Keijo Kangur

THE NIHILIST

A NOVEL

This book is inspired by true events and is dedicated to nobody.

Like a wasp, I was hatched into fury

The world was a razorblade

If I clearly was so early done for

For what was I ever made?

—The Dogs, G.U.I.L.T.Y.

1

A woman with black hair pointed a revolver at my face and pulled the trigger. When the bullet exited the barrel of the gun, however, everything went into super slow motion and I could see the projectile slowly traveling towards my forehead.

Eventually, when it penetrated my skull and entered my brain, I could feel my consciousness starting to fade away and with it the whole world began falling away as I slowly succumbed into nothingness—as I did, I felt the greatest sense of peace that I had ever felt in my life.

When I woke up from the dream, I realized that I didn’t want to be awake at all. I wanted the dream to continue. Forever. For being dead didn’t hurt. Only being alive did.

Most people feared death and the nothingness it brought. That’s why we’d invented impossible ideas such as rebirth and afterlife. Why we put dying people on life support. Why suicide was stigmatized. And why we overall tried to think about death as little as possible.

Yet there was nothing wrong with being dead. No one that was dead wanted to be alive. And no one that was unborn wanted to be born. Those of us that were alive only had a vested interest in existence because we already existed. The dead did not share our passion.

Although it was thought that death was something strange, that it was unnatural, that it was something to be abolished, it was obvious that death was in fact the standard in the universe. Surrounded by infinite nothingness on both sides, it was life that was the great exception.

The living being, as Nietzsche said, was ultimately only a species of the dead. And a very rare species at that.

2

After about an hour of lying in bed, thinking about the dream I’d just had, I finally forced myself up and got dressed. I was at an all-time low. It was Saturday.

I went to the fridge and grabbed a slice of cold leftover pizza that I had ordered the day before. I sat on the couch of my small living room/kitchen and ate the pizza whilst gazing into the distance through the black venetian blinds covering the windows. It looked gloomy outside. Autumn had arrived just in time.

I’d had hope once. But my hope had all but vanished by now. Hope was a finite resource. It needed to be constantly replenished. By money, by love, by a success—or illusion—of some sort. And I had none of these things. I worked at a job I abhorred, barely making enough to survive. My girlfriend of three years had recently left me. I had no friends. And although I wanted to be a writer, I couldn’t write.

All in all, I felt as though I was in a hole and the hole was so deep that the only thing left to do was to keep on digging until I could feel the flames of hell underneath my feet.

And why not? Everything just kept on repeating anyway. We woke up. We went to work. We ate. We slept. We suffered through misery. We kept our brains satiated with meaningless entertainment or alcohol in order to dull the misery of our routine. And yet, although we hated our routine, we couldn’t imagine life without it. We were slaves to it. This was our paradox. And I was no exception.

Vicky leaving me had shattered my routine. I had come to rely on her. I had needed her. And then suddenly she was gone. And I was alone. Alone in the entire universe. Or so it seemed.

Naturally, I had considered suicide. But I was weak. I feared pain. If only there was a painless way to do it. But there wasn’t… as far as I knew.

I looked around my apartment. It was a fucking pigsty. Empty boxes of pizza and Chinese food littered the room, along with countless empty cans and bottles of beer, whiskey and wine. My diet had been rather lousy for a while now. It would end up killing me eventually. Unless I killed myself first.

After I was finished with the pizza, I walked to the sink to get a glass of water. The sink was full of dirty dishes. It reminded me of the kitchen sink in the movie Withnail and I. I hadn't washed the dishes in weeks because I hated washing dishes. In fact, I hated all menial chores. And life, as far as I was concerned, was full of menial chores. It felt strange how we had to do so many pointless little things over and over again just to be alive when being alive wasn’t even all that good.

Still, as I was planning to go out—for you see, I couldn’t stay in this tomb of an apartment for too long all by myself in fear of going crazy—I decided to freshen myself up a bit.

I took a shower, trimmed my beard, slicked my hair back with pomade, and picked out a nice black shirt to wear. When I was all done, I went to the mirror and looked at my reflection. I looked like a man going to his own funeral.

At first after Vicky had left me, I had gotten drunk at home. I had passed the time by listening to depressing rock music, masturbating, and practicing five finger fillet. All very healthy habits, I know.

However, the atmosphere in the apartment soon became unbearable to me as I continued seeing her shadow in every corner. And so, I started going out to bars instead, where I drank myself into oblivion whilst attempting to have meaningful conversations with random strangers—as futile an endeavor as ever.

It wasn’t so much that I was searching for something but rather that I was trying to get away from her shadow.

And perhaps also from my own.

3

After I stepped out of the apartment, I noticed that a note had been crudely stuck through my front door handle. From the poor grammar, I could tell it had been written by a Russian.

I read the note whilst walking down the stairs. “Stop listening to music so loudly at night,” it said. “People are trying to sleep. If you want to listen to music at night, use headphones. Otherwise, we will call the police or you will be evicted.”

I suppose what it said was indeed true. But then music—at least the kind I listened to—was meant to be listened to loudly and at odd hours. Besides, they had no idea what I was going through. So fuck ‘em, I thought, as I crumbled the note and threw it away.

I walked to a small store nearby to buy some cigarettes. It was a Russian-owned store where time stood still. I hated going there since the cashiers only spoke Russian and all the food they sold was close to the expiration date. Still, as it was the nearest shop to my apartment and they sold some cheap—and strong—Russian beer, I often frequented it.

As usual, when I stepped into the store there were no people around aside from a couple of cashiers and a security guard. I wondered how they were able to survive. Perhaps the store was a front for money laundering?

After I got my Marlboro Reds and exited the store, I lit a cigarette and walked to the bus stop at a nearby plaza. The plaza was surrounded by a casino, a liquor store, a sleazy bar, and a pawnshop. All the necessities of life were present.

As I stood at the bus stop, I saw an old man uncork a bottle of vodka and take a hit from it. I didn’t blame him. Life was hard. And sometimes you had to do anything you could just in order to survive. Even if others scorned you for it. But what did they know? Fuck ‘em.

The bus soon arrived and I stepped on. As I sat in my seat and looked out the window at all the people passing by on the streets, I wondered how they had all managed to live day by day in this crazy world for such a long time without having gone insane from the banality of everyday life. From its endless repetition. Its constant disappointments. Its inherent emptiness.

Then it hit me. They were insane. They had gone insane a long time ago. They had to in order to want to continue repeating the same pointless bullshit every day—sitting in traffic, working at a shitty job with low pay, wrestling with bureaucracy, being brainwashed by advertising, having a dysfunctional relationship, a stupid child, a decaying body, and so on.

They were all insane and I simply didn’t have the good luck of having gone insane like they had.

I always did have such rotten luck.

4

After I stepped off the bus in the city center, I headed towards a nearby Irish pub called Dublin. It was one of my usual places.

It was about three in the afternoon when I entered the pub. I sat in a corner furnished with a worn mahogany table and chairs as well as a dark green leather bench. On the wall were portraits of random Irish celebrities, movie stars, and musicians, such as Enya, Gabriel Byrne, and the autistic girl from Harry Potter. I was certain they had never visited the pub, so I wasn’t sure of the reason for having their portraits on the wall, but I assumed it had something to do with celebrity worship.

As was often the case, football was playing on TV. It was the biggest downside of the place as I despised football. I felt that the game was too simplistic, the football players were overpaid, and the fans worshipping them were underbrained.

A waitress came to ask whether I was ready to order. I ordered a Grimbergen Ambrée draught beer. Not because it was fancy but because it was the strongest beer they had on tap. She shortly came back with the beer.

I took a sip and looked around. A bunch of young women sat at a table nearby, talking enthusiastically about something. They looked like students to me. I couldn’t hear them all that well, but I assumed that they were talking about some event, maybe connected to the college they were no doubt attending.

I myself had never been to college. I had wanted to, but life had other things in mind. Perhaps things would have been better had I attended one. Or perhaps not. It was impossible to know. Besides, I didn’t really believe in free will, so what did it matter? As far as I was concerned, everything was inevitable. Every misery. Every disappointment. Every humiliation. Every bad experience. The world was a nightmare to those who weren’t lucky enough to arrive at a better random—yet inevitable—outcome. To those like me.

But then, for so many people it was infinitely worse. After all, I wasn’t starving. I wasn’t being tortured. I didn’t have a debilitating disease—aside from existence that is. And yet I suffered. Perhaps it was because I didn’t have anything particular to suffer from that I suffered so acutely from the general misfortune of being alive.

After I had finished my beer and ordered another one, I took a book I had brought with me out of my jacket pocket. The book was Will O’ the Wisp by Pierre Drieu la Rochelle. It was the first English print from 1963. It had cost me nearly a hundred euros.

The book told the story of Alain, a depressed heroin addict who was tired of living. I had read through it once before and, despite not being a heroin addict myself, could easily identify with Alain’s blight. Indeed, I seemed to share his lethargy now more than ever.

I opened the first page and began reading:

At that moment, Alain was watching Lydia relentlessly. But he had been gazing at her like that ever since she arrived in Paris three days earlier. What was he waiting for? Sudden enlightenment about her or himself.

I drank one more beer and stopped reading. I could rarely read very much at once. Sooner or later, my mind tended to wander off. With badly written books, this usually happened on the very first page. But then, most books weren’t worth reading anyway. They were written only to make money.

I looked around. The girls nearby were gone. Other people had replaced them. I wanted someone to talk to. But this wasn’t a good place to socialize with strangers.

I took out my phone and looked through my contacts. There weren’t many. Of the few people whom I’d had some deeper connection with, one was now living in the UK, one was an ex-girlfriend who hated me, and one was the ex who had recently left me, reducing me thereby to a state not unlike a glass balloon. I decided to go with the last option.

I rang but she didn’t pick up. I then sent her a text message, though I doubted she’d be answering it any time soon. I didn’t feel like contacting anyone else. I had alienated most of the people I had ever met in my life, even the few that I had actually liked. I didn’t know why I had alienated the ones that I had liked, but regarding the others the answer was simple—I didn’t like them. Why? Because they tended to be deceitful, stupid, and full of shit.

What made everyday life so terrible was that on each day you usually had to come into contact with at least some of these so-called human beings. And every time you did, you were reminded all over again how ugly the world was. How it was populated with such ugly fucking beings. Ugly, wretched, delusional beings. Beings who thought that they were kings and queens, yet, as a famous singer once put it, they were all fucking peasants as far as I could see.

Ah, fuck it, I thought. I’ll call an old friend of mine. He was almost always up for a beer or two.

I didn’t like him much… but beggars can’t be choosers.

5

I was on my third beer when Martin stepped into the bar. He acknowledged me with a curt nod and went to order a beer at the counter.

I had known Martin for years. We had first met while working at the same data entry position at a company which by now had gone bankrupt. He was good for drinking with, but profound conversations weren’t exactly his forte. Considering that he studied law, that may not have been altogether surprising.

He placed his beer down on my table. “So what’s the occasion?” he asked.

“The occasion, my dear Martin, is that there is no occasion. For you see, all occasions are equally meaningless and made-up. Therefore, having no occasion to drink is not only as good an occasion for drinking as an actual ‘occasion’ but even better since we choose it ourselves instead of being led like sheep.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, seemingly not understanding what I was talking about.

I sighed. “Let’s just say I wanted some company. And since I don’t have any friends, I invited you.”

He looked at me awkwardly and chuckled. “Oh, come on. I’m your friend.”

“Right.”

We took some sips from our beers in silence.

“So how’s life?” Martin suddenly asked.

“It’s shit, Martin, as always. In fact, I’m thinking of hanging myself.”

He laughed. I had told so many suicide jokes to him over the years that he had probably stopped taking me seriously on them. I was like the boy who cried wolf. But at the same time, I was the wolf.

“And how’s yours?” I asked.

“Oh, the usual.”

“In other words, shit?”

“I wouldn’t quite say that.”

A pity. I wished he had.

We ordered another beer. We talked about life, work, our mutual acquaintances, and so on. Typical shit. As usual, Martin didn’t seem to have anything very interesting to say. Eventually, unable to tolerate the dull conversation any longer, I suddenly asked him whether he believed in God.

“Well, uh, I’m not religious if that’s what you mean. Not sure about God though.”

“Did I ever tell you where God and religion came from?”

“Not that I recall, no.”

“Well, let me tell you.” I took a big sip of beer and cleared my throat, trying to recall a few lectures I’d heard on the topic not long ago. “So,” I began. “A long time ago there was this big guy in a big castle who called himself the king. He ruled over thousands of people who all lived in misery and squalor. And because they had nothing, they tended to steal from the only place there was anything worth stealing from, which was the king’s castle. Naturally, the king had spent a fortune on hired guards, but they weren’t doing a very good job, occasionally even stealing from the king themselves.

“Then one day a magician caught the king’s ear. The magician suggested another way of preventing the people from stealing from the king, without needing any guards. Greedy as the king was, he agreed to try the magician’s method.

“First he got the people’s attention by performing magic tricks for them, much like magicians do nowadays, but which the primitive people took at face value, making them think that this guy actually had magical powers.

“Then he told them, ‘The being that granted me these powers is called God. God is all-powerful, all-seeing, and he has sent me here to tell you that you must obey the king. You must always do what the king says and never steal from him. And if you don’t do as the king says, God’s punishment will be severe! And this is how the ‘magic man’ scared the shit out of all the people.”

The pub was beginning to get quite crowded and noisy. “To enforce the word of God,” I continued in a louder voice, “a large and powerful building was constructed called the church and the magician became its priest. The church came with rules. No more stealing, no more killing, no more fucking around—God said so.

“Well, the laws worked for a while, but eventually there was a famine and the people went back to stealing from the king. To appease them, the priest then invited them to the church and told them, ‘You too shall one day live in a big castle and have feasts beyond your wildest dreams.’ And when the people asked him when, he said, ‘Right after you kick the bucket.’ Because then you went to heaven, where everything was fine forever. And the people ate up his bullshit story because it made it seem as though their suffering was worthwhile in the end.

“And so, they slaved and suffered and even went to war for the king. All in the name of a God created out of a desire for power and embodied in fear and false promises. And the priest? He got paid and lived comfortably. And this, my dear Martin, is essentially how all religions were formed.”

Although Martin seemed to be quite mesmerized by my story, as expected, he still asked, “Okay, but how do you know that’s the way it happened?”

“How do I know that’s the way it happened? Because in the bible it says that Moses cast a staff before the Pharaoh and the staff became a snake. But did you know that if you take a certain type of snake and squeeze an area behind its neck it becomes rigid like a stick?”

“Can’t say I did, no.”

“It also says that Moses put his staff into the water and the water turned into wine. But do you think that’s what really happened or did he simply use a hollow bamboo tube with a red dye in it? Which one do you think is more plausible?”

“The second option I guess.”

“And then it says that Moses talked to God through a burning bush on top of a mountain.” I shook my head in disbelief. “Although I doubt this ever happened, for argument’s sake let’s say it did. Firstly, you can get oxygen-deprived on top of a mountain and it is quite normal to start hallucinating. And secondly, if there was indeed a ‘burning bush’, it was probably just a will-o’-the-wisp, a natural phenomenon in nature which happens through chemoluminescence. So Moses was ultimately little more than a magician or a hallucinating fool. And in fact, there are people like him even today. Magicians who engage in trickery, thinking they have actual magical powers—or at least they tell the public they do. Like the spoon-bending Uri Geller, for instance.”

“Who’s that?”

“Just a charlatan.”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind. However, I’m sure you’ve heard about the Virgin Mary statute in India which ‘miraculously’ wept?”

“Yeah, I think I heard about that somewhere.”

“But did you know that when this occurrence was investigated by a skeptic, it turned out that the water dripping off its face came simply from bad plumbing? Of course, that didn’t stop thousands of people from praying before it and kissing its dirty feet.”

Martin squinted his eyes and tilted his head. “You sure about that?”

“Yes, Martin, I’m sure. All so-called miracles are based on trickery or misunderstanding. Or they’re just flat-out lies. For instance, did you know that the flood story from the bible was plagiarized from the oldest known story called The Epic of Gilgamesh? Which, believe it or not, I’ve actually read.

“But regardless of all that, precisely how I know all this is beside the point since we’re talking about ancient history, man. You can’t really prove anything in ancient history unless you use carbon dating and stuff like that, which you clearly can’t for the things I’m talking about. So you’ve gotta ask yourself, what makes sense?

“Now, the story I’ve told you may have various inaccuracies, but considering everything I know about humanity, the gist of it makes perfect sense to me. I mean, how else do you think they controlled all those people? By fooling them of course. Which is precisely what religion was designed for. It’s the oldest scam in the book. The king had everything he wanted, you see, and he wanted to keep it that way. Which he did, through violence, manipulation, and lies. Just like it is done today. And he was helped along by the priest.”

“If you say so,” Martin said sheepishly.

“I do say so, Martin. I say that the first king was nothing but a gangster, and the first priest was a fucking phony. And, as a philosopher once put it, man will never be free until the last king is strangled by the entrails of the last priest.”

Not that he’d be free even then, I thought. At least, not from himself.

6

Martin didn’t have much to say after my monologue. It was possible that what I had said had depressed him, or that he simply didn’t understand it, both of which were normal responses for me. In either case, I might as well have been talking to a brick wall.

It was about nine in the evening and I was tired of his company. “I’m gonna leave,” I told him, downing my beer. “See you. Maybe.”

I went to the counter and paid for my drinks.

