“Take it easy, M,” I wrote.
“You too,” Marie replied.
“I am. Starting today.”
“No more women, drugs, alcohol and late hours? Hehe…”
“Hmmmm… now that sounds very boring.”
A writer, and a good one. Is that too much to ask? Probably. Certainly. Empirically fucking yes. I started writing when I was 11 or 12 years old, and I was surprisingly good… for a kid. Now? I’m fuck-awful. At 33 I’m playing in the big leagues, and far behind those who are winning and those who are good -who are usually not the winners. My consolation prize is that I get to live -partly- the writer’s life. And, just between us, it’s a fun struggle.
A lot of times I doubt. How can I take writing seriously if I don’t take anything seriously? Today, for example, my manager called me into his office. “First of all, I want you to know this is not about Eduardo as a person. This is about your behavior,” he said. “Ah, fuck, what now?” I thought. “There have been some complaints to HR about your behavior the other day in the mingling bar,” my manager continued. “What kind of complaints?” I asked. “Some colleagues felt… unsafe with your sexual comments.” “Shit, I’m very sorry. What kind of comments?” “You said you were tired of the difficult Danish girls, and now were considering switching to men. That made some guys very uncomfortable,” my manager said; “And they also mentioned that you were already wasted when you got to the bar.”
Fuck me. I must stop. I don’t believe in career or success, but I do fucking believe in starving. That’s the only shit I take seriously. And to not starve I need fucking money. And to get that money, I need to have a motherfucking job. Even if that means I will be the odd fuck around all those conservative nerds who can’t tell a stupid joke from actual homoerotic flirting. Goddammit. It was hilarious when my boss told me, though. Making dudes uncomfortable with my Latin sexiness and my inappropriate drunkeness and comments. Fucking priceless.
I have been toying with the idea of settling down and quiting this craziness. Meeting a pretty girl with a big heart, who could manage to keep my sex drive from fucking with my head -as it has done lately- and, with a good mix of peace and boredom, get me to sit down and write my novel. But the thought of this life, I don’t know, seems tasteless. I’m a bird and words are my wings, but without my madness I’m a flightless bird, a fucking chicken. Beheaded. Gutted. Cooked and on your table. Ready to be chewed, swallowed and shat out.
There are lots of people who seek someone to fix them. Many relationships are born and kept alive under the condition of one-sided or mutual repair. It works for some. Me? I’m comfortable in my mess. I could of course handle my anxiety better and get rid of the insomnia, but, other than that, I’m okay. So I will leave this settling down idea for a while. On the other hand, I will be more careful at work. I will still have to pay for all the women, drugs and alcohol, won’t I?