“But, if I don’t have my insecurities… who am I?”
My psychologist sits back on his chair, with a triumphant smile on his face. “So, who are you without your insecurities?” he asks. I laugh. He knows his shit. So I start a monologue, and my realization expands and becomes bigger with each word. I know this. I know everything. It’s there and it’s clear. It unravels before our eyes. He takes notes and nods and smiles. I let the words come out. Fuck, what useless thoughts I let control me! Hooked on my obsession, the never-ending search for an explanation to my shitty life. To my fucked up upbringing, my parents mutual hatred, my emotionally distant family, my lack of friends, the school bullies, the boring first girlfriend, the cheating second girlfriend, the hunger, the sadness, the poverty, the struggle, my accident, the debts, the sense of detachment from my own people and country. All of that, on top of the everyday racism, the lack of sex, the loneliness, the existential crisis, the alcohol, the parties, the hangovers, the nothingness, the emptiness, the writer’s block, the bad breath and the ugly toes. Insecurities, personal tragedies, feelings of inadequacy, of rejection, of abandonment. All, all of it, simply useless. A false identity I assumed just to justify my bitterness. To be able to say “I am a charming fuckup” and feel cool. But me and he, the two adults in that room; we both know better. “Why not being happy instead? Why not making that your ‘problem’?” he asks, then. And I feel happy, just listening to those words. “I would really like that, for a change,” I reply. And we call it a day.
Then I meet with N, a “friend” (I am still very confused about what she wants with me, to be honest.) We go out, we crash a fashion party in a fancy store in the center of Copenhagen. We drink free beers and eat a free burger, surrounded by models and designers. There’s sexual tension in the air, between us. But we are “friends” (or are we, really?) And then I’m home, talking to the guy who’s staying over the weekend at my flat. Airbnb, making me that extra dough. And we end up, in a few minutes, talking and laughing and drinking beer in Stefanshus. “My date bar,” I tell him. And suddenly it’s Friday and I’m drunk on Chilean wine in my boss’s place. Me and other colleagues exchange stories and drinks and Spanish tapas. I try to flirt with the girl I like from the office. It seems to work. Slightly. I keep drinking. I wanna tell her I like her, but I never find the time, nor the circumstances. Now we are picking our bikes. Everyone is going home. Still, not the time nor the place nor the conditions to speak my mind. “We really have to talk one of these days,” I tell her. “Is it a long conversation?” she asks, as we bike. “It should take like five minutes,” I say, and then take the lonely path home. Five minutes should do, I guess.
And now me and my Mexican friend and the Airbnb guy are dancing in Jægersborggade. Saturday evening. It’s a street festival. Nobody is dancing but us. We all want sex. We are probably very obvious. We are also drunk. I don’t care. I am happy. More less. I know I won’t fuck anybody. It’s been three weeks already. So ending up in that nasty club, Drone, is uncalled for. And there we are again, the three of us. Dancing. A bit desperate. Very obvious. And drunk.
Sunday, Monday, half Tuesday go by. Uneventful. Boring. And now, back from work, I am forced to jerk off to reach a 48 hours minimum, but 72 hours maximum “recharge period.” I applied to become a sperm donor in a nearby clinic. 300Kr for masturbating seems like a good deal. I do it for free, usually. So in two days I will give my first sample and cross my fingers to get picked to become a professional masturbator. Because the future, in terms of fucking, doesn’t look bright. Becoming a father? Not even close. This might be it. My legacy. A bunch of fatherless kids, wandering the world with the head full of questions. And a big nose. Like me.