After exiting the bar, I walked the rain-slicked cobblestone streets of Old Town for a while, smoking cigarettes. Eventually, I found myself near a bar called Nowhere, which I had often visited. As the rain was getting worse, I decided to enter. A red light illuminated the steps leading down to its front door. It was like descending into hell.

The bar was underground and had massive stone arches. It had probably been used as a storage room for grain a long time ago. For some reason, I had always liked the place. Perhaps because it reminded me of a catacomb.

When I walked towards the old wooden bar counter, I saw a bartender with a familiar face. He had curly hair and glasses and I recalled him telling me once that he was an art student. Considering he was still working there, it seemed art didn’t pay much. Unless of course you drew triangles or circles and had somehow gotten a millionaire’s patronage.

I sat down on a bar stool at the counter and ordered a Bloody Mary. The bartender didn’t recognize me. Or he pretended he didn’t.

The wall behind him where the liquor bottles were lined up was mirrored. After he served me my drink, I looked at my face in the mirror. It wasn’t an unattractive one. But neither was it a happy one. In fact, the longer I stared at it, the more I could see the torment writ upon it. Or perhaps I was imagining it? Thoughts colored reality, someone had once said. And while that was true, so did reality color thoughts.

But where had it all gone wrong for me? I must have been happy once. Or at least content. What was it that had pushed me over the edge to permanent melancholy? To the land of hopelessness through which I now wandered? I suppose it had been many things.

But it must have all started with school. I hated going to school, you see. I even had to repeat the ninth grade. Not because I was dumb but because I didn’t like to study the things that I was forced to study. I didn’t like waking up early. I didn’t like tests. I didn’t like homework. And I didn’t like the other people in school, who mostly seemed like shallow idiots to me.

After I had finished primary school and went to high school, I only managed about a year or so before dropping out. My grades were good… but soon enough, the bullshit seeped through and I just couldn’t continue justifying the study of the state-mandated things they were telling me were important. Instead, I decided to educate myself.

I began reading books from Nietzsche and other philosophers and took long walks in nature to let the words settle. What I discovered was that there were various ways how one could look at things. And the view that prevailed at any given age was not dependent on the truth, but on power.

Which brings me to school. A school’s purpose wasn’t to enlighten anybody or to make them into a critical thinker. Schools existed only to train people for jobs, dulling their ability for critical thinking in the process, so that they could readily accept authority and mindless routine. In fact, when I read about the history of the school system that was commonly used in the world, I discovered that it came from the Middle Ages and was originally designed to teach people religion. And what did religious people do? They accepted absurd ideas without questioning. The same system that was designed to brainwash them—full of rote learning, non-questioning, conformity, and punishment—was the same one that was still being used today. Why? Because it worked. At least most of the time. For some reason, it hadn’t worked on me.

Eventually, I got into science. I watched hundreds of documentaries, read books from various scientific fields, such as astronomy, evolution, and neuroscience, and listened to academic lectures. I discovered that many of the ideas that philosophy proposed were hopelessly obsolete by now and demonstrably wrong. Instead, it was science that seemed to be the key to understanding the nature of existence, and I soon came to think that there was nothing it couldn’t solve.

I even went back to high school for a while. But I dropped out again after about a year or so because the kind of science I was interested in—a way of looking at everything—wasn’t being taught, or even appreciated, at school. So I continued studying it by myself.

Eventually, however, I began to see a huge problem with science. Although it had promised to fix everything, a casual look at the world showed that it had much less power than its proponents thought. That was because people, by nature, weren’t science-minded beings. Instead of chemistry, they preferred alchemy. Instead of astronomy, they preferred astrology. Instead of atheism, they preferred religion. And instead of the truth, they preferred comforting lies.

And thus, it was my appreciation of science that eventually led me to resent society. All around me I began to see how badly everything was designed. How badly everybody did things. Not to mention all the absurd things people believed in without questioning, such as acupuncture and homeopathy and wars and politics. This made me feel depressed. And the depression didn’t go away.

During all this, there were jobs and girlfriends. The jobs that I was able to get without a college degree quickly grew boring and unfulfilling. The girlfriends came and went, none of them ever understanding me or my views on reality.

After a while, I began to lose interest in science. Science had shown me that the entire world was materialistic and fundamentally meaningless but where anything could potentially be achieved through knowledge and technology. But then the question was, why hadn’t it been achieved? Why was the world in practice such a miserable fucking shithole if theoretically it could have been so wonderful? Why was there so much superficiality, stupidity, corruption, greed, poverty, inequality, sickness, suffering, and death?

Perhaps it was due to the fact that most scientists were deluded optimists and few of them used the scientific method on society. For them, science was something narrow that was done as a job, whereas I felt that everything was supposed to be viewed scientifically. Including religion, traditions, and the socio-economic system.

And if one did examine these things scientifically, one was in for a rude awakening. Science hadn’t actually done much to change the core of society, which had been the same since the Sumerians first began agriculture twelve thousand years ago when the first cities appeared around the first farmlands.

Indeed, I learned that the cities of those times were very similar to the cities of today—full of poor people with a few rich people ruling over them. The rich controlled the poor who did all the dirty work for them from which the rich profited. Perhaps that was a simplistic way to view things but it was essentially the truth. It always had been. It always would.

And so, I began to distance myself from science. Science as it was practiced in our society began to seem to me as little more than a club of capitalist lackeys. Science that could be sold became popular; science that could not, nobody gave a fuck about.

I began asking myself whether there was anything beyond science. Whether there was a field that could explain, without being held accountable to optimism bias and capitalistic greed, the true nature of existence?

I went back to philosophy. I discovered that linked to Nietzsche were various philosophers that were quite pessimistic about our lot in life. Schopenhauer, Heraclitus, Diogenes, Chamfort, Mainländer, Cioran, and more. I began reading about them and their works… and I was amazed. Here were people who said precisely what I had been suspecting for a long time now and they didn’t mince words. They said exactly how bad things were and how this badness was built into reality and how there was no hope of it ever getting any better because such presumptions were based on delusional thinking.

In my attempt to deconstruct everything, I had also learned that there was no free will. Despite what most people thought, nobody had any choice whatsoever in what they did in this world. It was as though life was a movie, and since we were conscious of it, we thought that we could have changed the narrative if only we had done something differently. But this “choice” was only an illusion. Studies had shown that the conscious idea of being able to have done differently arose after the brain had already made the decision. In other words, random evolutionary mutations had made us erroneously think that we had free will, when in truth we never did.

After I had learned that there was no point to anything and that life was mostly suffering from which people escaped through illusions, I realized that the only sensible thing for the human race to do was to go extinct. And I was far from the first to have suggested it.

In truth, there were many like me in the world, though we mostly kept our views hidden. The idea that existence was a good thing was something that was so deeply embedded in people that almost everybody accepted it without questioning. For to seriously consider, even for but one moment, that it might have actually been better never to have been, was to cast doubt on everything you had ever believed in. And normal people didn’t have the balls for that. For them, life was simple. You did what you were told and pretended you were happy about it. Because when you kicked the bucket, you’d go to heaven and everything would be fine forever.

But having realized all this had made me even more depressed. I began to despise the world and to wish that I had never been born. At the same time, I didn’t have the strength to end my life. Either I was a coward… or I still had some hope left.

This I pondered when somebody sat next to me in the bar.

It was a woman in black.

7

The woman in black seemed quite drunk. She asked me what I was drinking.

“Alcohol,” I said.

She gave an imitation smile. “Smartass.”

“That’s me.”

“Why are you sitting here all alone then?”

“Too smart I guess.”

“Or maybe not smart enough?”

“Maybe.”

I finished my drink.

“You want another one?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“What do you want?”

“How about a Bloody Mary?”

“Okay.”

She ordered two Bloody Marys. We sat in silence whilst the bartender mixed the drinks.

“So what brings you here?” she asked.

“My feet,” I said, taking a sip from the Bloody Mary, the smell of Tabasco and black pepper tickling my nostrils.

“Very funny. But really?”

“Got no place to go and going there tomorrow,” I quoted from an old movie. I guess I didn’t know how to talk to people.

“Okay, okay,” she said, gesturing with her hands. “Mister mysterious. Are you a magician?”

“I was.”

“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows. “Were you able to make something disappear?”

“Yeah. My will to live.”

“Oh, hush now.” She put her finger on my lips. “None of that kind of talk. How about a cigarette?”

“Sure thing.”

We took our drinks with us and went upstairs to the smoking area and sat down. I opened my pack of Marlboro Reds and extended it to her. She took one and we lit up.

“You’re weird,” she said, letting out a puff of smoke.

“Am I?”

“Yes.” She put her hand on my leg and moved it towards my crotch. “But attractive.”

After we had finished our cigarettes in silence, she asked me whether she could push her tongue down my throat. “All right,” I said and got assaulted with it shortly after. Her mouth tasted like cigarettes and alcohol. But so did mine.

She moved her tongue around in my mouth for a while, as if searching for something—perhaps the meaning of life—and eventually pulled it out.

“Wanna go to my place?” she asked.

“Okay.”

We got up and walked downstairs. Before leaving the bar, she pushed me into a dark corner, shoved her hand down my pants and wrapped it around my cock, which immediately got hard. She played with it for a while as I took out my phone and ordered a taxi.

After the taxi arrived, it took us about ten minutes to arrive at our destination. We entered the building where she lived, took the elevator to the top floor, and walked to her apartment door. She fumbled with the keys for a bit but eventually got the door open.

The apartment was a penthouse suite, not far from the harbor; from the windows, I could see the sea in the distance. “Nice place,” I said.

“It’s not mine. I’m just borrowing it for a while.”

I sat down behind the kitchen table. She brought out a bottle of white wine and poured us both a glass. We sipped on the wine in silence.

“So… are we gonna have sex?” I finally asked.

“What do you think?” she said teasingly.

By the time we had finished with our glasses, she looked as though she was about to pass out at any moment.

“I’m gonna go to the bedroom,” she slurred, getting up from her seat.

I followed her.

She sat down on the bed and sluggishly began taking off her clothes. She removed her shirt but left her bra on. While she was in the process of taking off her jeans and panties, she suddenly passed out. It didn’t seem as though she was going to come to before the morning.

Since I was drunk and tired, I decided to lay down next to her. From my vantage point, I could partly see her shaved pussy. It looked inviting. What a shame, I thought.

I observed her body for a while until I drifted off to sleep.

8

I opened my eyes. The woman next to me was awake. “You look much younger than you did last night,” she said.

In daylight, with her makeup smudged and without the influence of alcohol, I could see that she was visibly older than she had looked like the night before. She must have been at least ten years older than me.

“Did we have sex last night?” she asked coyly.

“I’m afraid not,” I said, trying to conceal my disappointment.

She frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. You fell asleep whilst trying to take off your pants.”

“Ah, so that’s why my ass was bare…”

There was an awkward silence.

“I’m gonna go take a quick shower,” she finally said. “Be right back.” She got up and left the room.

The clock on the wall said it was nine in the morning. I checked my phone. There was a text message from my ex. “Sorry, I was working,” it said. I wasn’t surprised. She was a veterinarian and often worked long hours, including night shifts. The message continued: “We can have steak together. How about one in the afternoon at the steakhouse we were supposed to go to?”

“All right,” I texted back to her. “I’ll meet you there.”

The woman soon came back into the room, wearing only a towel, her big breasts half-showing.

“I guess I should leave, right?” I asked.

“Afraid so. My mother’s coming over soon.”

I started getting up from the bed.

“Wait,” she said. “I can’t let you leave empty-handed.” I began to get excited. I hoped she was referring to a blowjob.

She took something from a shelf nearby. “I’ll give you a tarot reading.”

I felt disappointed. “A tarot reading?”

“Yes. I’ve just bought a new deck and I’ve yet to try it on anybody. You must first charge the deck through a special ritual before using it, you see. Otherwise it might be dangerous. I’ve done the ritual and I wanna see if it worked.”

Although I knew that tarot was bullshit, I saw no harm in humoring her. “I don’t really believe in that kind of stuff but go ahead.”

She shuffled the cards and put the deck on the bed. “I want you to cut it three times.”

I cut the deck three times.

She took the top card and turned it over. “This one’s The Fool. It symbolizes new beginnings. But the card’s reversed, which is not good.”

She took another one. “This one’s The Devil. Although it can be good, yours is upright, signifying downfall.”

She drew a third card. “The Hanged Man. Strange. I’m not sure the ritual worked.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because it’s the third bad card in a row. If it were upright, it would mean improvement. But yours is reversed, indicating bad decisions and being trapped.”

Sounds exactly right, I thought.

She took the fourth card from the deck, looking a little flustered. “I need to redo the ritual. It seems the cards are negatively charged.”

I looked at the card and smiled. It was Death. “Seem to be working just fine to me,” I said, getting up from the bed. “Can I use your bathroom before I leave?”

“Of course.” She put the cards away.

I went to the bathroom. It smelled like someone had taken a hangover shit in there. It was foul. I took a piss, washed my face, put some water in my disheveled hair and brushed it back with a hairbrush I found on the counter.

She was standing by the front door when I came out of the bathroom, still wearing only the towel over her. As I was about to leave, she put her arms around me and kissed me on the lips.

“We’ll fuck some other time,” she whispered into my ear before I left.

I doubted it.

9

The air felt cold when I stepped out of the building. The city was quiet. It was Sunday.

I lit a cigarette. As I had a few hours to kill before meeting Vicky, I decided to go and sit down in a pub. I began walking towards Dublin. I guess I had no imagination.

It took me about fifteen minutes of walking to arrive at the pub. When I got there, I ordered a beer at the counter and sat down in the same spot as the day before. I looked out the window. The yellow leaves were starting to fall.

As I sipped on my beer, I overheard two people nearby talking about Stalin and Russian society. Somehow, their conversation went from that to relationships and cheating. It seemed to me that the girl was flirting with the guy. The guy told her that he still talked to his ex, even though she had cheated on him. The girl said he shouldn’t. The guy eventually invited the girl over to London where he lived. The girl said it was too expensive. An empty pleasantry followed by a lie.

I went to the bathroom.

As I was pissing into the urinal, I saw the word “hubris” written on the wall in front of me. A strange thing to write on a bathroom wall, I thought. But then, wasn’t that the whole problem? The hubris of humanity. Everybody was so sure of what they were and what surrounded them. There was so little doubt in them. Everybody was so self-important. The belief that their lives were meaningful and useful rarely went into question. They thought that they were powerful individuals capable of accomplishing everything they set their minds to. When in truth, they accomplished nothing. They died as stupid as they lived. With nothing to show for it in the end. It was only their overconfidence that made their lives bearable.

For example, consider the average priest. Wasn’t everything he did ultimately absurd? And yet, if you took it all away from him, what did he have left? Nothing. If you took his God away from him, he’d realize he was in hell.

And so it was with most people. What gave meaning to their lives were illusions. Illusions that they not only believed in, but had to believe in, as otherwise their world would fall apart. And so they believed. Regardless of how absurd the illusions were. And this was their hubris. Without it, would there ever have been a society?

As I was washing my hands, I recalled something that Bukowski had once said: “Realize how ridiculous we are with our intestines wound round, shit slowly running through as we look each other in the eyes and say, ‘I love you.’ We’re monstrosities.”

As usual when it came to his observations around humanity, he was spot on. We were monstrosities. And we were full of shit. Both figuratively and literally.

I went back to my table and sat down. I took out Will O’ the Wisp and began reading:

“But you don’t look as much in pain as you were a few days ago. Do you still have any pains?”

“I do not have pains. I am in permanent pain.”

I read a couple of chapters before my mind started drifting. I began thinking about the lady I had left in the apartment. Not that she could have helped me. It seemed all she was looking for was a quick fuck and even that didn’t work out. On the other hand, what I needed was somebody to take care of me. To look after me. For I couldn’t always rely on doing that myself. I was self-destructive and prone to depression. And I needed somebody to balance that out. But the person that was supposed to do that had left me.

Well, that’s not quite right. She wasn’t supposed to do anything. It had just seemed to me at first that she didn’t mind the darkness inside of me. That she could handle it. But in the end, she couldn’t.

Even though I had loved Vicky deeply, she had stopped loving me over time. And I couldn’t really blame her for it. For I wasn’t always easy to live with. My behavior was often unpredictable… especially when drunk. I was negative to the extreme. Extremely critical. And constantly depressed.

And now that she was no longer there, the darkness inside of me was kept at bay by no one.

I felt that it was going to consume me.

10

It was almost time to meet Vicky. I left the pub, bought some cigarettes from a nearby kiosk, and walked the streets of Old Town towards the steakhouse where we were supposed to meet.

We had planned to go there previously but then we broke up and never did. It was strange how people did so many things together and then from a certain point onwards they didn’t anymore. It all seemed rehearsed and fake somehow. Perhaps it was because we had invented relationships. We had made them up. They weren’t real things like the sun and moon were real. They were ideas with fictional rules. And that’s why they didn’t work. The real world always got in the way.

When I arrived at the steakhouse, I leaned against the terrace, lit a cigarette, and waited. The name of the steakhouse was M&W. In my mind, it stood for misery and worry.

It was chilly outside, but I liked it. I had always liked autumn. Standing there, smoking my cigarette and observing the people walking by, I suddenly recalled an idea I’d once had for a novel which was to take place during autumn. It was about a suicidal young painter and her attempts to find a reason to survive in a world that didn’t give a shit.

