New Year’s had me drunken, bemused and sullied—elated, angered and mouldy. The day after had me sheltering refugee emotions, outing a tit for tat spit spat of bored lusting for fuck. By 3 am, I instead experienced something very different.
Tonight I woke up around 23:00, having slept in since I left my friend’s house in the afternoon. New Year’s was a shit, a spurt of flatulence. Got drunk, as per usual, hit on girls, as per usual, managed concealing some aspects of originally well-to-do, shameless, crazed and rude American guy, as per usual. I’m glad that all of the wholesome, family-values based holiday bullshit is over with—I prefer this place decadent and deceptively dodgy. Last night, I managed to grope no one, spew nothing, and maintain an impressively tolerable decorum, at least by my standards. Sure, I saw the fireworks and congratulated myself for being here and all of that, but I wanted a fuck of a lot more out of my night. Tonight was sure to be better.
First, I admired the garbage in my room, including myself: I felt my bloated, crumpling stomach, got off of the mouldy, piss-stained mattress, next to the unwashed dishes, unread books, plugs, tins and mood-stabilising drugs on the night table, upon the 10/11 bags sprawled across the floor, near the crumpled receipts, upon the wrinkled, unclean clothes, and out of the egg rotten socks and into the come-stained clothes. I looked into the mirror, messed my balding combover about into a halfway socially acceptable appearance and adjusted my belt and permanently crooked glasses. In my often thoughtless way, I put on the 10/11 bags over my socks, tied them up and then put on my hole lacerated, ripped up, weather-beaten British boots; the cheapest I could find. I then went out.
I passed the shitty sounds emanating from Dubliner. Bakkus’ folk bored me. Some attractive faces at Faktory, but mostly just ugly guys. There was nothing to do but stare at the bar staff and ignore a girl I now ignore. How awkward I must have looked….who cares? Ha ha, no one.
Onward to Kaffibarinn. An old, grizzly looking man and I hovered around the bar at the front. Nothing to do but look creepy. Fuck it. I soon left again, muttering to myself out loud about something. Just like people’s names, I don’t remember what it was. Some places, like a nightclub near Mál og Menning are places that I wish I never knew of in the first place. Reykjavík’s trashiest, sluttiest and dumpiest migrate there like maggots on spoiled meat. I’m not going to mention the place by name because I’m not a fucking idiot. You figure it out.
I decided to try my luck at Boston, where some kind of costume event was going on. If I was lucky, it would end up a bit like the masked ball scene from Eyes Wide Shut. It wasn’t. My breasts are too small, my bank account too empty. Back to Faktory.
All there was to do at Faktory was marvel at the watery, defiled bathroom floor tiles. Someone could have taken a shit or died there, and I bet none would be the wiser if their carcass left inside the rooms a streak of exploded diarrhoea and drying blood. Come on. I had to find a room that was at least dry…and I soon did. In this room, I replaced my socks (I have started to keep dirty socks in a bag in my left pocket) and tried to dry out the 10/11 bags I used as a protective layer around my socks. It worked out. Now I just smelled of a mouldy basement. I then looked into the mirror, and tried with my hands to part my combover. I could. It all worked out marvelously.
What didn’t marvel or charm me was the disappearance of that girl. She left, leaving her drink behind. Fuck.
Interestingly enough, at that moment I didn’t think about sex. I thought about trying to get rich, and what I would have to do to realise that dream. For some reason I thought if I just took a stream of consciousness approach to looking at the floor patterns I would come to a reasonable conclusion. I didn’t. It fucking failed. I came up with bullshit. It then seemed best to go home, so I headed back.
As I walked back down to my place near the old Morgunblaðið building, I thought about my life, and I came to this conclusion. Say what you want about me—on or off my meds—that I’m a wanking asshole, a dilettante, a failure, a drunk, a child, a whiny little shit, a drama queen, an attention whore, a womaniser, a bald-headed, bleeding-gummed, dirty, self-obsessed bipolar egomaniac, or even a bad writer: yummy stuff. None of it is going to stop me from doing what I can to see this life through. Writing is my thing, and no matter how many 10/11 bags I have to tie around my feet, I will get shit done, inhibitions be damned. Thankfully, my self-doubt, just like my extreme narcissism and excess, creates a huge and hedonistically spectacular hole worth screwing.
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