I open Spotify. No Surprises by Radiohead comes on. I remember my ex L. Our rendezvous in Buenos Aires, back in July 2013, when we had a full week of love. My life had peaked and I had no fucking idea. I just went with it, as if it was no big deal. Even had the audacity to fucking flirt with one of her friend’s sister, right in front of her. Imbued with such power; I felt like a motherfucking god. I was on top of the world! I didn’t give any fucks. I had the love, the looks, the luck, the sexual stamina, the Norwegian girlfriend.
Ah, how the mighty have fallen. Literally.
Last night I fainted in the bathroom. Alone, in the middle of the night, I had a panic attack because I couldn’t breath due to this fucking corona I’ve been dealing with for the last five days. So I felt I was dying and passed out. Slammed my head against a plastic bucket and broke it. My right arm hit the toilet so hard that I felt like it broke, too. My arm, that is. In disbelief about what had just happened, but snapped out of my panic attack, I dragged my ass to the sofa and lied there for a while. The living room dimly lit by the bathroom light. Shocked and partly conscious, I prayed for my arm not to be broken. Then, in a moment of clarity, I realized that all the times I felt I had hit rock-bottom were never as bad nor as tongue-in-cheek as this one. And then I fell asleep. Pathetic and in pain.
“I’ll try to write,” I thought now. I’ve not done anything exciting nor productive in this past week. Bedridden by COVID-19 (or maybe a man-flu, I haven’t got tested yet;) I’ve only played video games and watched lots of stupid YouTube videos. Just to ignore my loneliness, the waste of the Easter weekend and the awful fever that’s been ever so present, torturing the fuck out of me.
To top things up, I got tired of Tinder this morning. Swiping left on most profiles I run across lately. Women between 29 and 40, up to 15 kilometers away from me… How much misery and despair I see. All the good ones are taken, of course. Enjoying their happy relationships, raising their well-adjusted kids, excelling on their careers, traveling and doing fun shit, in general. Only the broken ones are up for grabs. And yes, that includes me. The most fucked-up and broken of them all.
She’s getting married, you know? My ex, L. My mum’s last message exchange with her was brief but very informative. She told me the scoop when I was hanging out with her, back in Chile. But since my mother is a very unreliable narrator, I ignored the news. Then, out of boredom and curiosity, last month I went into L’s Facebook and confirmed it was true. She looked very happy with her big ass, fancy engagement ring. A world of difference from the shitty, cheap one I put on her finger when I proposed, back in 2014. But hey, good for her. If anyone deserves a happy ending, that’s her. Her… I was such a fucking dick to her. I loved L so much, yet that didn’t keep my fucking demons at bay. I’m at least lucky my brain erased those memories, to cope with. And I’m glad she seems to have well overcome the whole ordeal of a past with the worst version of me.
If I only knew. All the realizations and learnings I have had by now are so useless. They mean fuck all. It’s worth nothing to know today that she was my ticket out, but she was also my final destination. I was drunken with ego and a sense of immense power, so I wanted it all. I was so certain I deserved much more, much better… Sure kid. Sure. So here we are, on the other side. Look around you, you fucking idiot. Happy now?
I know there’s no coming back. I blew my, maybe, only shot at happiness. All I have to show for it are all these fucking words I’ve written in the last seven years. These books I’ve published that nobody buys nor reads. These blog posts being thrown, one after the other, straight into oblivion. The forgettable life and words of one Eduardo Hernández. Success!
I’ve always thought of myself as someone born to make it. Make it big, even. But after my fall, last night, life’s never seem as frail and my existence, as fleeting. If this were it, the end; I’ve accounted to not much, really. Only an unremarkable character in the peripheral of others who went and got shit done. The obnoxious friend of a friend. The annoying colleague. The former lover/regret of dozens of women who stumbled upon my penis. And the abusive relationship of, now, one of the most promising up and coming documentary makers from Norway. A life of grand achievements, huh?

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