To be sure, it was a rather lousy idea. Just like most of the ideas I’d ever had for novels, none of which ever materialized. I never did much with this one either except for writing a few bad chapters and deciding that the main character’s name should be Lola, a decision which took me hours to arrive at. However, I still liked the title I had come up for it. It was going to be called The Occluded Front, which was a meteorological term for saying, “When a cold front overtakes a warm front.” Incidentally, that was precisely how I felt about my current mental state.

Eventually Vicky showed up, fifteen minutes late. I noticed that she had dyed her hair blonde.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello.”

“Sorry for being late.”

“That’s all right.” It was strange for me to see her. I wondered whether it was also strange for her to see me. “Shall we go inside?” I asked.

She nodded.

We sat near a window. I felt that the place had a rather gaudy atmosphere with its faux fireplace, faux marble, and red carpets.

A waitress came over. We ordered some beer and New York strip steaks. She shortly came back with the beers.

“So… how’s it going?” Vicky asked me. I sensed as though she thought she had to and didn’t really care.

“Not so good,” I said with an anguished smile. “Not so good at all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What about you?”

“I’m actually doing great.” She gave a wry smile. “Sorry, I know that’s not what you wanted to hear.”

“Nah, that’s good.” Good for her. Not so good for me.

We sat in silence for a while until the waitress brought our steaks.

“How’s it going with your job?” I asked, chewing on a piece of meat.

“It’s going good. How’s yours?”

“It sucks, as usual. You were lucky to be able to find a job that interests you. Not an easy thing to do in this world.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Anything else interesting happen in your life lately?”

“Actually, yeah. I just got back from Spain a few days ago.”

I feigned interest. “How was it?”

“It was really nice. We stayed at this small town in the mountains and went hiking every day.”

“Sounds nice. Who did you go with?”

“A colleague from work. How about you? Anything interesting happen in your life?”

I thought for a moment. “Well… one night I got really drunk whilst playing five finger fillet and I managed to stab one of my fingers with the knife. Of course, this wasn’t the first time that has happened. However, on this particular occasion I must have hit a vein as blood came pouring out heavily and every time I bent my finger blood squirted out of it. Which was kinda hilarious if you think about it.”

She didn’t say anything after that, but her expression said it all. You need help, it said. Serious help. Alas, I didn’t believe in psychiatry. In fact, we’d had numerous arguments in the past due to my lack of belief in it.

I was about halfway done with the steak before I could stand it no longer. “This steak has way too much fat,” I said. “In fact, nearly half of it is fucking fat. What the fuck? What am I paying thirty euros for? Why is everything in this world only half of what it’s advertised? Or less.”

“Yeah, it’s not the best I’ve had either,” she said nonchalantly.

I ate what I could and left the fat on the plate. Meeting her had been a mistake. I felt even more depressed than before. Story of my life.

“Well, this steak was as fucked as was meeting you,” I said after we were finished. I dug some cash out of my wallet, smacked it on the table, and got up. “I’m leaving. Goodbye.”

Outside, I lit a cigarette and walked away. Unsurprisingly, she did not follow me. Perhaps I had been rude, but I simply couldn’t talk to her. I got choked up. It was largely due to her that I was in such a mess after all. I just couldn’t get over how at first it had seemed as though she truly liked me for who I was, that I didn’t need to pretend around her. And yet, the charm had worn off. She had hung on to the relationship for a while for lack of anything better to do. But then she had found a job as a veterinarian. And suddenly she didn’t need me anymore. She had found something else to fill the emptiness in her heart. Something better. And I became redundant.

Alone and with a big fucking hole in my heart, I walked onwards to the next bar, deciding to get as drunk as humanly possible. Because when you were drunk, you tended to forget the pain you felt about the world.

Although you might get nauseous, it was better than being conscious.

11

I was on my way towards a bar on the outskirts of Old Town called Scarlet Emperor when suddenly I stopped.

On the pavement before me stood a raven on top of a bloodied pigeon, pecking at its lifeless carcass. The pigeon’s feathers were ruffled, its heart and other organs were missing, and bits of bone were sticking out. Only the head and wings still remained.

The raven continued pecking as I walked on.

12

Despite its name, Scarlet Emperor was a rather shitty-looking place, resembling more of a skatepark than an actual bar. And yet it had a certain rugged charm to it. It was unpretentious.

Besides, I had been there plenty of times before and had met some interesting people. As the bar was next to a hostel where lots of backpackers and travelers stopped by, it often had many foreigners as its patrons and I usually preferred to converse with them more than with my fellow countrymen.

A few people who frequented the place even knew me there. One Turkish guy used to call me “professor”, probably because of my tendency to descend into long monologues about various things that I found interesting or idiotic, mostly the latter.

However, when I entered the bar this time around, I didn’t see anybody I recognized. I bought a beer from the goth bartender with cheek piercings and went into the smoking room, which was empty.

I lit a cigarette. For nothing better to do, I started examining the graffiti on the walls: CAPITALISM = SHIT. Okay, I thought, but what do you replace it with? FUCK THE SYSTEM. Sure, but then what? LOVE IS AN ILLUSION. Yeah, a neurochemical one, just like happiness. GO CRAZY AAH. Already on my way there, buddy. IF ONLY I’D GET FUCKED AS MUCH AS I GET BEATEN UP. Well, I don’t know about you, but life already fucks me plenty. THE FIRST STEP TO ETERNAL LIFE IS THAT YOU HAVE TO DIE. Only if you become famous after death, which isn’t very useful. STOP DRINKING ALCOHOL OR YOU WILL DIE. But what if I want to?

A few people walked into the room as I was examining the graffiti. Two of them started talking with each other, but a young woman with a tomboy haircut came to stand by the window, smoking a cigarette alone. I stepped up to her and placed my beer onto the windowsill. “Have you ever been depressed?” I asked her.

“What?” She looked at me, apparently caught off guard. “Why would you ask me something like that?”

“Well, why not?”

“Because it’s personal.”

I took a sip of beer. “Is it? But then half the world is depressed.”

“Yes, but they don’t talk about it.”

“Maybe that’s the problem.”

She finished her cigarette and lit another one. I hoped this meant that she was interested in continuing the conversation with me and not that she was a chain-smoker, not that I would have minded if she were.

“So you just walk up to random women and talk about depression with them?”

“Not usually, no.”

“Then what’s different today?”

“What’s different today is that I don’t give a fuck.”

“Hmm. Sounds like you’re depressed,” she said, seemingly amazed at her wit. “Maybe you should seek help.”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head,” I said, taking a big puff from my cigarette. “However, I don’t think that depression is a mental illness. In fact, I don’t think there are any mental illnesses.”

“What on earth do you mean by that?”

“I mean that there are no diseases in the brain that cause mental illness, and neither is there any ‘chemical imbalance’. Mental illnesses are merely reactions to our environment that are based upon life experience and knowledge. So when a person gets depressed it is his life experience and knowledge telling him that things are not as good as he has been led to believe. And indeed, when examined in depth, most things in this world are shit. Hence the depression.”

“Oh yeah?” she said combatively. “Then what about people who get depressed without any reason?”

I let out a puff of smoke. “What, you mean happy people that get depressed?”

“Yes.”

“There are no such people.”

“Bullshit.”

“Oh, I’m sure you think they’re happy. Perhaps they also think they’re happy. However, most of the brain works unconsciously. So even if they’ve lied enough to that small part of themselves that is conscious to believe that everything is fine and everything is good all the time, it is in fact the unconscious part of the brain telling itself that it is not actually fine and their depression is a sign of that.”

“That doesn’t sound very plausible.”

“Okay. Then how about this. Depression is simply an evolutionary mishap because humans evolved in a world where they were too busy trying to survive rather than to learn about the world. And now, since we’re not busy surviving anymore and we have so much more knowledge than our bodies were designed for, we are slowly beginning to realize that everything is ultimately empty and meaningless and there is no real point to any of this ‘surviving’. And that’s where depression comes from. From this realization and not some ‘chemical imbalance’.”

There was silence. I lit up another cigarette. “Want one?” I asked her.

“No thanks,” she said. “I’m done with you.”

She left the room.

Oh well. It wasn’t as though I wasn’t used to this reaction. I’d been telling people the same thing for at least ten years and their reaction had almost always been the same—anger and dismissal over everything I had to say. As Thomas Ligotti said, there are more cannibals than pessimists at any given time in the world. And (un)fortunately I had almost nothing optimistic to say. About anything.

I often felt that my views had made me into a pariah. An outcast from human society. And although I had been looking for similar outcasts to hang out with or to be my lovers, I had yet to find any. I knew that they existed… but they were spread too damn thin.

A few new people entered the smoking room, but they didn’t seem interested in me. After I had finished the cigarette and beer, I exited the room and went back to the bar counter. I sat down on a bar stool and ordered another beer and a shot of whiskey. Fuck it, I thought. It’s time to get really drunk. I downed the whiskey and started drinking the beer.

Not far from me sat a bearded guy and a girl who I assumed was his girlfriend. I asked them whether they minded my company. They said they didn’t. So I tried to chit-chat with them a bit, holding back the things that I really wanted to talk about, such as the futility of all human life for instance.

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.

“Oh, we’re just visiting some of our favorite bars in Tallinn,” the guy said. “We’re from Tartu.”

“Ah, Tartu,” I said as though with fondness, trying to recall something about the town from when I still used to go there on account of an ex-girlfriend. “You ever been to a rock bar there called Subterranean?”

“Sure. Nice place. Great selection of music.”

“Yeah, and those one-liter beers, man. I used to visit it every time I went to Tartu back in the day.”

“So why’d you stop?”

“Due to an ex-girlfriend.”

“Ah. That reminds me, actually we were planning on going to that rock bar in Tatari street after this place.” He looked towards the girl he was with. She was young and attractive.

“Rock… something,” she said.

“Rockstar?” I offered.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he said. I’d been to the bar plenty of times. It was an all right place. Unpretentious. As rock bars tended to be.

“In that case, do you mind if I tag along?” I asked.

“Not at all. The more the merrier.”

I couldn’t tell whether he was just being polite or if he indeed didn’t mind. But I was desperate for some company. Any kind of company.

After we finished our drinks, we left the bar. It was dark and cold outside and slightly rainy. I lit a cigarette and followed the couple.

The city was empty: As it tended to be on Sunday evenings. For some reason, society had deemed it acceptable to get shit-faced on Fridays and Saturdays, but not on other days. I guess it was to keep us in line.

We soon reached Tatari street. Aside from the rock bar, the street held an all-night pizza joint, a hookah bar, a sex shop-cum-adult theater, a gay dance club, and a sex club. I had visited four out of the five.

When we entered the bar, Black Sabbath’s “Killing Yourself to Live” was playing in the background. The bar had a red and black décor and the lights that hung overhead were made from real drums. On the walls were written the names of various Estonian rock bands along with the years when they were formed. I didn’t recognize most of them. No one did.

We ordered some beers from the bar and sat down at a booth with red vinyl seats. My companions were talking about something, but I wasn’t really listening. Soon, a friend of theirs joined. She looked like she was barely twenty. The three of them started talking with each other and I was beginning to feel left out. I always did. For some reason people rarely seemed to show any interest in me. It was usually me that had to intrude upon them.

A guy who’d been drinking alone in the bar came to our table and asked if he could join us. “The more the merrier,” the bearded guy said again.

“Who wants to go for a cigarette?” the new girl asked.

“I wouldn’t mind one,” I replied.

We went outside.

“So what brings you out?” she asked as we lit our cigarettes near the doorway of the bar.

“An impending sense of doom.”

“Aww,” she said. “Are you feeling depressed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want a hug?”

“Sure.”

She hugged me for five seconds.

“Thanks,” I said after her body separated from mine.

Ultimately, however, it seemed to be an empty gesture. For when we went back to our table she stopped paying attention to me and I sipped on my beer alone. Depressed, negative, and pessimistic people were often treated like lepers in this world. It was as though people feared catching what they had. Perhaps because what they were saying made sense? Hell, if everybody would see the world as it truly was, we’d all be depressed. But if that were the case, there wouldn’t even be any people. For nobody would want to bring a child into this fucked up world if they truly understood the sorry state of things. The fact that we kept on breeding showed that delusion was necessary for the continuation of the species.

It began harder and harder for me to listen to this makeshift group’s inane chatter about nothing and I soon could hold back no longer. Fuck it, I thought; it was time to ruin someone’s evening.

I started telling the guy sitting next to me how things weren’t nearly as good as we had been led to believe. The truth was that most of us would never become successful or find soulmates or even be happy for any meaningful length of time because such ideas came from fiction, from Hollywood movies with happy endings. The real world didn’t work that way. In the real world, most people worked their fingers to the bone and had nothing to show for it in the end. They had a string of miserable relationships with people they had nothing in common with, which ended in heartache and despair. And they never achieved the happiness they so desperately sought because happiness was like a mirage in the desert—it evaporated before you could ever reach it.

“In conclusion,” I said, “pretty much everything we do is ultimately futile and based on delusional thinking.”

“Hmm…” the guy next to me said and finished his beer in one big gulp. “I applaud your courage to say something like that, but it all sounds a bit too grim to me.”

After that, he turned his attention towards one of the young girls, clearly not interested in hearing me bitch any more about the shortcomings of reality. Because hey, who needs pessimism when you’ve got pussy.

Alone and ignored again, I observed what the other people were doing. The bearded guy seemed particularly happy for some reason since he soon ordered champagne for everybody. It appeared as though he was celebrating simply being alive, which was something I tended to mourn. Hell, that was the reason why I drank so much. It seemed we both drank for the same thing but for opposite reasons.

When the bartender came to our table with the glasses of champagne, everybody took one but me.

The bearded guy stood up, lifted his glass into the air and said, “To good drink and good company!”

I wondered whether his toast included me.

The rest of the table then got up and raised their glasses. But when they brought the glasses together, they did it with such drunken vigor that all the glasses shattered on impact and champagne and shards of glass came raining down all over the table.

It was like a drunken Last Supper, I thought, observing the chaos before me.

And I felt like Judas.

13

It was around three in the morning. I was on my way home in a taxi. I had ordered it right after the champagne fiasco. Nobody had even noticed me leave.

The driver asked me whether I liked heavy metal.

“That’s the only kind I like,” I said.

He then put on some heavy metal music and told me he used to be the drummer in a black metal band called Delusion. Seeing as he was working as a taxi driver, I asked him whether the band’s name signified the likelihood of making it as a black metal band in today’s world. He didn’t say anything in reply.

After the taxi dropped me off at home, I checked the mail—there was none—and dragged myself up the stairs. I didn’t like living in this place anymore. Not since she’d left. But finding a new apartment and moving was an ordeal I had neither the interest nor energy for. Besides, it hardly mattered where I rotted away. All homes were ultimately graves.

Inside, I sat on the couch in my living room. I was done with people for the day. If anything, they made me feel even worse. However, I wasn’t nearly done with drinking yet. Alcohol was my oldest friend after all. And even though it was the kind of friend that was a bad influence, that never made you improve yourself, it was still better than most of the smug and self-important people I had ever met in my life.

I put on some music. The song that began playing was “I Still Drink Alone” by an obscure Norwegian rock band called The Cumshots. It was one of my all-time favorite songs.

I located a small bottle of Jim Beam that I had stashed away on my bookshelf. It was an old trick of alcoholics to hide bottles of booze around their house so that they could always find one in case they ran out at the wrong time.

Fittingly, the bottle stood next to my collection of Dan Fante books. Like most good authors, Dan had been an alcoholic and the books he wrote were based on his own fucked up life. Eventually, however, he had found God… Whereas I found that if some deity had to be assigned as the creator of this world then it could have been none other than the devil—a casual glance through human history showed this in abundance.

There had even been a religious sect in the middle ages called the Cathars who actually believed that the physical world was created by the devil, for no merciful God could have created something so sick and evil. The proponents of Catharism were usually burned at the stake by the Inquisition. Which, ironically, proved their point.

I took the bottle of whiskey to the couch. I didn’t bother with a glass. I uncorked it and took a hit. It felt good. It was the only thing that did.

Sitting there alone, drinking whiskey, my eyes came to a stop upon an empty spot in the apartment where Vicky’s cat tree had stood. Although I hadn’t liked her cat, Vicky had been the only person I was able to relate to. At least at the beginning. For she had changed over time. Although she had started out as fucked up as me, she eventually grew out of it. She wanted to live a normal life. Whereas I never did. My negativity, bitterness, and self-destructiveness eventually became too much for her. And after she left, I did what I always did in such cases. I became even more negative and bitter and self-destructive. Like a cliché, I began drinking constantly.

One night, whilst out drinking, I had even found a drinking buddy. His name was Joe. We were similar in a sense. He had recently been dumped. I had recently been dumped. He was an alcoholic. I was on my way to becoming one. He was somewhat of a nihilist. I felt that I was the definition of one. And we did indeed have some good times together, I’ll give him that. But as was so often the case, I soon got tired of him.

I took a long hit of whiskey.

Joe was a broken record and full of himself. Also, he always made me buy all the drinks. Because of this, I eventually stopped seeing him, preferring instead to drink alone. I guess a misanthrope like me just wasn’t meant to have friends. And so, I found myself alone again. Well, almost alone. For I still had my bottle.

I gulped down half of the whiskey in the bottle.

But the bottle wasn’t enough, you see. In fact, it often exasperated the fury I felt against the world. Against existence. Against my lot in life. Besides, drinking yourself to death was a sad thing. I hadn’t even been doing it for very long, but I was already beginning to get tired of it. Perhaps it would be better to just end it in one fell swoop instead of drawing it out. It would only hurt for a moment and then all of my problems would disappear. With alcohol, it would still hurt constantly. Although it dulled my capacity to feel suffering, it didn’t do so for long and it didn’t actually fix any of my problems. It was just postponing the inevitable.

