I was masturbating and suddenly I shaved my balls without any warning. The lower area started bleeding and that made me tense like an idiot, like an animal. What am I doing? I said very loudly. Should I call the police? But nothing mattered at that moment.
From the other apartment there was a happy guy making love to his wife, and that was wonderful. I felt a strange connection with them, but I could only see them from my room.
Anyway, I got up and threw all my things to one side of my bed. Suddenly the phone rang and it was emergency services calling me urgently because of a report I had previously made. They spoke to me:
—Are you okay?
—Yes, I spoke calmly.
—Because we’ve received a report of a scream from upstairs.
They changed their tone and repeated again:
—Yes, shit, I’m fine, damn it.
They told me I had to calm down, but that wasn’t the only thing that happened. Downstairs there was a party, and at that party was my ex-wife. Yes, I know all this sounds like existential drama, but for fuck’s sake all of this was happening while I was bleeding out like a filthy vermin.
My name wasn’t very pleasant. They called me Rocky because I exercised every day and played the song from the tiger. That motivated me, that excited me. But damn it, I felt sad.
The next morning, after the paramedics saved my right testicle, everything seemed calm, but suddenly I saw from my apartment that a protest was coming. And it wasn’t just any protest, it was one of little dogs and unicorns, or so I wanted to assume. I didn’t think I was drugged, although I was a bit confused, yes.
And about my ex-wife: yes, she moved away from me because she realized she couldn’t handle me in bed. I know that sounds terrible; for any man that’s a low point. But even so I wanted to continue, and she refused. She said that without sex relationships don’t work. Shit, that hit my ego a little, but it was the least of it, so I sent her to hell.
She went to live with a friend of mine who lived on the second floor. Curiously, this friend was a two-legged rat and had secretly spoken with my ex-wife so she could live with him, with the promise of making her very happy sexually speaking. That fucked my mind so much that the only thing I started doing was masturbating like a madman thinking about her, and for that reason I almost lost a testicle.
That’s the story of why my ex-wife was partying downstairs. What a headache it is to hear her moan, shit man, that breaks my heart, although I’m already working on doing better in love.
The Rocky thing was definitely because of the movie, but back then I was high and, despite the extreme cold, I went out to exercise. I know it sounds illogical, but I did it. It was because of a challenge from some friends, and those friends were my brother and a guy from high school whose name I barely remember. What I do remember is that my ass was freezing, but I had motivation.
My brother carried an old radio, one of those from the 80s, and they played the tiger song. His friend carried cigarettes to warm the body. Unfortunately, when we were going down near the subway, he slipped hard and all the cigarettes fell into the water.
—Rocky, you’ve got balls.
He said it with his hoarse voice from smoking so much, and I told him:
—Yes, yes I can, damn it.
I laughed out loud because that moment was unique and unforgettable.
We managed to reach downtown, but by then I couldn’t feel my legs anymore and everyone looked at us with disbelief. It was poetic, surreal. It was my world, an odyssey. And that was it for that long and stupid night.
When I had problems I always talked with my brother. We were inseparable. Despite our differences, we had good chemistry, something few people managed to have with me, because people tended to be awful, damn it, total shit.
Every now and then there was always some big guy who looked down on me, but my brother would jump into action and burst out laughing for no reason at all. That made people uncomfortable. That was mean, as he used to say.
He laughed out loud. Damn, I felt well accompanied, not only because my life was complete chaos, but because it was interesting. I think at some point we start thinking whether life truly has vitality for us, and that was always in my head. That’s why therapy sessions were burned into my photographic memory.
Oh brother, I love going to therapy and dumping all my shit non-stop. It’s healing. It’s like the climax at the end of sex. Could we call it that? Is it poetic or not?
Anyway, that session arrived late as usual. I was running like an absolute son of bitches. This time I came alone and had no one to accompany me. Damn, I felt abandoned.
I was waiting outside in the lobby, signing one of the papers to get in, and damn there were strange people. Strange like me, you could say. Or maybe not.
Fuck, the anxiety I had. A massive amount of sweat ran through my body and down my back. Old women, as always, tend to look at you more than once because deep down they’re calibrating you, measuring you like a barometer. Holy shit, it annoyed me a lot.
Sometimes there were also some pretty girls. It’s almost sick to know that I have to go to therapy and still feel some sexual impulse, but we won’t call it that; we’ll call it attraction. I felt attraction toward the girls, the patients, but then the desire went away because I knew they weren’t on my wavelength. We weren’t connected. We weren’t Romeo and Juliet, for the love of the devil.
Damn, I really sound like a true lunatic. That’s normal in psychiatric hospitals. You always see someone out of place who thinks they’re special, just like I felt. That shit is curious, but whatever.
The time was approaching. There was only one patient left besides me before they would see me and I could unload all my clownery. Damn, I loved contact with fire, that thing of burning myself and reigniting again. It was addictive, but ephemeral, something that leaves and never returns, just like my ex-wife.
Shit, that reminds me I have to wear headphones every time I go to sleep so I don’t hear her damn crazy screams.
Finally they saw me, and I won’t lie, I have a strange connection with my doctors. They talk and I listen. I talk and they don’t listen. It’s like I throw an apple and shit, the apple comes back to my hands with a little sign that says I don’t give a fuck.
