motherfucker, burn!
I’m blasting some old school rock hits from when I was teenage incel. Ah, the irony! Twenty years of progress down the motherfucking drain. This is one of the things I never thought (nor wanted) to go full circle in my life, and then now here I am: unfucked, frustrated and sad. Full-on 2002’s Eduardo vibe. Fuck’s sake…
I fucked so many random women last year that I lost track. It was a complete brain workout trying to squeeze their names and faces from my insomniac brain, in one of my latest sleepless nights. And whenever I thought I was done, boom!, then there was another one I missed. Pathetic.
Don’t get me wrong, fellas: I ain’t bragging. This is exactly why I’m so done with this bullshit. I want a girlfriend, a partner; a woman who’s “wife material” and the potential mother of my big-nosed children. But the more decent women I fucked, the more I repelled them all and, in turn, ended up attracting the total opposite. Or, in reality, becoming it. Some counterintuitive shit right there, see?
In my absolute aloneness, as I savor the bitter taste of my empty apartment in this average Sunday evening; in this depressing setting I can’t help but wondering: Was it worth it? Did it do it for me? It’s been almost a decade of this crap. A ridiculous amount of sexual encounters and lovers have debuted and retired before my eyes. There’s always been a new one coming from one door, not long after another has just closed for good. And when the warmth recedes from my bed, and the sweat dries from my sheets, then it hits me. It always does.
No. It’s not been worth it.
It was easy to shrug it off and keep on going. Some times at full speed, most times in autopilot. But always moving on, going forward onto the next one. But there’s no one now. Nobody to hop onto, for this so overdue washing away of these damn feelings of self-loathing and disgust, between legs and under duvets.
Wanna hear something ironic? I’m not even a sex addict. I’m some fucking guy who, for some reason, has been lucky with the ladies. Same ladies that have helped me overlook (yet never overcome) my deep rooted childhood traumas. Same women who have contributed to downplay the true impact of each and every single one of my breakups. But there’s only so many of them. And I finally ran out.
Let the pain begin.
It’s like I’ve been tasked with fixing a hole on the wall, but the only tool they gave me to work with is a motherfucking electric drill. The hole’s now bigger, and surrounded by dozens of other holes. And it feels like each of them’s been drilled on my fucking skin too. I can almost hear my soul escaping through them. A hissing sound. I’m deflating. Falling into the ground. My dick won’t fall off after all this fucking. No. But I am, as a whole. Which means that I’m a dick, right?

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