All alcoholics must thus have been suicidal. They merely lacked the courage to go through with it. They hoped that the alcohol would do it for them. But the alcohol often took a really long fucking time to kill you. And so you slowly withered away until you were but a husk of your former self.

I gulped down the last of the whiskey, feeling extremely drunk and just about ready to pass out.

But before I did, I threw the empty whiskey bottle into pieces against the wall where the cat tree had stood.

14

I opened my eyes. Someone was aggressively pounding his fist on my front door. I waited for a while. It didn’t stop.

I wiped the dried drool from the corner of my mouth and got up from the couch. My head was pounding like a jackhammer from the hangover. Avoiding the glass shards from the whiskey bottle I had destroyed, I maneuvered myself towards the front door.

“WHAT?!” I said. The reply came back in Russian. I didn’t speak any Russian. “In Estonian or English, please.” I then got a reply in broken Estonian. The guy told me that they’d heard a noise at night coming from my apartment. As though somebody had broken something.

“I had an accident,” I said. “What, you never have accidents yourself?”

He didn’t seem to believe me, and I didn’t blame him. Actually, I did blame him for waking me up over such a petty little thing. As though I hadn’t heard plenty of noise myself coming from their apartments. Drunken parties. Husbands and wives fighting. Drug addicts screaming. It was a shit neighborhood. Yet he made it out to seem as though all the noise was coming from my apartment alone.

The guy then mentioned the music. “Yeah, yeah, I won’t listen to it so loudly in the future,” I lied. “Now leave me alone.”

I turned away from the door and went into the bathroom to take a piss. I looked in the mirror. I didn’t like the person staring back.

Then the phone started ringing. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I muttered. “Let me guess. It’s another telemarketer.” Those were the only people who called me anymore.

I went to pick up the phone. “Hi!” a shrill female voice said. “I’m calling you from the coin club—” As soon as I heard that I threw the phone against the wall as hard as I could. It went silent.

“Fuck this world!” I said, feeling exasperated. Why was everybody always trying to sell you something? If it wasn’t things, it was their ideals, their religions, their hobbies, their lifestyles. Or they were trying to sell you on themselves, on how good and able they were and how well they were doing. When in truth, everything and everyone was FUCKED.

I was pissed off. I really needed a beer right about now, but when I went to the fridge, I discovered it was empty. Also, it was Monday and I was supposed to be at work. But I was already late and the idea of going to the office filled me with absolute horror. So fuck work, I thought. I’ll to go to a bar instead.

I ate a couple of painkillers for breakfast, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and got dressed.

Finally, before heading out, I picked up my phone from the ground. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” I said. The phone worked, but the screen was cracked.

Outside, the sky was overcast. Decaying leaves marked my path as I walked to the bus stop.

15

After I stepped off the bus in the city center, I bought a hot dog and some cigarettes from a nearby kiosk. I still felt hungover from last night, although it hardly bothered me at this point because I was so used to feeling like shit all the time.

As I was walking towards Old Town and eating the hot dog, I considered the question: what kind of a bar does one go to on a Monday afternoon? I wanted a place with as few humans as humanly possible. Something cozy and small. Somewhere where they didn’t judge you. And there was indeed a place like that in Old Town. Since the bar had no name, people took to calling it “the place”. It had been my favorite bar once. Although recently it tended to be a little crowded, as it had gotten a bit too well-known. Not on a Monday however.

I finished my hot dog and lit a cigarette. The Gothic spires and towers of Old Town came into view in the distance. I had always liked Old Town for its winding cobblestone streets, ancient passageways, narrow little side streets, and extravagant medieval architecture. What I didn’t like about it were the endless overpriced restaurants on every corner and the thousand-and-one pointless little souvenir shops nestled in between. The place had become a tourist trap and would often get quite crowded. But thankfully on a Monday there were very few people around.

I soon arrived at the place. It was hidden inside an archway. I stepped inside. The ceiling of the bar was arched like a vault and the furniture all looked like it was from the 19th century.

To my surprise, there was somebody already there, drinking a beer by the fireplace. It was a gray-haired old man reading a newspaper. He also had two little dogs with him who were walking around the place. I crouched down to pet one of the dogs. I didn’t care for humans much, but dogs I liked.

I then walked to the counter and sat down on a barstool. “Good day,” I told the bartender. She was an older woman.

“Good day!” she said cheerfully. “What can I get you?”

“A good strong beer wouldn’t hurt.”

“A good strong beer, huh?” She thought for a moment. “How about that one?” She pointed towards a picture on the wall. It was a beer with an alcohol content of 8.6 percent.

“That’ll do.”

She took a beer from the fridge and began pouring it. Near the bar counter was a small aquarium. Unlike the last time that I had visited the place, I noticed that there was no fish inside it.

“What happened to the fish?” I asked.

“Oh, the fish? It died.” She handed me my beer.

“A shame.” I handed her a banknote.

“Yes, well, everything dies eventually,” she said matter-of-factly. Including hopes and dreams.

Our transaction complete, the bartender went to the fireplace near the old man and began building a fire. The fireplace had large carved columns on either side that looked like lion’s feet.

I sipped on my beer and looked around. One of the ceiling arches near me was covered with banknotes from various faraway countries—a common practice in bars which showed that the only true citizen of the world was a drunkard.

I recognized the figures on some of the bills. Mass-murdering Mao. Queen Elizabeth, the parasite. Lincoln, the melancholic. Washington, the slave-owner. Khomeini, the inventor of suicide bombing. Churchill, the bastard. Tesla, who died broke and alone. Ghandi, the enema aficionado. As well as the severely overrated Nelson Mandela.

Despite what we were told in school, there never were any “great men” in history. Their achievements were ultimately embellished, they had a dark side which was rarely mentioned, and some of them were even monsters. Even Mother Teresa, who had over time become synonymous with the word saint, was in truth a fucking fraud. Out of the crooked timber of humanity, as Kant said, no straight thing was ever made.

The wood was now crackling in the fireplace and it was getting warm. I took off my jacket and pulled out my copy of Will O’ the Wisp. I ordered another beer and began reading:

“How is it going?”

“Terrible.”

“Will you stick it out?”

“What for? What the hell’s to be done with life?”

I read for a while until my mind started wandering off again and I put the book away. Having read it before, I already knew that it didn’t have a happy ending. That was one of my favorite things about it. The main character didn’t magically overcome his difficulties like in some sappy Hollywood movie. The world didn’t work that way. People didn’t always overcome their difficulties. Often, they succumbed to them. Or they lost their minds and turned towards something illusory, like God. Or they turned towards drugs. But few made movies like that because these themes didn’t appeal to most people. Most people wanted to be lied to. Everything will be all right in the end, they wanted to be told, regardless of how bad things may currently seem. Yet it rarely turned out that way.

Another book that didn’t lie about these things was Leaving Las Vegas, which was another favorite of mine. Like Will O’ the Wisp, it had a doomed protagonist who was inspired by real life and there was no happy ending to his story. I learned that its author John O’Brien had been an alcoholic since his early twenties. And they said that the reason he ended up blowing his brains out was because of his alcoholism. But what was the reason for his alcoholism?

Most people thought alcoholics were alcoholics because it was an addiction and that’s it. But they were wrong. Addictions sprang from trying to fill a hole in your heart. Until you realized that you had to fill it constantly. And it worked less and less over time. That’s where an addiction came from. It had nothing to do with chemicals. Nobody who lived a happy life decided to suddenly become an alcoholic or a heroin addict. Nobody. It was always broken people. People who had been fucked over by life.

John O’Brien must have thus been suicidal from an early age. But he just couldn’t go through with it right away. Either he was scared, or he still had some hope left. And his novel reflected his inner torment. In the novel, the main character went to Vegas to drink himself to death. And he succeeded. There was no happy ending. No overcoming. Nothing. Just the blissful peace of death, wherein all of life’s problems were finally solved. Which was what the author wanted and got in the end. Even though his last shot came not from a shot glass but from a gun.

But I didn’t have a gun. And I doubted that I could ever drink myself to death like the protagonist in his novel did. Or could I? I had started drinking alcohol at the age of fourteen. Of course, I wasn’t a heavy drinker at first. But eventually the disappointments of life got the better of me and I often found alcohol my only companion.

When my first girlfriend—with whom I had been together for four years—broke up with me, I drank wine every day for half a year straight. I was only eighteen at the time. The amounts weren’t nearly as big as I was capable of now, but it was drinking with a fixed purpose—to numb the pain. And believe it or not, it worked. Alcohol worked. But only as an alleviative, never as a solution. It was like a painkiller that took the pain away, but only for a while. That’s why you had to keep on taking it. That is, unless you fixed that which caused you pain. But what if it couldn’t be fixed? What if it was always there? How did you escape from that which never went away? Temporarily, by drugs. Permanently, by death.

Of course, alcohol had its downsides. As I grew older, my alcohol consumption grew. As did my reckless behavior. One time, quite long ago, when I’d had way too much to drink, I ended up crawling in a public park, screaming, “I want to die!” at random passersby. I guess my disposition hadn’t changed much over time.

Sometimes I also became aggressive while under the influence of alcohol. But although it took alcohol to turn me into Mr. Hyde, that didn’t mean that Hyde wasn’t there all along. He only needed a small push, in my case in the form of alcohol, to come out.

Despite all this, I continued to drink and to drink constantly. Was I addicted to the chemicals in the alcohol? No. Was I trying to fill a hole in my heart, which over time had become bigger and bigger as life kept chipping more and more pieces off it? Perhaps. Did it help? Sometimes. But was there any drug that healed a disease with a hundred percent efficiency? I could think of only one. And it was reserved for people on death row.

So what else could I do but drink? Normal people drank in order to celebrate. But what the fuck was there to celebrate? Being alive? Hell, that was why I drank in the first place. I wasn’t man enough for this world, you see. And I wasn’t going to fake it. The writer of Leaving Las Vegas was also not man enough for this world. And he didn’t fake it either. Instead, he shot himself in the head. Yet he somehow managed to write a few books before doing so. He was a hopeless alcoholic, yes. But he was also a writer.

Although I had always wanted to be a writer, I wasn’t very good at it. And I wasn’t very good at being an alcoholic either. So what was I good at? At being against things. Including existence itself. But there wasn’t much of a career in that. In fact, it didn’t even work as a hobby.

Drinking my third beer, I recalled another writer that had committed suicide. Ryunosuke Akutagawa. I considered him the best short story writer I knew of next to Bukowski. Akutagawa committed suicide when he was thirty-five, shortly after finishing a brilliant mini biography of sorts titled The Life of a Stupid Man. Another Japanese writer, Osamu Dazai, who wrote the semi-autobiographical novel No Longer Human—which I adored—also committed suicide in his thirties. He did it by jumping into a river with his lover.

One alcoholic writer who didn’t commit suicide, however, was Bukowski. I didn’t know how he had managed. He sure talked about it in his stories. He even attempted it a few times. But he managed. Alcohol helped him in that, I’m sure. Also, he was a tough guy. From a different era. When life kicked him, he kicked back. It was his toughened hide that had helped him in not giving up. Alas, I had almost none in comparison.

The writer of The Lost Weekend, which was yet another favorite of mine, was an alcoholic whom the publication of his book had possibly saved. At least for a while. For quite a long while actually. Close to ten years. Yet he still ultimately ended his life with a barbiturate overdose.

So what was so different about me and all these writers? They must have been at least as depressed as I was, yet they had still managed to create beautiful works of art. Perhaps I just didn’t have the willpower that they did. I expected so little of the world at this point that I scarcely had any effort left in me to try. Even though deep inside I wish I did.

But the well inside my soul felt dry. If indeed it had ever been full.

16

I was still sitting in the bar when I suddenly had an idea. What if I paid a spontaneous visit to my father? He lived in Helsinki and, if nothing else, the ferry ride there would be a change of pace from the monotony of bars. And of course… ferries also had bars.

My father had always said that I could drop by anytime I wanted to, which I rarely did. Once there, I could tell him how miserable I had become. Not that he’d be able to fix it of course. He’d never been able to fix a single thing in my life. Next to my mother, he was in large part responsible for me being the way I was. He had left when I was very young and I had lived with my mother who had likewise neglected me throughout most of my life. Deciding between which of them was more responsible for my misery was like deciding between whether Fred or Rosemary West was more responsible for the nine people they murdered.

Of course, no one was ultimately responsible. For anything. Free will was only an illusion and we were just puppets that couldn’t see our strings. We thought ourselves free only because evolution had built this illusion into us. In the end, both parents and serial killers had about as much freedom in their choices as a bullet exiting the barrel of a gun. And yet, I still blamed my parents. I had no choice not to.

Anyway, if not my father, then perhaps I’d at least find somebody interesting to talk to on my little trip. Preferably someone with lines of worry in their face, for I was about as tired of happy people as I was tired of breathing. And if not, then maybe at the very least I’d get to fuck some Finnish woman. Merely wishful thinking that, but I decided to buy the ticket anyway.

I left the bar and walked out of Old Town to a ticket office. There was a ship for Helsinki leaving in one and a half hours. I didn’t even bother calling my father before I bought the ticket. Somehow, I knew he would be home.

I then walked to the harbor. The weather had turned dark and windy. The ferry that I had gotten the ticket for was a small catamaran and there would probably be plenty of waves in the sea. But I didn’t mind. Although I constantly got sick of things, I never got seasick.

At the harbor I lit a Marlboro Red and called my father to announce that I was coming over for a visit. The call started with the usual empty pleasantries:

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello, how are you?”

“I’m fine, and you?”

“I’m fine too.”

I then asked him whether I could come and visit him in the evening. He said sure, adding that he was working right now but would be home in a few hours. When he asked me about the suddenness of the visit, I told him that I was just going to be in the neighborhood. I didn’t like to lie but I couldn’t tell him it was actually because I was depressed and needed a change of scenery. Like a million other fathers, he wasn’t the kind of person you could talk to about your feelings.

The ferry pulled up to the pier. The engines turned off and they started lowering the gangway. There weren’t many passengers, but the few that there were rushed towards it, as though they might get left behind. I waited until they got on.

Once onboard, I headed straight for the bar. I bought a beer and sat down by a window.

After the ferry started moving, I looked out across the dark choppy waves outside until the city lights faded into the distance. I then took out my copy of Will O’ the Wisp and began reading:

Alain wanted to cry, waved goodnight, turned on his heel and ran down the stairs four at a time.

I was about halfway through the book when I saw the lights of Helsinki come into view from the ferry’s window. I got up from my seat and walked outside to the deck on the back of the boat.

I lit a cigarette and looked around. The water surrounding me was black as ink. It looked as though the ferry was suspended in darkness.

But then, wasn’t the entire planet?

17

When I stepped off the ship, it was drizzling rain. My father lived on the outskirts of Helsinki and the only way there that I knew of was by train.

I walked along the promenade, then through a park, and finally through downtown, about fifteen minutes in total, before reaching the Art Deco train station.

The station was as busy as always. I bought a ticket from a nearby machine, waited for the right train to arrive, and stepped on.

Looking out the window as the train started moving, I began thinking about my relationship with my father. Or lack thereof. My father had a constant habit of letting me down, you see, of never doing what he said he would. For instance, he had once bought a life insurance package for me, which he then quickly cancelled. He had told me he would give me a bunch of cash when I became an adult, but he never did. He had told me he would give me his old car, a stylish black Chrysler, when he bought a new one; he didn’t do that either.

The last time that he had let me down was not so long ago. We were supposed to go to a rock concert together in Helsinki. It was one of my favorite bands. As was usual for him, he said sure, no problem. But when the time for the concert came and I asked him about it, he said he wouldn’t be able to make it. This was a constant theme with him. Not to mention the biggest letdown of them all—that he had disappeared for most of my fucking life.

He was also extremely dismissive of my dreams. When I had told him once that I wanted to be a writer, he laughed in my face and told me that I would never write anything. He was as unmotivating as fathers got. Perhaps because he was just another cog in the wheel of life. A cog that never examined the mechanisms surrounding him. Never questioned them. How I was begot from such seed, I had no idea. But it seemed to confirm that nurture reigned supreme over nature.

Since I was deep in thought and it was dark outside, I missed my stop. I exited at the next station and went through a graffiti-covered tunnel to the other side of the train tracks. It was quiet. There was no one else there. I lit a Marlboro Red and began waiting for the train back.

A large group of Finnish teenagers soon walked onto the platform. They were loud and aggressive and drunk, passing a bottle of peppermint liqueur between them. I had the feeling they might try and harass me, but thankfully they left me alone and soon the train arrived.

When I got off the train, I walked to a shop near my father’s apartment. I bought a six-pack of beer and a small bottle of Jim Beam. The prices were twice as high as in Estonia. The whiskey was just in case I needed some help with falling asleep, for I often had trouble sleeping if I wasn’t in my own bed.

My father lived in a rather typical gray Finnish suburb with a bunch of identical apartment blocks.

I rang the doorbell. He opened the door. “Well look who it is!” he said in a gentle voice. It did seem as though he was genuinely happy to see me. Maybe surprised as well, considering how rarely I visited him.

I stepped inside. “Bought some beer,” I said.

“Oh, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to drink that all by yourself,” he said. “I’ve got work early tomorrow.”

I placed the beer down. “How early?”

“At six.”

“Ah… well, not a problem.” I took off my jacket and stepped out of my cowboy boots. “It’s not like I’m not used to drinking alone.” I wasn’t sure whether he had heard that last sentence. “By the way, if you’re leaving so early, could you perhaps drop me off at the harbor in the morning?”

