First you jerk off. You don’t think before you do. If God wanted you to think first, you’d still most likely be jerking things out rather than working off. Be it a matter of one consonant. Besides, you’re eighteen, you can handle things by yourself. It’s been a while, that’s true. For few years you’ve been in the right hands but the right hands have left you. You’re on your own, remember?
In fact, you’re the loneliest creature in town. Everybody else is doing it, but not after having what you had. Most of them boys haven’t even seen the bra yet, while you’ve been unhooking it for some time with your left eye and your hands closed. This makes things even harder. You’re unable to concentrate. You should be preparing for your biology exams, for until now you’ve been doing quite well. Now you look at all those molecular structures and you’re simply unable to give a damn. You are no scientist, you are no House MD either.
The girl who completed you, who understood you, who knew you inside out, has recently found someone. Though you still make out occasionally. But the last blowjob you got was rather a tearjerker: a swansong, if you will, a handy adieu. Now it’s the other boy who seems to get lucky. By the way, the guy’s a friend of yours. Punching him in the face did not help, even though some intuition had told you it would. It may have something to do with your silly boyish notion of honor and pride. Sleeping with her best friend didn’t help either. Jealousy is devouring you. You’ve never experienced such a powerful negative feeling. You come to nail the Othello part. So here you are, full of regrets, wandering through all the crappy holes of your holly town, your city of angels, and you dive into every rotten assomoir, every damn pub in which you’re likely to run into them. You search under every stone, on every bench in every park you expect to see them kissing. Then you wait all night in front of his house knowing that she’s there. You sit there trembling from anxiety. From such a grief, there is no relief: ‘tis bitter cold and you’re sick at heart. So you’re chain-smoking, burning inside with desperation, only to find out that they went messing around somewhere else. Turns out you’re no good at stalking.
The only thing that keeps you going is writing. You’ve done it before. You’re naturally familiar with words, you possess this peculiar capacity of amusing yourself and others by simply scribbling some dirty thoughts, pathetically ironic, disguised into series of ridiculous puns and nasty metaphors. You don’t know exactly what you’re doing. So far it’s been kind of intuitive, you just feel this overwhelming urge to outcry, to unshadow the bewildered areas, the darkest, the most unexplored districts of your soul overflowed with poison. You learn that the linear narration lets you keep your mind busy, you’re thoughts in a relative order. You find that the life is to be told, or, as your Columbian master would state, that you must vivir para contarla.
Then you come to find some pleasure in listening to those dark, romantic Scandinavian death metal bands, for these are the only sounds that ease the pain and let you go on with the terminal spirit disease. Then again there’s the guitar. So you shred the shit of her in an unconscious flow of compulsive creativity. That’s all you do. Thus you have found your sublimation. Thank goodness, you’ve already given up on your scientific career. Or at least so it seems.
Such is the Autumn of your loving. You Fall from heaven, for you have formed your fault. So now you have to find a solution that is just, lucid and fair – or maybe just Lucifer. For deep down in the darkest caves of your enchanted city, among those realms of decadence drown in the liquid despair straight from the Devil’s distillery, you come across the most bizarre and wicked, most peculiar creatures that no fantasy author would even dare to depict. For the ease of use, you call them bitches.
Don’t get too excited – they come from the same background as you do. They’re lonely and heartbroken, dazed and confused, desperately in need of some stranger’s hand. Hardly ever do you find a princess among those. But then again what sort of prince are you?
In each and every one of them you find the elements of what you hold dear: sensibility, comprehension, empathy, acceptation, concern. It is no longer the body thing – thereby you discover the Personality. It is true what Proust once said, that a lonely being desperate for intimacy would throw itself into the arms of the first creature it encounters that shows at least but a shadow of willingness towards it. Such is the saddest law of self-preservation in the shallow gutter of our depressed society. You could be bounded in a nutshell and count yourself a king of infinite space, was it that anyone would take you the way you are.
So you could spend nights and days talking to them, holding their hands, caressing them, listening to whatever they want to say. You kiss like there’s no tomorrow. You inhale their breaths and exhale the smoke. At the moment you don’t need much banging. But they do. And you come to ask yourself: what if everything is about banging? What if nobody cares about your useless sensibility, your taste for novels, your neurotic writing, your guitar-raping skills – all these things you cherish the most? What if all you are is a grotesque amalgam of pointless inclinations towards art and some monkey-tricks no-one gives a shit about? You are not the male they’re looking for – you’re but a playful curiosity, a temporary distraction.
So be it. You find it harder and harder to trust and to care. The ones you’re attracted to do not even notice you. So you take the others as a substitute. It comes easy, it goes easy, it comes around and goes around. You hurt because you’ve been hurt. The less you care, the easier it gets, so you take it for granted. But then again once you really care, you become a prey.
It’s gonna take some time to master the art of not giving a fuck. But you’re on the right track, for once you cared too much – and that appeared to be far from enough.