A freshly opened can of Royal 0,0% stares back at me, from my reclaimed and finely customized coffee table. I sigh in disappointment. It’s been months of involuntary celibacy and now a week of a weird, painful and itchy skin rash. No wonder why I don’t fuck. My reflection in the mirror today is the same gross picture you’d see on a Google image search for “skin disease.” Cheers to that!
It shouldn’t affect my self-esteem, this whole goddamn dry spell that I’m going through. But it does. I can feel my confidence and sense of self-worth depleting by the hour. The irony is that I am in a much better place in my mental illness journey, but it doesn’t quite feel like that, under the circumstances. I guess happiness is always a moving target, for us Millennials. Or maybe it’s easier to just blame it on the human condition. Whatever gives.
I’ve spent (or, rather, wasted) countless hours on dating apps these last few months. Back in the day, when Tinder alone would cut it, I was way more casual about my usage. Now it’s like an addiction, but one that doesn’t give me any fucking high in return, just frustration. And with every failure, with every match that never replies my messages, with every -extremely rare- date that goes nowhere… I’m baffled. What changed? Last year, the year before that and the time before meeting my ex C, I was nailing it. Now I begin and end every single day alone in my bed. And, lemme tell ya, it’s getting old.
As stupid as this sounds, I have wondered if we are assigned some sort of quota, when it comes to sexual partners. As if the gods agreed at some point that every person should have an average of, I don’t know, five lovers in the course of their lives. Then I came along and fucked way past my preassigned number and just now the caught up. “Eduardo, you dirty dog, you can’t have any more pussy! You’ve fucked an entire village’s worth, motherfucker! Enough is enough!” And that’s 2022 for me. The end of the anomaly. No more of me fucking up charts and ratios and anthropological studies and complex social statistics. Back to compliance.
Honestly, any conspiracy theory that could explain my seemingly endless abstinence is more appealing that the conclusion I’m slowly coming to: I’m a has-been. This book you are reading now (or blog, if you are lucky enough) has been three years in the making. You’ve seen me bitch about my ex C non-stop for hundreds of pages, and most of it has been written after our last breakup, two years ago. So, basically, I’m living in the past. My past glory, my past misery, my past lover(s.) And you see only the words. My mind, fuck… It’s even worse. Ruminating so much about what it could have been, what it was and how much I fucking miss it. And without sex and the revolving door of flings I’ve had until now, the dust is finally settling and I can no longer evade the truth of my downfall.
A few days ago, I saw in the Facebook group “Expats in Copenhagen” (a community of people mostly complaining about ever setting foot in Denmark) that someone was asking if anyone’s ever consider going back home or moving elsewhere due to the impossibility of finding someone to share your life with here. I read through the post and realized that, finally, someone was voicing the thoughts that I’ve locked up very deep in the back of my head. And since I read that, the idea has been gaining traction.
Perhaps it’s time to reconsider my life here in Denmark. Or Europe, even. It’s been quite a ride, for sure. Two books came out of it, with a third one here in the making. But the creative fuel, the money and the quality of life can only get one so far. Then, this first world comfort becomes discomforting, but within. You see, the problem with this remarkable work-life balance is that you find yourself with an abundance of spare time to fill with nothing, as it is the case for me now. Way too much time to think and to realize that, realistically, I won’t find a partner here. I’ve tried and failed miserably and, seven years down the line, have nothing to show for it.
My mom had a stupid -yet minor- accident at the dog shelter she’s solely taking care of. And, if that wasn’t stressful enough, last week my dad had to be rushed to the hospital with pneumonia. He’s still hospitalized, but doing much better, luckily. But these incidents, plus my skin disease, put things in perspective. My folks and I are aging. In six months, I’m turning forty, and in every aspect of my life I am in line with what’s expected from an adult. All areas covered, except for love. In that department, I’m no better than a fifteen-year-old. And I know I have nothing to prove to my parents, but as they approach the exit door (from life, that is;) I would love to give them the satisfaction of me being no longer alone. Maybe a grandkid or two. Maybe some happiness. Win-win for of us all.
Damn, I wish I hadn’t fuck my whole quota by now.

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