“Sure, not a problem.”

We walked to the living room, which, as usual, was in a rather messy state. The TV was playing. As it had on every other occasion I had visited him. Good old television. The glue that held many a miserable life together. A TV and a job. You work, you go home, you watch TV, you go to sleep. Rinse and repeat. The life of the average Joe. Yet somehow they didn’t seem to mind.

“You hungry?” my father asked.

“Considering that I last ate in the morning, I am indeed.”

“Well, help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. There’s some eggs, bacon, potatoes, and bread in there.”

“Thanks. Do you want any?”

“Nah, I’ve already eaten.” He sat down and continued watching TV.

I went to the kitchen, took one beer, opened it, put the others in the fridge, and began making myself some food whilst drinking the beer. So far so good.

After I had finished cooking, I walked to the living room with my plate and a new beer and sat down in a chair.

“So tell me,” he said. “How’s it going?”

I wanted to be honest for a change. “Not so good actually,” I said, taking a bite of the food.

“Oh? Why not?” he asked with seeming concern. Although the concern might have been solely due to hearing an answer he did not expect.

“Well, I hate my job. I don’t have any friends. And to top it all off, my girlfriend of three years just left me. Life just hasn’t turned out the way I expected it to.” I took a sip of beer. “None of my dreams have come true. In fact, it seems I don’t even have any dreams anymore. And life overall is just constant monotony. It feels as though I’m doing the same thing over and over again with no end goal in sight.”

He turned the volume down on the TV a bit. “Well, get a goal then! Have some children.”

I chuckled. Ah yes, children. The perfect antidote for my misery. How little the bastard knew me. I wouldn’t want to have children if I was the last man on earth. “There are just a few problems with that idea,” I said. “First, I don’t like children. They’re annoying, loud, and they have nothing interesting to say. Secondly, the world is already severely overpopulated. There’s no need to bring any more people here. And finally, I can barely take care of myself, not to mention that I don’t even like living in this world very much, so why on earth would I bring a child into it?”

“Yeah, we’ve all thought that once,” he said, a sage as always. “But when you have a child, you’ll change your mind.”

“Dad, I can tell you with a hundred percent certainty that I will never, ever bring a child into this horrible fucked up world. No matter what. It’s one of the few things I’m absolutely certain of. In fact, I’d rather kill myself than have a child.”

“Oh boy,” he said, giving a long sigh. “With that kind of attitude you’re gonna be awful cranky when you hit forty. You’ll be a cranky old man and nobody is gonna want to talk to you.”

“Well, guess what? I’m already cranky. And nobody already wants to talk to me.”

“My god,” he said, shaking his head. “What are we going to do with you…”

“Maybe a late abortion would be in order?”

“What?” he snapped, clearly not appreciating my dark humor.

“Well, it’s just that, you know, the reason I’m here is because of you. And I don’t mean in this apartment. I mean in this world. This world that I don’t like very much.”

“Oh I see,” he said. I already fucking knew where this was going. “You know, the problem with you is that you’re too negative. Yes, there are problems in this world, but unless you have a solution, don’t you dare criticize!”

I observed the vapid sitcom playing on the TV for a moment before saying, “But I do have a solution.”

“Oh you do, do you?”

“Yes. It’s simple. We’ve gotta stop reproducing.”

“Oh go away with that kind of nonsense,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.

“How is that nonsense? All of our problems exist because we exist. If there is no existence, then there are no problems.”

“But if there are no people, then there is no point to anything.”

“There already isn’t any.”

“Oh is that so?” he said with a mocking tone. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“By thinking. And by reading books.”

“Well, I don’t know what kinds of books you’ve been reading…”

“Philosophy.”

“And those books told you these things that you’re telling me now?”

“Yes.”

“Oh son… I think you need to read different kinds of books.”

“Oh yeah? For example what? The bible?”

“For example.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course.” He said it as though it was self-evident. “The bible has a lot of good advice in it.”

“Such as how to be a gullible fool?”

He furrowed his brow. “Have you read it?”

“I tried to, but I fell asleep. However, I did read The Satanic Bible, which was much better.”

He shook his head again. “Read the bible first before you criticize it.”

“In that case, perhaps you should read the books I’ve read before you criticize me. I’m sure The Conspiracy Against the Human Race, for instance, would be a real eye-opener. Or perhaps John Gray’s Straw Dogs for something a little lighter.”

“Son, I don’t need to read such nonsense.”

“Or perhaps you’re just afraid to. Because the things I’m saying make sense.”

To this he just shook his head once more. I guess he was at a loss for words. I had never presented my pessimistic views to him so directly before, even though he must have at least guessed that I wasn’t an optimist like him. If he ever thought about me at all, that is, for I doubted I ventured into his thoughts much. Anyway, screw him for sitting there and judging me, I thought. He was largely responsible for why I was the way I was. And I didn’t mean any of the good parts. If there even were any.

After I was done eating, I sat in silence for a while, drinking my beer and observing the idiotic sitcom in front of me. Like nearly all sitcoms, it revolved around family, a concept completely alien to me.

Observing me drink my beer, my father suddenly opened his mouth. “And I see you’ve become an alcoholic as well!” he said.

“I just like the taste.”

“But you’re already an alcoholic if you like the taste!”

“Oh really?” I said, downing the beer.

“A normal person will get drunk in order to celebrate,” he explained in his endless wisdom. “If you’re just drinking by yourself, you’re already an alcoholic.”

“If you say so,” I said, recalling an image from my childhood where I’d been at a party with him. During the party he had gotten extremely drunk and passed out on some random bed. Being around six years old at the time and not knowing what I should do at a party full of drunk adults, I went over to him and attempted to shake him awake but he only shoved me away and said, “Fuck off.”

“So how’s your mother doing?” he asked. He always asked the same questions.

“Fine, I guess. We don’t really talk much.”

“Why not?”

“Because she rarely invites me over.”

“I see. And what happened with your girlfriend?”

“She left me. That’s what happened.”

“Well, if she had to listen to the same things I just had to listen to then I’m not surprised.”

“Gee, thanks.” My father, sensitive as always.

We sat on the couch for a while, watching TV. How he was able to bear such a monotonous existence was beyond me. How could such a dissimilar person be my father? Once again, nurture one, nature zero.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” he eventually said, standing up from the couch as if our conversation just now hadn’t even happened. “The alarm is at five in the morning. Good night.” He walked out of the room.

I realized that coming there had been a mistake. I would have probably gotten the same amount of understanding from a random stranger in a bar as I did from my own father. Talking with him was futile. It was like beating your head against a brick wall. He was simple-minded and stuck to his ways. It was impossible to reason with him. And he was of no help whatsoever for my current mental state. I was all alone. Just like I had always been. Oh well. So be it.

I finished my beers whilst watching the vapid images on the TV in front of me.

I then drank some of the whiskey until I was tired enough to pass out.

18

In the morning I woke up as my father was stumbling around, inconsiderate as always. For some reason he had always been loud in the mornings even as others were sleeping. After he was finished, I got up and went to the bathroom to get ready.

We went downstairs and walked to his car. It seemed that every time I visited him he had a different car. Perhaps it had something to do with his love of poker. This time he had a van. When I asked him why he was driving around in a van, he said he liked to in case he needed to transport any large things. I looked in the back of the van; it was empty. Yeah, right, I thought. I bet he got the van from someone cheaply, perhaps even for free. Maybe a payback for a loan. It was just his endless optimism that managed to find a silver lining in every cloud. I mean, who the fuck wants to drive around in a large empty van?

We drove off. It was still dark and the streets were empty. After twenty minutes of listening to bad rock songs on the radio and not talking, we arrived at the harbor. He stopped the car in front of the terminal.

“Well,” he said. “I do hope you manage to solve those problems of yours. Remember, you can always call me or visit me if you need anything.”

“Right,” I said as I exited the car. Anything but understanding. “So long.”

He waved at me as he drove off. I didn’t wave back.

I walked inside the terminal building and went to the ticket office. I asked for a ticket for the next ferry to Tallinn. It was due in about an hour.

After buying the ticket, I went back out to have a cigarette. It was beginning to get light outside. I walked to the pier, observing the waves of the Baltic sea. I had always liked the sea. Right now, I would have liked to have drowned in it.

After I had finished my second cigarette, I went back inside. I sat down on a bench and took out my copy of Will O’ the Wisp. As always, the book was easily relatable:

“Yes, that’s true, he is very unhappy,” Praline went on. “It will all come to a bad end… but he won’t kill himself.”

“How do you know?” hissed Totote.

I read it slowly, deliberately, making sure that my mind registered each sentence, each word. After all, it might be the last book that I would ever read.

When I was about two thirds through, I put the book away. It was time to board the ferry.

I went to the gate, scanned my ticket, and walked onboard. The ship was much bigger than the one I had taken to Helsinki.

I headed to the bar. It was early as shit for a beer, but I didn’t care. It was getting increasingly difficult for me to care about anything at this point. Especially myself.

I sat down behind the counter and ordered a beer. A brunette lady who, despite her heavy makeup, seemed to be in her late thirties, was also sitting there, having a gin and tonic. Despite the early hours, she seemed to be drunk already.

“Hello there,” I said. “Fellow alcoholic.”

“Who, me?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I’ve just been on a night out with my girlfriends. I actually live in Tallinn.”

“You were on a night out on a Monday?”

“Well, you see… it started on Saturday.”

“I see. Your stamina is quite impressive. Kind of a long way to go for a night out though, isn’t it?”

“Yes, well, although I live in Tallinn, I’m actually Finnish and most of my friends live in Finland.”

“Uh-huh.” I took a long sip of beer.

“And you? What are you doing here at such an early hour?”

“Just trying to pick up a Finnish chick, that’s all.”

She laughed. “Wanna have a few shots with me?”

“Sure. What did you have in mind?”

“Tequila.”

She bought the shots. The bartender looked at us with a strange expression but nevertheless served the drinks before moving on to serve some fat Finnish fuck with greasy hair, a stained trucker hat, and a gut as big as a priest’s.

We downed the tequilas. She put her hand on my leg. Déjà vu.

“Wanna go to my cabin?” she asked.

“To, uh, read the Bible together?”

“No. To fuck.”

I quickly downed what was left of my beer. “Let’s go.”

She grabbed me by my hand and we got up from our seats. As we walked towards her cabin, I had to support her here and there in order to make sure that she didn’t fall over. A few people that we passed by stared at us, but I didn’t care. She had clearly had a lot to drink and probably no sleep at all. We got lost a few times in the identical-looking labyrinthine corridors but eventually found the right cabin. She fumbled with the keycard for a bit before getting the door open. It was a cheap cabin with no windows.

Just as soon as we had entered the cabin, she was already on her knees and began unbuttoning my trousers. She took my cock in her mouth like a hungry animal and started sucking it forcefully. I wasn’t sure whether she was a nymphomaniac or just hadn’t had sex in a while.

She sucked me for about five minutes before she went over to the bed and pulled down her tights. “I want you to put it in my ass,” she said. My god, I thought; this lady was a freak.

I put some spit on my cock. She moaned as I slid it in. I pumped away at her ass for a while until I was about ready to come. “I’m gonna come,” I announced, but there was no response. A few strokes more and I came inside her ass. I had never come inside an ass before. It felt exhilarating.

I took it out of her and wiped it on the bedding. She was laying still. I examined her face and noticed that she was slightly snoring. She had fallen asleep while I had been fucking her. I was beginning to think that the only way someone was able to tolerate me was when they were dead drunk. But then, the only way I was able to tolerate normal people was also by being drunk as fuck myself. Was that what they meant by symbiosis?

After I took a piss, I considered the situation I had found myself in. I was in her cabin whilst she was sleeping. I knew there was no way I could have woken her even if I’d wanted to since she was passed out cold. I didn’t really want to either. Thus, my only option was to leave the cabin. Since I was sure that she’d still be sound asleep by the time we reached the harbor, this meant that she would probably be found by a cleaning lady, with that bare ass towards her, cum oozing out of it.

I tried pulling up her tights, but it was futile in the position she was in. I didn’t want to wait in the cabin for another hour either until the ferry arrived as I was sure that if she were to wake up she’d have no memory of me and would be rather surprised to find herself butt-naked in her cabin with a stranger. Therefore, the only thing I could think of was to leave her there like some rape victim.

I paused before exiting the cabin, looking at the bare ass visible from the doorway. “So long,” I said to the ass and left.

It felt a bit strange afterwards walking down the hallway, as though I had done something criminal. But on the plus side, I had indeed fucked a Finnish lady, just as I had wanted to, even if it had been a somewhat pitiable affair. On the other hand, the main reason for the trip had gone as I had subconsciously expected it to go—badly. Still, the experience I’d just had was a kind of silver lining and had invigorated me somewhat. Should these be my last days on earth, I might as well spend them by at least attempting to enjoy myself, as little as I was capable of that these days.

I headed to the duty-free shop to buy some liquor. Since they had a good offer on Jack Daniels, I bought a liter of it. I also bought one of those tiny liquor bottles—this one had a blue liquid in it and was shaped like a ship—as well as a sandwich and a beer. After I got my items, I walked outside to the sundeck. Not that there was any sun.

I sat down in a secluded spot, unwrapped the sandwich, and sipped on the beer whilst watching the sea. The air smelled good. It was a gray and slightly misty day. There was almost nobody else on the deck aside from me. After I was done with the sandwich and the beer, I lit a Marlboro Red. A cigarette takes ten minutes from your life, somebody once said. But so does ten minutes.

After sitting there for a while and looking at the waves, I could make out land in the distance. The ferry would be arriving soon. I downed the small bottle of blue liquor, but it did next to nothing for me. I didn’t want to open the Jack Daniels I’d just bought as it was a big bottle and I wasn’t yet quite on the same level of not giving a fuck as was Billy Bob Thornton’s character in the movie Bad Santa. Then I remembered the smaller bottle of whiskey I had in my jacket pocket from the day before. There was still a quarter of it left. I opened it and took a sip. It tasted good.

I had once disliked whiskey. Its taste had made me want to throw up. However, one day after something really bad had happened to me, the first thing I had done was to go out and buy a liter of whiskey. And on that day, for some reason, it started to taste pretty good to me, even though it never had before. I guess my brain had been too occupied with the pain I was in at the time, so it had ignored the bitter taste. And once the pain had subsided—had it?—I was already used to the taste, despite its bitterness.

I finished the whiskey just as the ship stopped moving. Since I didn’t see anybody else on the deck, I flung the bottle overboard into the sea as hard as I could. Perhaps an alcoholic fish could someday make a home of it.

I left the deck and began walking towards the exit, wondering what I was going to do next. Whatever it was, I knew that it would involve drinking. The question was whether I would be drinking by myself or with other people.

It was a choice that hardly mattered as I was bound to end up disappointed either way.

19

After I got back on solid ground, I first headed home. Once there, I cleaned up the shards from the whiskey bottle I had smashed two days ago. Then, on a whim, I located an old flask which had the quote, “Find what you love and let it kill you,” engraved on it. As the flask was a gift from an ex, it might as well have said, “Find what you love and let it leave you.” I refilled it with the Jack Daniels I had bought on the ferry.

I then had a much-needed shower, during which I contemplated upon what I could possibly love enough in this world so that I could let it kill me. I concluded that it could only be either a woman, alcohol, or a gun.

After I was all done, I decided to head out of the apartment. For there were still far too many shadows there. Far too many memories. Far too much pain.

Despite my recent sexual escapade—or perhaps because of it—I still felt somewhat horny. Therefore, once I arrived in the city center, I decided to head to an adult theater.

I walked towards the sex shop-cum-adult theater in Tatari street. I knew that the likelihood of there being any females around a sleazy place like that was virtually zero. Nevertheless, that wasn’t the point. But then, what was the point? I didn’t know. What was the point of anything? Did it matter if we did one thing or another? If so, where was it written in the universe? And even if it was written somewhere, how could we know that it wasn’t just something that somebody had made up? We couldn’t. So it didn’t matter what we did. Nothing mattered. And thus, I went to the adult theater.

Once there, I paid the lady the entrance fee and ordered a beer (yes, they sold beer there). I then walked through a curtain-covered doorway with the open beer in my hand. Right away, the smell of sperm wafted into my nostrils. But that was to be expected from a sleazy place like that. Inside, there were various red and purple—I guess these were considered “sexy” colors—hallways and small rooms with video screens playing a variety of pornos. For obvious reasons, it was also quite dark in there.

As far as I knew, the people who visited adult theaters were mostly homosexuals who were hoping to hook up with other homosexuals. And as far as I knew, I wasn’t a homosexual. Even though I sometimes got turned on when looking at erect penises.

I checked the various rooms to see what pornos were playing until I came upon a small room where an old man with a Santa Claus beard was sitting on a chair, watching porn and jacking off. I was taken aback as I wasn’t expecting to find anyone there. He turned around and smiled at me mischievously, motioning towards his wrinkled cock with his hungry eyes. I quickly closed the door and entered the first booth I saw, locking the door behind me.

I watched the porno playing on the screen and sipped on my beer until I got an erection. I took out my dick and started rubbing it. The movie that was on was an interracial gangbang. Five black men were fucking a blonde white girl with big tits. She had one cock in her ass, one in her vagina, one in her mouth, and at the same time she was jerking off two guys. For whatever reason, I enjoyed gangbang pornos the most.

I watched it for a while, until all the men came on the woman’s face. I timed it so that I came at the same time. Then I finished my beer and left. The experience left me cold. It was better to jerk off at home, I thought.

