Love Affair

I got into this entanglement early on in my life. I was probably 10. Or even younger. 

At first I was indulging in the situation for practical reasons: my mum would send me inside the house for a compulsory afternoon nap and I would rebel against the coercition by staying awake. So I had enough time for a reality check by reading..fairy tales!

This is where it all began: my love hate affair with literature. 

Can we please all stop for a moment and acknowledge the tremendous level of fuckedupedness of this axiomatic intrication? 🙂 A pattern so vividly bloody which expanded in my other areas of expertise, brightening and darkening my life forever with the zest of a beacon advertising bacon.

The friends with benefits situation slowly progressed into an unlikely crush. A romantic comedy from the 40’s where they passionately kiss at the end with tightly sealed lips under the moon rays. With Billie Holiday singing in the background:

Blue moon.. you saw me standing alone..without a dream in my heart..

And then I turned 20. Went to France to find a gargouille. Instead, I found a guy. A black guy. And you know what they say: once you go black, you never go back..to literature. Mmm, no, I did go back. But everything turned into a medium distance relationship, then a long distance relationship. And very soon we were just pen pals. 

I could go ahead of myself and say that what used to be once a pristine love affair has now turned into a quick and dirty annual one night stand. But it would be inaccurate. 

It’s not an annual one night stand. It’s an annual one day stand. On my only annual free day out of prison. 

Life happened and I am now doing time in this progressive reformatory jail where rehabilitation is the daily buzzword tickling your ears: buzz, buzz..

It’s a Danish jail. They give you butter and a free day per year to fill those inner holes which even Danish butter could not. My only chance to rekindle the old flame. 

But every year, I am browsing lists with all the award winning literature books from the last two decades and shrug my shoulders. I am browsing them like the prisoner I am who visits all the hookers’ houses in town on his annual day off. He knocks at every brothel’s door, takes a peek at the big breasted blonde, the long legged brunette, the pink AI sex doll then, with a meditative look, asks the madam:

Do you have midgets? An emo transgender midget who went from she to he and back to she again?

What do you mean?

I mean something like this?