The Writer looks at the time and realizes that, with every passing minute, his chances of getting laid go down exponentially. It’s 10:30 PM already and Saturday quickly is coming to a sexless conclusion. His anger, frustration and disbelief set in, as he desperately seeks a coping mechanism that at least gives him a sense of certain accomplishment. For The Writer needs this win, after years of continuous defeat. He dusts his word processor and, with barely any creative juices flowing through his veins, starts typing.
This is some bullshit. Or karma is real and very fucking macabre. Do you know how lame I feel checking my phone every five minutes, in the hope of a hot date? But I wish it was just as simple as that. It’s not. Yes, this 21-year-old I’ve been chatting with since last night is quite alluring. Then again, it goes beyond that. Much further that some bad kisses with too much teeth action and a measly sloppy blowjob. Way past superfluous conversations, cheap wine and the smell of cigarettes and freshly used condoms. It’d be easier, if only.
He unlocks his iPhone 12 and opens the same dating app every 10 to 15 minutes, obsessively. He knows he’s being pathetic, because that’s just how he feels. But he shrugs it off, and then gets back to typing. But words are hard to come by. It’s over. Or so he realizes. He’s not fucking tonight, nor he’s making it as an artist. The Muse has vanished and he’s only running on fumes. Fame, glory, fortune. All concepts that’ll remain as unfulfilled dreams for The Writer.
I don’t care for sex anymore, as much as I miss the comfort of another skin and unknown sheets. Actually, that’s a lie. Keep the sheets and the mattress underneath. I want the good stuff. The familiar one, without the excitement of the new, but the niceness of the renewed. That’s my jam.
Paragraphs become shorter and absent of any resemblance of inspiration. It’s dawning on him that, although he likes to think of himself as an undiscovered storyteller, he might just be yet another simpleton, a talentless failure. So he spews some metaphors onto the page. A Hail Mary, perhaps? He doesn’t care anymore.
Is this what the rest of the tracks look like? Then I deeply regret staying on the train and not having left at the right station. Fucking curiosity didn’t kill the cat. It was disappointment.
He gives up on his dreams of uncommitted sex, as the surefire way of getting back on his feet again. Throws his phone away on the couch and shuts his laptop lid. Enough with these words that won’t land. Enough fruitless efforts to conquer some random girl behind a phone screen, lost somewhere in Copenhagen tonight. Tv is on now. Netflix, without the chill. Stranger Things, season four, is on for the next few hours. Then it’s 3:30 AM and the sun is coming up. Birds starts chirping and The Writer knows he won’t sleep. Still goes to bed and rolls around, attempting the impossible: forgetting. It. All.
She never replied. My last message was left unseen, until today, two days later. Fuck her. Fuck them all, those bitches who match with me and never even take the time to type “Not interested, just wanted your validation.” Or just “Hi.” Is this what it all comes down to? I dodged the bullet of commitment, and kicked my partners to the curb, and for what? I wanted more! But there was nothing more to get, and now I’m stuck here on the other side. The world moved on and I’m the only one left here. Looking back. Filled with guilt and remorse. Nothing but fucking regrets. I could have been married by now. Kids. A loving wife by my side. Suburbs. Calm. No surprises. But no. Instead, again, just regrets. And my friends pity me. My mother gave up on the dream of another grandkid. And me, in the shit, just wondering if I will ever get another shot at life. At love. At success. Fearful of this status quo to remain in perpetuity. For whatever long this lifetime goes on.
And so he finishes his last paragraph of the weekend. The Writer waited for things to get better, somehow, in order to write a more uplifting ending for his upcoming novel. But this, just as most of this future book, is gritty and dark. He hates it. Not just this half-baked entry on his blog; it goes deeper than that. Slowly, hopelessness is creeping up his spine. “Is there anything to look forward too?” he wonders, as summer refuses to fully show up in Denmark. As his dating life is non-existent and the mere mention of one of his exes or lovers coming back resembles nothing but the most ludicrous sci-fi paperback plot. And that’s it for now. “Writer’s cockblock.”