On the street, I bought some cigarettes from a nearby kiosk. I wasn’t yet in the mood to go to a bar, so on a whim I decided to go to a regular movie theater instead. Since I didn’t like it when there were lots of people around and I also didn’t like mainstream movies much, I chose an arthouse movie theater—not that I necessarily liked those either. There were only two in Tallinn and I chose the one that was closest to me.

When I arrived, I learned that a movie was going to start in about fifteen minutes. It was a French movie called La Vie des morts. I normally didn’t like French movies because they were often pretentious and dull, but what the hell. I bought a ticket and a bottle of beer and entered the small auditorium. There were only two other people there, two women. I took a seat in the middle of the back row.

The film began shortly. It started with a guy who was in a coma after a botched suicide attempt. It made me wonder how successful I’d be at committing suicide, considering I hadn’t been very successful at most things in life.

If I were to do it, I thought, I would probably do it by hanging myself from the steel beam in the wardrobe of my apartment; it was sufficiently high and seemed sturdy enough. Although I couldn’t of course guarantee that it wouldn’t break or that I wouldn’t have second thoughts whilst hanging from it.

As I was trying to focus on the movie, the endless blather of the two females in the auditorium was getting more and more annoying. It seemed as if they had come to the theater just to have a conversation with one another instead of watching the movie. Couldn’t they have done that in a café instead? What the fuck was wrong with people?

Eventually, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I said in a loud voice, “Hey! Yeah, you two. Would you mind shutting the fuck up?”

They flashed me some dirty looks and continued talking more quietly.

Despite the initially interesting premise, when the movie was over, I felt that it was nothing special. It focused too much on family and, as usual, it ended on an optimistic note, which was something I abhorred. Did anything in life ever end on an optimistic note? Indeed—did life itself end on an optimistic note? Although death wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, when you died you lost everything you ever had. Everything you ever lived for. So what was the point in any of it? Why not skip this pointless and drawn-out episode between birth and death altogether?

When I was leaving the theater, I saw the two women again. “What’s your problem?” one of them asked as I walked past her.

“Inconsideration,” I said without stopping. It was the same problem I had against the universe.

Outside, I lit a Marlboro Red. Now what?

20

After eating lunch at a greasy Chinese fast-food joint, I strolled around the city for a bit, smoking cigarettes.

Eventually, I found myself in Rotermann Quarter. It was a recently reconstructed district in the Tallinn city center with a bit of a retro sci-fi vibe due to its mix of old limestone buildings and new glass and metal architecture with colorful LED illumination.

I had come to this part of town because I had once stumbled upon a strange bar there called Disremember—an apt name for a bar if there ever was one. Its colorful and contrasting décor had consisted of Russian icons and modern art and I had met plenty of unusual patrons there.

For you see, I was still on my never-ending quest to find someone worth talking to. Someone who’d listen. Even if all I had found so far were faceless NPCs who I scared away the minute I began talking about my worldviews. Views which were perfectly reasonable after all, if not a little bleak. But then life was a little bleak. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t make it. I wouldn’t have wanted to. If a god made this world, as Schopenhauer said, then I would not want to be its god—its misery and despair would break my heart.

However, when I arrived at the spot where the bar was supposed to be, there was nothing there. I was certain that there had been a bar there once. I even circled around the place, making sure I hadn’t misremembered the exact spot where it was supposed to be, yet it could have only been at one spot. And on that spot, there was nothing. There wasn’t even any sign that there had ever been a bar there.

I lit a cigarette. Strange, I thought. Very strange.

For lack of any better ideas, I decided to head to Scarlet Emperor again, which was nearby. As I was walking there, the sun came out for a change.

The walk took me through Kanut garden where there was a statue of Dostoevsky. His Notes from the Underground was one of the finest novellas I had ever read on account of its stark and honest portrayal of human pettiness, humiliation, and misery. I stopped in front of the monument. It was covered in bird shit. Even when you were dead, they still shat on you.

Although Scarlet Emperor often hosted an assortment of various weirdoes, when I got there, I saw that the place was rather empty. I guess that was not surprising, considering it was Tuesday.

The same goth bartender was behind the counter as the last time I had been there. I ordered a house beer. After she finished pouring the drink, I paid for it with my card and asked, “So where is everybody?”

“Beats me.”

“Who does?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” I took a big sip of beer. Continuing with my chit-chat, I asked, “Do you like working here?”

“It’s okay,” she said with no emotion.

“I see. By the way, what’s behind that door?” I pointed towards a door to the right of the counter which had, “Fuck off, staff only,” written on it.

“Oh that? Supplies.”

“Fascinating.”

“Yeah.”

It seemed I wasn’t going to get anything more out of her, so I stopped trying. I walked to an empty booth and focused on my beer instead.

Come to think of it, I couldn’t recall ever having met a goth with a personality. I guess what they lacked in personality they tried to make up in appearance since otherwise nobody would find them attractive. And she was attractive… though ultimately little more than the dark version of a bimbo.

Still, I would have liked to have fucked her. In fact, my cock was getting hard just thinking about it. I looked around. As there was nobody else nearby, I unzipped my pants and took out my cock. I began stroking it, fantasizing about fucking the goth in the ass. After a few minutes, I shot my load on the gum-covered underside of the table. I wiped myself off with a napkin and put it away. Nobody had seen me.

After I had polished off my beer, I considered what I was going to do next. I could finish reading Will o’ the Wisp, I thought. I still had about one third of it left. But I didn’t want to do it in this bar. Since the sun was out and it wasn’t too cold outside, I thought of going to a park instead. I could even buy some beers and sip on them whilst I finished the book. The plan seemed sound.

Before leaving the bar, I went to the counter and ordered a shot of whiskey. Imagining myself as an outlaw, I downed it, slammed the shot glass on the counter, and left.

21

After purchasing a few beers from a nearby store, I walked to Freedom Square. Next to it, on top of a small hill, was a park that I had sometimes visited in the past.

I climbed the steps until I reached the top. Up on the top was a small pavilion, a fountain, and some benches. Near one of the benches stood some teenagers, listening to shitty techno music on their phone, and drinking something, probably cider. They looked underage.

I chose a bench far away from them. I put the beers on the bench and sat down. In front of me was a nice view overlooking Freedom Square, with high-rise buildings in the distance. On the square were some Estonian flags, as well as a monument—I neither knew what for nor did I care.

There was also the church where my aunt’s funeral had been held. I remembered standing over her open casket and looking at her lifeless body. She had looked so peaceful. Although it was a great tragedy for the people at the funeral that she was gone, some of them even openly weeping over her, in truth, death was only a tragedy to those left behind. For her, all her problems were over. For the people weeping over her, something valuable had been taken from their life without their consent. Their tears were born from selfishness.

I took out Will o’ the Wisp and cracked open a beer. I began reading:

Why was Alain going on? Had he not seen enough? And if he wanted to kill himself, what better time was there than seven or eight o’clock in the evening, when all the passions, unburdened from work, rush at full speed across town in a maddening vortex? But no, life is only a habit, and the habit holds you as long as life lasts.

It took me about an hour to reach the end of the book. The ending cut like a knife. Even more so than the first time I had read it.

As I was sitting there, staring into the distance and thinking about the book’s ending, a hobo came up to my bench. He had a bushy beard and curly hair and was wearing an old black suit which was somewhat dirty.

“Hi there,” he said.

“Hello.”

“I didn’t want to bother you before because you was readin’.”

“That’s all right.”

“Whatchu readin’ by the way?”

“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath. “It’s a book about a guy who’s very unhappy. And he’s trying to find a reason to survive. But he can’t find any.”

“Sounds like heavy stuff. Why you be readin’ stuff like that?”

“Because it reminds me of my own life.”

He nodded. “Yeah… this world be a cruel place, my friend. A cruel place indeed.” He pointed to himself. “Believe me, I knows.”

“I bet you do.”

“By the way, I sees you drinkin’ some beer from over there. Mind sharin’ one?”

“Sure,” I said, handing him a can of Heineken and getting a new one for myself.

“Mighty kind of you.”

He sat down next to me, opened the can, and took a big gulp. “That goes down real smooth,” he said.

We sat there for a while, drinking our beers.

“You know,” I said. “I’ve also got some whiskey, if you’re interested.” I took out my flask and shook it.

“Say, that’s a very nice flask you got there. What’s it say?”

I rotated it in my hands, letting the sunlight glint off the engraved words. “It says, find what you love and let it kill you.”

He wrinkled his brow. “What does that mean?”

I thought for a moment. “I guess it means that since life is eventually going to kill you anyway, you might as well find something in life that you like and have that kill you, instead of leaving it up to fate.”

“Like alcohol?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Or women.”

He flashed a toothy grin—a few teeth were missing—and chuckled. “Ain’t that the truth.”

I uncorked the flask and extended it to him.

“Hang on. You don’t want to be sharin’ that with a dirty old bum like me. We gonna do it like proper gentlemen.” He put his hand in his pocket and got out something wrapped in a paper towel. He unwrapped it; there were two shot glasses inside. “Don’t worry, they’s clean. I got them from this bar nearby. Been waitin’ for the right opportunity.” He handed me one of the glasses.

“Thanks,” I said and poured us both a shot.

“Much obliged,” he said.

I started lifting the glass to my mouth when the hobo said, “Wait, wait. We need a toast.”

“A toast?”

“Yessir. Proper.”

“Well, all right. Whatcha got?”

He thought for a moment before saying, “To strangers… who are kind with their liquor.” He gave a smile.

“To kind strangers,” I said, clinking my glass against his.

After we downed our shots, I poured us new ones. “Okay, I’ve got one too,” I said.

“Let’s hear it.”

“To surviving in a world that doesn’t give a shit.”

He nodded. “Hey, that’s good.”

We clinked the glasses and downed the shots. We then sat there for a bit, drinking our beers and looking at the skyline. The sun was beginning to set, drowning everything in its blood-red hue. One day the sun would be no more. Nothing would.

After some time, the hobo spoke. “You know, like I say… I knows. I knows this world ain’t worth to piss on. I knows most people be crooked. Even bums be stealin’ from me from time to time. Not that I’ve anythin’ worth stealin’.” He chuckled. “Yeah, I even been on them railroad tracks a few times. Placed my head on ‘em. Waitin’ for the train to arrive. But each time I start seein’ that train in the distance, I thinks, well… maybe I should just wait a bit, you know? Maybe it gets better. Maybe only a little… but maybe that be enough.”

“And? Has it gotten any better?”

“I suppose. Seein’ I’m still alive. Or, hell, maybe I just gotten so used to it by now, who knows.”

“Seems to only get worse for me.”

“Yeah, I hear you. But maybe you hasn’t reached that point yet where you’s ready to go and lay down on them railroad tracks, or wherever you’d do it. Maybe once you reach that point, you gonna think like me—if I’s already ready to go, maybe I’s just gonna wait a little first, see what the future bring. Maybe it bring a little somethin’, you know. Just a bit. Just enough to help me survive a little while longer.”

I sighed deeply. “I sincerely hope so.”

“Yeah, me too.” He pulled up one of his sleeves and looked at the time; it didn’t seem as though the watch was working. “Well, I gotta get goin’.”

“One last shot before you go?”

“Awful kind of you.” I poured the whiskey and we downed our shots. The flask was now empty.

“You got a place to go?” I asked.

“Oh, there’s always a place to go. Problem be where to stay.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem all right…” I extended him the empty shot glass. “Here you go.”

“Nah, you keep it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I can get more if I need. And you steer clear of them railroad tracks now, y’hear?”

“Thanks. I’ll try.”

“Yeah, you try.” He stood up from the bench. “Well, good luck to you,” he said and walked away.

I sipped on my last beer and looked at the sunset. I sat there until the last streaks of light were gone and the sky was dark. Speaking with the man had almost given me hope that things might get better. Almost. But not enough.

I suddenly felt exhausted. I’d gotten very little sleep during the last few days. I decided to take the next bus home and call it a day.

22

I slept for at least ten hours that night. Before getting up, I reread Akutagawa’s short story The Life of a Stupid Man. It ended with the sentence, “He barely made it through each day in the gloom, leaning as it were upon a chipped and narrow sword.” The story was written shortly before Akutagawa’s suicide. And thus, it ended with defeat. As did his life. As did everything in the end.

Still, my mood was a little better than it had been in the last couple of days. It wasn’t good, mind you. It hadn’t been good for a long fucking time now. But it was manageable.

After I got up and took a shower, I decided to cook myself some breakfast for a change. I went to the Russian-owned store nearby and bought some bacon, eggs, and toast. I then washed some of the moldy dishes in the sink, just enough for breakfast. I nearly got sick from the smell whilst washing them.

I cooked and ate the breakfast. Drank some coffee. Listened to some music. Looked out the window. Took a random book from the bookshelf and tried to read it but couldn’t focus. Watched some porn. Masturbated. Had a beer. But in the end, I couldn’t figure out what else to do. I didn’t want to go to work. I didn’t want to stay in my apartment. Thus, the only thing left to do was to hit the town. Perhaps I could meet up with my old drinking buddy Joe, I thought, to see how he was doing. I refilled my flask with whiskey and sent him a text message.

It was four in the afternoon. I still hadn’t heard back from Joe when I got on the bus, so I tried calling him, but the number wasn’t active.

Once downtown, I went to check out the main place Joe used to hang out in Old Town—a bar called Lowlander. Perhaps he’d be there. And if not, maybe I’d at least get some information about his whereabouts from the bartender.

There was a Scottish flag waving outside the bar and the steps led underground. I descended the steps and entered. Inside was a small and ancient-looking place with old stone walls and floors. The ceiling was covered in tartan fabric and the walls were decorated with swords and axes as well as the soulless-looking mounted head of a deer. As far as I knew, it was the only Scottish bar in Tallinn.

I walked to the small bar counter and sat down on a bar stool. The bartender had long hair and a beard and was wearing a kilt. I ordered a beer.

After he had finished pouring it, I asked, “By any chance, have you seen Joe around here lately?”

“Joe?”

“Yeah.”

He thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, I haven’t.”

“Didn’t he use to visit this place all the time back in the day?”

“He did, yeah. In fact, he practically lived here. But then he suddenly stopped coming. I haven’t seen him in months.”

“I see. Thanks.”

Joe had a heart condition. It was something he was born with. I wondered whether he could have succumbed to it. But then there was another possibility. Suicide. We had talked about it a few times. About the best way to do it, about the people left behind, and so on. Could he have actually gone through with it? Perhaps.

Or, considering what a drunkard he was, he might have simply gotten himself into some kind of an accident. It was difficult to know for sure. All I knew was that one thing was utterly impossible—that he had stopped drinking.

After I had finished the beer, I left the bar. I walked aimlessly around Old Town for a while, observing all the seemingly happy people walking by. But behind their smiles were skulls. They were the walking dead. It was only a matter of time.

As I was walking towards Toompea Castle up an inclined cobblestone street, I noticed a painter selling his works on the side of the road. I felt bad for him. Capitalism put a dollar sign on everything, including art. And if it didn’t sell, it was worthless. Regardless of its actual worth. That was the contradiction. Real art was individual, yet as its value in capitalism came from being popular with the masses, it had to conform to the lowest common denominator.

However, this tended to apply more to other forms of art, such as novels or movies. No, the world of paintings was even stranger. It was a world of filthy rich people who bought paintings of a couple of cubes for a hundred million dollars. Yeah, try explaining the logic behind that to an extra-terrestrial landing on earth.

Having walked past a huge Russian Orthodox church with golden crosses and icons adorning it, I saw that a big crowd had gathered on the square in front of the pink Baroque Parliament building. It seemed to be a protest of some sort.

As I walked closer, I saw people holding up signs saying, “Meat is Murder”, “Save the Planet”, “Go Green”, and so on. I noticed that most of the protesters were thin young women.

As I was walking past them, a girl with green hair and a nose piercing—a typical sign of her tribe—came up to me and asked whether I wanted to sign her petition. As though petitions ever changed a single fucking thing in this world. Still, I decided to humor her.

“What’s it about?” I asked.

“It’s about how innocent animals don’t need to suffer and die just because some humans like the taste of meat,” she explained eagerly.

“But what about humans? Do humans need to suffer and die?”

“This petition isn’t about them.”

“Why not? The human being is just another animal. Who, by the way, suffers much more than any other animal because he knows that he is going to die and that all of his suffering is ultimately for nothing.”

“I couldn’t care less about humans when they are committing genocide against animals just because they can’t control their urge to eat meat and wear leather.”

“Well, I don’t care about animals that much. So why should I care about your petition?”

“You don’t care about animals?” She did a strange fake laugh, as though what I had said was impossible. “Okay. What about the planet then? Did you know that eating meat causes global warming?”

“Is that so?” I said sarcastically.

“It is!” She was getting emotional. “Growing animals in order to eat their meat is a huge contributor of greenhouse gas emissions in the atmosphere. If we want to stop global warming, we need to stop eating meat.”

“Okay. But driving a car—including an electric one—or flying in an airplane causes much more greenhouse gas emissions than eating meat. Yet I doubt you’d like to ban cars or airplanes, right? In fact, you probably love to travel.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“Is it? Well, let me ask you this then. Are you planning on having any children?”

“One day, sure.”

“But if there is no human being, there is no killing of animals for meat. Also, there’s no global warming, no pollution, no destruction of natural habitats, and so on. Not having any children, therefore, is one of the greenest things you could do in your life. In fact, by not having any children, I’m already greener than anyone with a child could ever hope to be.”