Anyway, it was eleven thirty in the morning and I used to call the doc Sonic. And you might wonder why Sonic? Because Sonic is fast and speedy, and my doc was the same, one hundred percent effective. But sometimes he just ran through life. It was strange, but I liked the name.
—I call you, doc, how are you?
He looked at me with a deep smile and touched his hair.
I answered quickly and told him I was fine, that everything had gone according to plan, and that I felt better with his Playboy-cover-magazine advice. He laughed a little and we continued the conversation.
I told him about my problems, about how I couldn’t face the fear of others looking me in the face. It was strange, but yes, I was afraid. People used to look at me weird, and that scared me.
—Look, let’s do this, he answered energetically.
I told him it was fine and that I’d play along. He replied:
—I want you to have a routine.
He grabbed his notebook and wrote some things down.
I asked him what kind of things I’d have to do, and he spoke again:
—You need to do sports, Rocky. You’re locked in your room all the time.
He touched his hair again and smiled.
—But watching Friends isn’t bad. I’d say it’s charming.
The truth is I love spending my time watching movies. It’s like a frustrated dream because I wanted to be a film director and it never happened for obvious reasons. But the fact that I loved Friends made it even more interesting.
He kept reviewing some things and finished by saying I had to let things go. It was time for me to become a blue-eyed dragon and stop being just a sparrow, something like that. He looked at me again with a smile and hugged me, whispering:
It had been a strange session. Like I explained, my doc was like Sonic, and that day was definitely a flash and a short film. Action and cut.
I loved that idea of having to put love into things, but well, I had to follow my therapist’s advice. When I left the psychiatric hospital my balls hurt a lot. Maybe it was because of the accident, but I doubted it.
I grabbed a nearby phone and called my brother. I asked if he could come pick me up. He said yes, but that traffic was insane, so the best thing I could do was walk a bit to warm up my legs.
That’s what I did. There was a nearby path where I used to walk with my father. I went that way and headed toward the harbor. There I saw everyone running like madmen. Damn, everyone was excited. I saw their faces full of sweat. It almost looked like an old people’s fair.
I started running too. This little ass of mine had to get hot. I had to get back in shape. That put me at one hundred percent. That and the girls, except there were none.
I think the best thing one can do is sit down, take a peaceful shit, and listen to a rock song. That turns me on more than a night of sex, and even if it sounds one-sided and strange, it’s fantastic.
I was already tired of that bullshit of tutorial videos for achieving a perfect life, and with all the routine stuff I had to plan exactly what I wanted to do because, damn it, I was a mess. I was fat, well, not that fat, but my figure was failing me.
So I turned on the TV and put on a DVD of the hottest beasts. Only seconds passed before I got into action.
I did good routines, kept the rhythm well. Oh baby, that drives me crazy. I said it in my head. I need to do more routines. The doc knows what he’s talking about. I need to feel strong and dominant.
I blasted the volume to the maximum so the other neighbors could hear me. Then I heard a whistle coming from downstairs. It was that seventy-year-old grandfather again, who never stopped with interracial porn. Shit, that annoyed me a lot, although I admit the old man had good taste.
So I had a verbal exchange with old Frederick.
—That ass is well toned, Rocky? he said smiling.
What do you want, old man?
He grabbed a broomstick and pointed it at me.
—We all have problems. You’re not the only one, Rocky.
—Of course I’m not the only one, you old clown.
He started laughing and sat near the window to smoke a cigarette while I finished my intense cardio with a Chris Brown song.
—I think you should make a fool of yourself, Rocky, he said loudly.
Old man, that’s weird coming from you. You usually like putting on a triple-X movie and joking nonstop. It’s really strange that you’re talking to me like you’re my father.
—The truth is, Rocky, I don’t have much time left…
And I thought: what’s wrong with this old man now?
The truth is I didn’t really care about the old man’s life. I couldn’t give a fuck, and that’s funny. Just thinking about it made me laugh.
—Old man, I already told you I’m not interested in your opinions.
I said it loud and clear. The old man didn’t flinch. He stayed silent, and just as he came, he left. He slammed the door of his second-floor apartment.
Shit, I told myself, I must’ve annoyed him quite a bit.
Anyway, I had to keep going.
About the old man, well, there isn’t much to tell. He was in the war, an elite soldier. I don’t understand how he went from soldier to watching interracial porn. Damn, I don’t understand it.
Sometimes I think I’m dreaming, like I’m smoking. I think it helps me forget my shitty life.
And that chapter closes with some humor, as it should.
Sometimes I tried to please my parents so I wouldn’t be just another idiot, but life cuts across you like a damn rifle, and one shot decides everything. It’s the question of life or death, I think. And my brother comes into that… a small reckless sprout drawn by life.
—How are you, brother? I said loudly.
—I’m fine, Rocky. I see you’ve got that ass well toned.
—I think you’re copying that old guy.
—I don’t doubt it. These are my own words.
I see. So as not to call him just brother, we’ll give him a name, and it’ll be Naruto. Why Naruto? Naruto is blond with blue eyes. My brother is somewhat like him, with a broken, destroyed childhood, with rejection from the masses.
He’s a damn survivor who never gives up, damn it. But beyond the character Naruto, I’ll only mention him because of his blond hair.
—Hey Naruto, are you going to send me a Rasengan?
—What the fuck are you talking about, Rocky? he said, confused.
Relax, I know why I’m telling you.
Hmm… little bastard, don’t give me weird names.