“That’s beside the point,” she said impatiently.

“But I thought the point was to prevent unnecessary suffering? Well, the best thing you can do in that case is to not bring any more human beings into existence. Not only do you then prevent the suffering that the new human causes, but you also prevent their suffering.”

“What are you talking about? This isn’t about that. We’re here to stop the abuse and murder of innocent animals and to prevent global warming.”

“Well, then it is about that. During the last fifty years, when the human population has doubled, half of the earth’s animals have died off. And not because we ate them, but simply because there are too many fucking people on this planet and the idiots keep creating even more.”

“Listen,” she said, waving her finger in front of my nose. “No privileged cis white male is going to tell me what I can or cannot do with my body! If I want to have a child, then it is my choice. And if that child is gonna be a vegan, that’s also my choice. And anyway, it’s better to have one child than to be responsible for murdering thousands of animals!”

I was getting tired of talking to her as she clearly wasn’t listening to me, but I couldn’t let her have the last word, especially one as lousy as that.

“You know,” I started. “Back in the day, there was a group called the Church of Euthanasia. Have you heard about them?”

She crossed her arms. “Can’t say that I have.”

“Well, they were also concerned about the earth and didn’t care about human beings much. However, their slogan was, ‘Save the Planet, Kill Yourself’. So if you green cunts were truly serious about any of this shit and it wasn’t just some social club for you that made you feel superior to others, this is what you’d advocate—don’t have children. And better yet, kill yourselves outright. Commit mass suicide. That’s the greenest thing there is. In fact, you can even have the animals eat your corpses.”

With each word that I had said, she seemed to have gotten more and more triggered. “I can’t even!” she said through gritted teeth. “Why would you say something like that? ARGH!” She stormed off. Probably to tell her vegan girlfriends what a horribly ignorant meat-eater she had just met.

I lit a cigarette and observed the crowd before me. Her reaction had not been unusual. Anti-natalism—the idea that humans should not breed—was not a popular view. Not even amongst most green freaks. This despite the fact that all the troubles that existed in the world existed solely because of human beings.

Despite the obviousness of this idea, admitting this to the average person was like confessing to a murder. Even in a post-apocalyptic wasteland where all that existed was misery and squalor, humans, in their never-ending capacity for delirium, would without a doubt still continue bringing new people into this world instead of realizing that doing so was both cruel and insane. That was how strongly the delusion that life was good was embedded into us. It had to be since otherwise there wouldn’t be any humans around. Life was like a pyramid scheme that had to be constantly shoved down the throats of new victims in order to keep the scam going.

As I was walking away from the protest, I was reminded of how I had also once cared deeply about the earth. About global warming. About CO_2 concentrations in the atmosphere. And so on. I had even been a bit of a prophet of doom, preaching that if we didn’t change our ways, we would end up destroying ourselves.

But even if we managed to save the environment, then what? Our lives would still be insignificant and full of suffering and boredom. So what was the point? Wouldn’t it be better to save ourselves from existence instead? By doing so, we would also be saving the environment. At least until some other natural catastrophe occurred—with or without humans—which would eventually wipe out all life on earth anyway.

Besides, according to statistics, thinking we could “save” the environment at this point was like believing in a fairy tale. It wasn’t going to happen. And it didn’t matter. The earth was going to be better off without us. Nothing in nature needed us. Humans, as John Gray put it, were like any other plague animal—we couldn’t destroy the earth, but we could easily wreck the environment that sustained us. And that was precisely what was going to happen. We were going to die out just like countless other species before us. More than 99% of all species that had ever lived on earth had gone extinct. That was the natural order. It was going to happen one way or another. So why should we postpone the inevitable by creating even more life? Even more misery? Even more death?

I had once read that Carl Sagan thought that the reason why we hadn’t found any alien life in the universe was because all so-called advanced civilizations, such as ours, had a tendency to wipe themselves out.

I believe he was right.

23

Speaking with the vegan had given me a craving for some steak. Good steak. Not the shit I had eaten with Vicky. Although my bank account was quickly being drained by my current bender, I didn’t really care. I had never cared for money. If I had it, good. If I didn’t, so be it.

As I was walking in Old Town, I saw a restaurant called Purgatory, which seemed like the kind of place that might have good steak. The restaurant was underground in a very old building. Inside was an arched ceiling and heavy wrought iron chairs and tables.

After I sat down at a table, a fat waitress brought me the menu. I flicked through it and chose the most expensive item: a steak with oven-baked vegetables and port sauce. When the waitress came back to take my order, I asked her how much fat the steak had. She said none. I ordered it. Medium-rare. I also ordered a smoked lager with an alcohol content of 6.66 percent.

She left for a moment and came back with my beer. I had a taste. It was disgusting. One of the worst beers I had ever drank. It tasted like it was rotten. Why the hell did people like these disgusting craft beers so much, I wondered.

As I was waiting for my steak to arrive, I examined the painting that was on the wall next to my table. It was an abstract that consisted entirely of textured black smudges. Was there a meaning to the black smudges? Perhaps. Or maybe it was like a Rorschach test and the meaning came from your own brain. If so, all I could see in it were the suffering slaves of hell, wriggling like worms in their miserable struggle.

Eventually the waitress brought me my steak. I took a bite. The first thing I felt in my mouth was fat. The steak was full of it. To add insult to injury, the vegetables on the side were not cooked through properly. This was the most expensive item on the menu. And it fucking sucked. Even the supposedly good things in this world sucked. Why was it so hard to find a decent steak? Why was there so much fat on everything? Especially the people.

After I was finished with the meal and had downed the disgusting beer, the waitress came to take away my plate. She asked me how I had liked the food. I pointed at all the fat left on the plate and said that there had been way too much fat in the steak. She said she’d let the kitchen know, which was probably a lie and didn’t really help me in any way. Besides, she had been the one who had told me that the steak had no fat. That was often the way it was in this world. Everything was sold as ideal, even though in truth it was only half of that at best. Or less. Yet most people never complained since they were so used to lying to themselves and to others about everything being fine all the time. They lied to others because they didn’t want to rock the boat and they lied to themselves because they didn’t want to admit that they were being lied to everywhere they went.

After the disappointing meal, I went back to the central part of Old Town where most of the bars were located. While walking through a side alley I noticed a sign on a small bar that said, “Open Mic Comedy Night.” I stopped in front of it. A thought crossed my mind—what a great chance to tell people how I felt. I could tell them anything I wanted to under the guise of comedy. It was something I normally wouldn’t have dared to do, but I had begun to care very little about people’s opinions as of late and if they wanted to hate me, so be it.

The bar had an unusual name—it was called Oh My! When I walked inside, I saw that it was small and had the atmosphere of a speakeasy: low ceilings, dark décor, red curtains, a small stage, and various old-style posters on the walls. About a quarter of the seats were filled and there was a young woman on stage.

I went to the counter and ordered a beer and a whiskey. “So what do I gotta do to perform?” I asked the bartender as he was pouring my drinks.

“You want to perform on the open mic?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, no problem. We’re just getting started. Aside from her,” he pointed towards the stage, “two more people have signed up. You can go after them. You’ve got fifteen minutes on stage. What’s your name?”

I gave him my name and he wrote it down on a piece of paper. I then took my beer and whiskey and found a place to sit down in the front row. I left the whiskey for later and sipped on the beer. I listened to the person performing on stage. She went on and on about a bunch of female-specific things I couldn’t have given less of a fuck about.

The next guy wasn’t any better. His inane jokes about Estonians and Russians and bathrooms may have amused the audience, but they did absolutely nothing for me.

I knocked back my remaining beer and went to buy another. More people had walked in during the two acts. The small venue was rather packed by now and I was starting to get nervous about going up on stage. At least there was to be one more shitty comedian before my turn in the spotlight.

The third performer was a sweaty young man with a shaky voice who told jokes about cats, dogs, videogames, and God knows what else, and it was all about as funny as cancer.

After that, they called my name. All of a sudden it didn’t feel like such a hot idea to perform in front of a bunch of random strangers. But it was too late to back down. It was possible that the shit I had to say to this crowd would make them hate my guts. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to hold back. I downed my whiskey, stood up, and walked to the stage.

“Hi there,” I said, squinting my eyes under the bright lights. “Let’s start with a list of things I want to do before I die. Entry number one. Kill myself.” I paused for a moment. “That’s it. It’s a short list.”

The reaction I got was deader than a graveyard.

“Okay. Let me ask you something instead then. Have you ever accidentally dropped your apartment keys on the ground and thought, oh great, I might as well just commit suicide now.”

Again, nobody laughed.

I then put my fingers on the side of my head and imitated a gun blowing my brains out. “Hey. I’ll try anything once.”

“That ain’t funny!” somebody finally yelled from the audience. “Yeah,” somebody agreed. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Humor is subjective,” I said. “For instance, I found the previous act about as funny as child molestation.” I could sense the anger in the room intensifying. “But I digress. I guess suicide jokes are an acquired taste. Just like being attracted to little children. So let’s try something else.”

I thought for a moment before continuing. “So I recently saw a video online of ISIS burning two captured Turkish soldiers alive.” I shook my head dramatically. “Let me tell you. Best orgasm I ever had.”

One person chuckled.

I continued. “So I was fucking my mom and I accidentally came inside her. But it’s all right because she was already dead.”

A few people stood up and left.

“All right,” I said. “Moving on to something a bit more complex. So everyone has a mom and dad, right? Or, well, had, if you’re an orphan. But anyway, everyone has or had parents, yes? Even Adolf Hitler. Now, some people like to ask, ‘If you could travel back in time, would you kill Hitler when he was a child?’ And most people would agree that they would indeed. Especially the Jews. Although they might do a bit more than just kill him, if you know what I mean.

“But say you did kill him. What’s to stop his parents from simply having another child? And what’s to stop that kid from turning out to be even worse than old Adolf? Indeed, say you kill Adolf and then go back to the present and then the people that sent you back in time tell you, ‘Yeah, turns out we have to send you back again. This time to prevent you from killing Adolf by killing yourself. I guess we just didn’t appreciate what we had until it was gone.

“So what do you do? It’s simple. You kill Adolf’s worthless fucking parents instead who probably raised him to be a dictator in the first place. After all, it wasn’t Adolf’s fault that he was born, was it? And even serial killers have parents. In fact, some of them even ate their parents. And I don’t mean ate them out, although, to be sure, some of them did that as well… after they first killed them of course. I’m sorry. For some reason, I just can’t seem to stop thinking about corpse-fucking.

“But anyway, why gamble with people’s lives, man? ‘Cause even if they’re not serial killers or Adolf Hitler, or corpse-fuckers, they’re still fucking useless, aren’t they?” A few people in the audience started booing me. I put the microphone closer to my mouth and said, “Especially this audience.”

At this, somebody threw a beer bottle at me. It hit me in the face and bounced off. “Motherfuck—” I held my hand against my face, which was pulsating with pain. Then somebody came on the stage. It was the bartender. “Time to leave,” he said.

“Why? I didn’t throw the fucking bottle.”

“All the same.” He took me by the arm and started forcing me off the stage.

“You see?” I yelled at the audience as the guy began walking me out of the bar. “You people are fucking useless. You only want to hear what you already believe. You’re like an echo chamber. You stupid fucks!”

When we were outside, the bartender shoved me on the ground. “Dude. You need to seek help,” he said. “Seriously.” He then turned around, walked back inside, and closed the door.

“And where, pray tell, would I find it!?” I yelled as I slowly got up from the ground. I looked around. A few passersby were staring at me from across the street. “What?” I motioned with my face. They continued moving.

I pulled out a Marlboro Red cigarette, lit it, and sat down on some steps nearby. Blood was trickling from my eyebrow. I wiped it away with my sleeve. I could still hear voices from the bar. Laughter. They were probably making fun of me. The freak had left the stage and relatable normalcy had returned.

Suddenly I felt awfully alone. Perhaps more alone than I had ever felt in my life. I might as well have been on Mars, I thought. In fact, I wished I were on Mars for I would then quickly suffocate.

I stood up from the steps and flicked my cigarette butt against the bar window, sparks flying off it.

The final joke, as always, was on me.

24

I was walking around Old Town, trying to find another place where to settle down. I was just looking for a watering hole, nothing snooty.

As I walked, I couldn’t help but wonder about what the people in the stand-up place had thought of me… Probably that I was mentally ill. Hell, I had thought that myself once. I had even tried antidepressants, but their effect was minimal and when I suddenly stopped taking them I felt lower than I had ever felt before. Besides, antidepressants were just another drug. Like alcohol. The difference was, I preferred alcohol.

I had also tried therapy a few times. As I recalled, the last time I did, it went something like this:

“So what brings you here?”

“Pressure from my parents. There’s nothing really wrong with me. Unless wrong means seeing too clearly.”

“And what is it that you see ‘too clearly’?”

“The illusions that surround us.”

“Would you care to elaborate on that?”

“Well… people believe what their parents tell them, what their schools tell them, what their jobs tell them, what their governments tell them. They think that they should get married, have children, have a career, be patriotic, and so on. But why? Where do these presumptions come from? Nowhere. People have merely been doing all this for a long time and each generation is just blindly imitating the last one, thinking it’s all terribly meaningful. Whereas the truth is that there is no real progress or meaning or purpose in this world. It’s a meaningless chaos. Yet they want you to believe that it is meaningful, that people in high positions know what they’re doing, that the world has direction. When all of that is bullshit. And almost no one seems to realize this.”

“Oh, you’re far from the only person to think that way. We’ve all been young once.”

“Yeah, sure. That old defense. Everyone has their doubts about the world when they’re young, but when they mature they stop rebelling against society and embrace its ‘infinite wisdom’. Well, I’m afraid that’s bullshit. You know what really happens? People just give up. Because it’s easier that way. You get along with others. You’re more successful. You’re happier. More content. At least as long as you can believe in your own bullshit. But once you’ve already given up, that’s it. You’re dead. You’ve been reeled in, like a fish. The next thing you know, you have a career, you’re married, you have children, you have a house, a mortgage, a car, you have barbeques with your friends during the weekends, all that shit.”

“Well, what’s wrong with all that? These things give one’s life meaning.”

“Yeah. They do. If you can believe in all that. But it’s not real. It’s theater. It’s a bunch of actors, performing a pre-written play called ‘Being a Normal Human Being’.”

“What you’re saying sounds very nihilistic.”

“No shit.”

“But belief in things is important. Without it, there’s no reason to do anything.”

“Exactly. There isn’t. And there’s no basis for believing in anything either, especially that some particular way of behaving is ‘sane’ and if you’re not like that—if you don’t want a family for instance, or a house, or children, or even to exist at all—well, then you must be insane. That’s what society tells you. And that’s what your profession reinforces. You’re the protectors of society’s illusions.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

But he wasn’t sorry. Not one bit. In fact, he was probably glad to have gotten rid of me. Because for psychotherapy to work, it required belief in it. And I had none.

Mental illness, as Thomas Szasz had revealed, was only a myth that had been used to stigmatize and control people for hundreds of years. Just like religion. Indeed, didn’t a secular person ultimately go to the psychiatrist for the same reason as a religious person went to the priest? As for me, I preferred to go to the bottle instead.

I stopped walking. I had found the place I was looking for.

25

The bar was called The Calavera and it had a large sugar skull on its sign. It was underground and shadowy, just the kind I preferred.

I went in and ordered a beer. As the bartender was pouring it, I noticed a digital jukebox on the wall to the left of me. I dug a coin out of my pocket and inserted it into the slot. The song I chose was “Wake up in the Gutter” by Those Poor Bastards.

I then found a table in the darkest corner and sat down. Holding a napkin against my busted eyebrow and sipping on the beer, I looked around. The bar had a Mexican Day of the Dead kind of theme with lots of images of skeletons and sugar skulls everywhere. It seemed like a fitting place for me since I felt like a dead man walking.

Even though I knew that the Mexicans weren’t actually so morbid. What they believed in was that after you died you continued on as a spirit traveling to the Land of the Dead. Whereas in truth when you were dead you were dead, that’s it. There was nothing after death. The person you used to be ceased to exist. Because the person you used to be was only a neurochemical illusion. Oh, it felt real, to be sure. But in truth, there was no self. There was no consciousness. And there was no soul. Neuroscience had shown that these were all illusions. Yet that didn’t stop people from saying stupid shit like, “Nobody really knows what comes after death.” When in fact everybody knew. They just didn’t have the balls to admit it.

I was just about finished with my beer when I noticed that a big husky guy had been staring at me for a while. Next to him sat a horse-faced woman, probably his girlfriend. He seemed quite drunk. Why he was staring at me, I didn’t know, but I stared right back, motioning, “What?” with my face. Perhaps he hadn’t agreed with my somber choice of music. Or perhaps he just didn’t like my face.

I soon needed another beer, so I went to the counter and waited for the bartender to notice me. I was the only person in the line.

The big guy who had been staring at me came and stood behind me.

“Move,” he said menacingly.

I turned around. “Excuse me?”

“Move.”

“But I’m the only person in the line.”

“Move.”

“But I was here before you.”

“You wanna take this outside?” he asked in a threatening tone of voice.

I let out a long sigh. “You know, you really picked the worst possible person to ask this question from, tough guy.”

“Huh?”

I spoke slowly so that he would understand me. “I mean yes, I want to take this outside. In fact, I’d be absolutely delighted to.”

“All right,” he grunted, and began walking towards the exit.

I followed him. As I did, I grabbed the can of pepper spray I carried in the inside pocket of my jacket and palmed it in my right hand. I was no fool. The guy was at least twice my weight. He could probably knock me out with a single punch.

We walked up the steps of the bar outside to the street, which was relatively empty. We then stood in the middle of the narrow cobblestone street as though we were characters in the video game Street Fighter.

“Well?” I said to him. It seemed that he wasn’t quite all there, probably on account of the copious amounts of alcohol he had been consuming.

He took a step towards me and lifted his arm to take a swing at me. Before he was able to deliver the blow, however, I started spraying the pepper spray in his face. I took a step back, still spraying. It took about two thirds of the bottle before he came to a stop. Suddenly, he put his hands against his eyes and started screaming.

Then his girlfriend came out of the bar and began yelling at me. “What are you doing!?” she shrieked, going to his aid.

“What am I doing? I’m teaching him a lesson that’s all. He attacked me.”

She looked sternly at the can of pepper spray in my hand. “And that gives you the right to pepper spray him in the face?”

“It does, in fact.”

“But he’s a boxer,” she said. “And he’s drunk.” She helped the boxer sit down on the pavement. He was crying like a little girl.

“In what universe is that an excuse? Listen, if you don’t want this to happen again in the future, I would advise keeping this mongoloid on a leash.”

I lit a cigarette and started walking away. I’d had enough of Old Town.

26

I was walking through a pedestrian tunnel when I was stopped by a man with some books under his arm. He asked me whether he could talk to me for a bit.

“All right,” I said, giving him the benefit of the doubt. “What do you want to talk about?”

“God.”

I sighed. “Then I’m afraid you have the wrong person.”

“You don’t believe in God?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe in God; it’s that God doesn’t exist.”

“Oh really? And how do you then explain how we got here?”

“Evolution.”

He chuckled in a mocking kind of way, as though I had said something really stupid.

“It’s a pretty well-established fact,” I said.

“Okay. If you believe in evolution so much, then tell me just one thing. Where are the fossils?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“There are thousands of fossils.”

“Name me one.”

“Name you one?”

“Yes, name me one.”

Great, I thought. Another fucking mongoloid. “Well,” I began, “there was a recent one found in Australia from which Homo sapiens evolved called Australopithecus. It’s essentially halfway between a monkey and a human. And they found an almost complete skeleton. So in fact there are fossils, and this is just one of many.”

“Ah, that’s just a monkey,” he said.

“It’s not ‘just a monkey’. It’s a being between a monkey and a human, although even that is an oversimplification since evolution has many branches. A monkey can evolve into various different beings. An old and idiotic misunderstanding of evolution is that humans evolved from monkeys. Whereas in truth there are various genuses of primates, only one of which led to human beings.”

“Listen, I know things. I have a university degree. I’m an electrical engineer.”

“So? What does that have to do with evolution?”

“I’m just saying I know how things work.”

“Maybe about electricity, but you clearly don’t know how evolution works. Maybe you should read some books about it?”

“Or maybe you should read some of the books I have here?” he said, lifting his eyebrows. He showed me the books; it was a bunch of religious shit with bad cover art.

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m too old for fairy tales.”

“Ah, but maybe your evolution is a fairy tale?”

“Unfortunately for you, evolution has been proven to be true by lots and lots of evidence. Whereas there isn’t a single shred of evidence for your beliefs.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“No, it is you, my friend, who doesn’t know what he’s saying. God does not exist and we’re all alone in the universe. All alone. And that’s a fact.”

“I know in my heart that God exists. I don’t need any evidence for that, my friend.”

“So we’re gonna go that route, huh? Okay. Let’s say he does exist. Let’s say God exists and he created this world. But have you looked at the world around you? It’s a fucking nightmare. War, rape, torture, murder, disease, corruption, insanity. If God created all these things, then he must be a psychopath, simple as that. Or if, as you people like to say, he gave humans free will—which is scientifically impossible—and then sat back and watched us torture and kill each other in record numbers, he clearly doesn’t give a fuck about us. So if God exists—which he doesn’t—he not only doesn’t love you but in all likelihood he fucking hates you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go and get drunk. So long.”

I began walking away.

“You’re gonna burn in hell, my friend,” he said after me.

“We’re already in hell,” I said and continued walking.

27

At first I had thought of going to some bar outside of Old Town, but then I changed my mind. What I really needed was to get away from bars. If only for a while. However, I didn’t want to go home and there were no friends to visit.

I could thus think of only one place left to go. My old home. Where my mother and half-sister lived. As well as my stepfather, although you could barely call him that since for the entire time that I had known him he had only ever shown utter disinterest towards me. Just like my father.

My relationship with my mother and sister wasn’t much better. In fact, the only thing constant when it came to my family seemed to be the total lack of interest and understanding they had shown towards me. I might as well have grown up amongst fucking robots. It was clear that they had been glad when I finally left home in order to be miserable elsewhere. I had definitely overstayed my welcome.

There was a bus stop in front of a nearby supermarket where a bus would take me to the suburbs where they lived. I walked to the bus stop and inspected the timetables. It was about ten minutes until the next bus. I lit a Marlboro Red.

After I had waited for a couple of minutes, an old man walked up to me. “I’ll be honest with you,” he said. “I’m not gonna ask you for money. I’ll just point out the drugs that I need in the pharmacy.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I said.

“Got the shakes, you see.” He showed me his hands, which were slightly trembling. “Get dizzy spells now and then. Need medicine for that.”

“Okay. But why are you asking me?”

“Got no money.”

“Can’t you get government help for that?”

“Bah,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “The government don’t help.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Wait,” he said, staggering a bit and putting his hand on my shoulder as if for support. “Got one of them dizzy spells again.”

I took a step back. “Well I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. You must have expected that trying to have random strangers on the street buy you medicine isn’t gonna go so well.”

His expression suddenly turned sour. “So much for loving your neighbor!” He spat. “In truth it’s every man for his fuckin’ self, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” I said matter-of-factly. “Because you’re not my neighbor, no one is. We’re all strangers, you see. And we all have our problems. Including me.”

“Yeah…” he said bitterly, his voice trailing off.

The bus soon arrived and I stepped on. I observed the old man as the bus started moving. Perhaps those “dizzy spells” had been an act. Or perhaps not. There was no way to tell. But say it hadn’t been. So what? There were millions of people suffering and dying at any moment on this wonderful little globe of ours. More than twenty thousand people alone died of hunger each day, most of them children. Merely a side effect of being born in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Did the people who made the children ever think about these things? Would they have had any children if they did? And hell, you didn’t have to be hungry to suffer. If my mother had known beforehand how miserable I would end up becoming, would she still have decided to have me? Would she have been so cruel?

In fact, wasn’t I more miserable in the end than the wretch I had just spoken to? At least his suffering could be cured by medicine, whereas mine was built into my brain. Besides, suffering was subjective. And sometimes the greatest suffering of all was to suffer from nothing. So why did he deserve more help than the countless other sufferers? Including me. And how the hell was I supposed to help someone else when I couldn’t even help myself?

The bus arrived at my destination. I stepped off. It was dark outside. It was about a ten-minute walk to my parents’ house. For some reason, I still had the habit of calling them my parents. Even though, just like my father, they barely were.

I lit a cigarette and walked along the path towards their house. The walk brought forth memories of various other times that I had walked the same path, some of them good, some of them bad, most of them forgotten.

As I walked, I noticed lots and lots of identical houses in which lived identical families who had identical thoughts. I was disgusted to see that much of the forest in these parts had recently been cut down to build even more of these identical littles houses where new identical families would soon be moving in.

When I reached the house, I rang the doorbell and waited for a while. No one answered. Fuck, I thought. No one was home. The trip had been for nothing. Still, as I had a set of keys to the house, I decided to enter, if only to sit down for a while.

Inside, the house looked as it always had. Bland. With no semblance of individuality. I walked to the fridge and opened it. There was plenty of beer, just like always, as my stepfather had a fondness for it. I grabbed an unassuming bottle, opened it, and took a sip. It tasted good.

With the beer in my hand, I walked to the door of my old room and opened it. The room had black wooden floors, black venetian blinds, dark green walls, and a black and chrome ceiling fan that I’d had installed. It was without a doubt the nicest room in the house and it was now being used for storage and as an occasional guest room.

As I walked inside, I was reminded of the copious amounts of alcohol that I had consumed there. The girlfriends that I had fucked. The pornography that I had watched. The philosophers that I had read. The isolation. The drama. My fears and hopes. And tears.

I walked to the bookshelf. There were still some books on the shelves which I had left behind, among them Emil Cioran’s The Trouble with Being Born. I opened it on one of my favorite passages and read:

The same feeling of not belonging, of futility, wherever I go: I pretend interest in what matters nothing to me, I bestir myself mechanically or out of charity, without ever being caught up, without ever being somewhere. What attracts me is elsewhere, and I don’t know where that elsewhere is.

I had left this pessimistic book of philosophy behind as a kind of joke, hoping that my mother would one day discover it. However, it was unlikely that she had since, like most normal people, she rarely read books. And even when she did, she most certainly wasn’t interested in the kinds of books that I read. No, self-help was more her cup of tea. Just like for most people.

I’d often found it funny how the only reason that writers of self-help books were rich and famous was because of selling their self-help books. Whereas, if there was any truth to these books, the person would have to be rich and famous before writing the book and even then the advice in it would be subjective at best. But then people were stupid. And bad taste, as Bukowski said, created many more millionaires than good taste. If you wanted a good example of people’s bad taste, all you needed to do was to consider the most popular book of all time—the Bible.

As I was standing in the room, I heard someone push a key into the keyhole of the front door. I put the book away and went to have a look at who it was. It was my sister.

“Brother!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

It was true that I had rarely visited them after I had moved out. But then, like a vampire, I only visited when I was invited. Which was rarely. Perhaps it was because I tended to suck the joy out of every place I went.

“I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by,” I lied. “Where’s everybody else? I saw both cars parked in front of the house.”

“Both mom and dad are at a birthday party,” she said, taking off her shoes. “They went by taxi. They said they wouldn’t be home before midnight.”

“I see.”

“Do you wanna wait for them?”

“Nah, that’s all right. I think I’ll just come back another day.”

“Okay.”

I took a sip of beer. “So… where’re you coming from?”

“From a friend’s place.”

“Uh-huh. And how’s it going? How’s school?” I couldn’t think of anything else to ask.

“What do you think?”

“It sucks?”

“Exactly.”

“Thought so.” I took another sip of beer. “I’ll, uh, be on my way then.” I took out my phone and began ordering a taxi.

“Brother, is that dad’s beer you’re drinking?”

“Indeed it is. And if he doesn’t like it he can sue me.” My stepfather was a lawyer.

“Brother!” she said with feigned shock. I think she had gotten used to my sense of humor by now.

I finished the beer and put on my jacket. The taxi would be arriving soon. “I’m gonna head off now,” I told my sister. “Be good.”

After I got in the taxi, I told the driver to take me back to the city center.

Back to the bars. Back to booze. Back to misery. My natural habitat.

28

Once in town, I decided to give Scarlet Emperor another shot. It was almost midnight.

I entered the bar and ordered a beer. It was slightly more packed this time around. I took the beer with me and went to the smoking room. There were several people there. One stood alone by the window. To my eyes, she looked like a university student. I walked up to her and lit a cigarette.

“Hello there,” I said.

“Hi,” she said, still looking out the window.

I remained silent after my greeting to see whether she was interested in conversing with me. After a few minutes, perhaps because she felt she was obliged to, she turned towards me and asked the most common of questions—what did I do?

“I think and I drink,” I replied.

“Do you study?”

“I’m an academician of no academy,” I said, flicking my cigarette butt into the metal bucket that served as an ashtray. “But never mind me. Do you study?”

“Yes.”

“What do you study?”

“Physics.”

“Hmm. Interesting.”

After she was done with her cigarette, I asked her whether she’d like a drink. She said yes. We left the smoking room and went to the bar counter to sit down.

“So what would you like?” I asked her. I never asked for strangers’ names. For what was in a name? It was the personality that mattered.

“A rum and coke,” she said.

A rather cliché choice, I thought. “Two rum and cokes,” I told the bartender.

After the bartender served us our drinks, the girl asked me, “So what brings you here?”

“Superdeterminism,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Studying physics, I assume you know what quantum mechanics is?”

“Of course,” she said, sucking on the straw of her drink.

I removed the straw from my drink and took a sip. “In that case,” I started, “you’ve probably heard all about the different interpretations of quantum mechanics, right? You know, the Copenhagen interpretation, the many-worlds interpretation, Bohm’s interpretation, and so on.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of them.”

“Great. But did you know that they’re all wrong?”

“How so?”

“Because they all make a fatal error. They assume that there is such a thing as free will. Now, classical physics shows us that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, meaning that there is no place for free will in the universe since everything in it is just mechanically reacting with other things. However, they say that since quantum mechanics involves probabilities it therefore allows for free will. Not so, says superdeterminism. While most interpretations of quantum mechanics allow for probabilities in the universe, superdeterminism takes the fact—and it is a fact—that there is no free will as its default.

“For some reason, even extremely smart scientists go for the free will illusion, probably because they really like the idea that we have freedom of choice and that we aren’t merely puppets being led on. Or perhaps simply because they have no choice not do.”

I took a sip from my drink. She didn’t seem terribly interested in what I had to say, but she was still listening.

“Anyway,” I continued, “to cut a long story short, superdeterminism says that since there hasn’t been any freedom of choice since the beginning of the universe, then every measurement ever made in science was predetermined by the terms established during the Big Bang. And as you probably know, most quantum mechanics interpretations stem from the double-slit experiment, which assumes that the result of the experiment depends on whether it is measured or not. But if there is no free will, then the ‘choice’ of measuring it was predetermined and therefore the results were also predetermined, meaning that there is no ‘measurement problem’ in quantum mechanics and therefore no probabilities.”

“Uh-huh,” was all she had to say.

“So why did the universe, being deterministic, create the illusion of free will? For the same reason it creates all illusions. Because it is predetermined to do so. Why is it predetermined to do so? Because it arose from random quantum fluctuations, as did a trillion other universes, most of which never had any life or sentience, not to mention planets or even molecules. Through a random fluke, ours did. Well, it had to, right? Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking right now.”

“Is that so?” she said. I sensed her sarcasm.

I downed my drink. “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. This is just my opinion, nothing more.”

“You’re right. That is what I’m thinking.”

“But it’s not. Not really. It’s much more than that. Free will, if you really think about it, is not a possible concept since everything can ultimately only either be predetermined or random and in either case there can be no free will. Of course, everything is random but also deterministic at the same time. How? Because the Big Bang, which set the course of the universe, was an utterly random event by any considerable standard. And yet, everything after it has been a hundred percent deterministic without a single fucking atom being anywhere it was not destined to be.”

She clearly wasn’t listening at this point and I was beginning to feel aggravated.

I continued: “This means that me talking to you and telling you all these things was destined from the very beginning of the universe. As was pedophilia, rape, and cancer. In fact, if you consider every misery ever conceived of on this little globe of ours, then God, if you wanted to call the universe that, is a malevolent scumbag, a cosmic torturer, and the king of psychopaths. But since God has no free will either, then it would be more fitting to say that God is dead and we are merely the maggots devouring on his rotting corpse, which, like the universe, eventually will be no more. And thank God for that!”

She looked nonplussed. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think I’m gonna leave.”

She got up from her seat and walked away, leaving her drink unfinished.

“Where are you going?” I asked after her, louder than I had intended to. Here I was, revealing to her the secret truth of the universe, only to be treated like a leper for doing so.

“Calm down,” the bartender told me.

“Or what?”

“Or you’ll have to leave.”

“Oh what a tragedy that would be,” I said sarcastically. “Get me a whiskey.”

A disgusted expression on her face, the bartender poured me one. I downed it. After she had poured five more, each one adding fuel to my wrath, I was beginning to feel like a philosophical Tony Montana. Eventually, drunk as fuck, I stood up from my seat. The room was spinning around me.

“You know what?” I said loudly to no one in particular, gesturing aggressively with my hands. “None of you people know fuckin’ anything. About life. About the world. About the secret truths of the universe. You don’t know shit. You live your whole lives in delirium and you die as ignorant as you live. And when someone is trying to tell you something real for a change, someone who has put their very sanity on the line in order to learn of these things, you spit in their fuckin’ face. Why? Because it threatens the nice little delusional fantasy world that you’ve constructed for yourselves, where everything is good and easy and meaningful and in it you are all-powerful. But there’s just one little problem with your fuckin’ fantasy, folks. IT’S FUCKING BULLSHIT!”

After I had finished saying the last sentence, a guy, presumably one of the bartenders, got his hands on me and began escorting me out of the bar in a stranglehold while the people in the bar watched on in silence.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” I said, but the guy persisted. He kicked the door of the bar open and began forcing me towards the stairs that led down to the exit.

When we came to the steps, I tripped and lost my balance. As I did, the bartender let go of his grip on me and I tumbled down the stairs.

And then there was only darkness.

29

I was stuck in an immense spiderweb that lay suspended in nothingness. I looked up. Above me hung a gigantic black spider. It began pulling me towards her.

I opened my eyes. Sunlight was filtering in through the window blinds to my right. The walls of the room I was in were white and the floor was covered with linoleum. There was an antiseptic smell in the air. I realized I was in a hospital bed. It was the last place I wanted to be.

I had seen the insides of hospitals plenty of times in my life already. I’d had my appendix, tonsils, and adenoids removed, and I had once broken my right arm. All of these had resulted in weeks of staying in hospitals, letting me observe their clinical ugliness in detail. The old, nearly dead people walking the halls in slow motion. The morbidly obese fat bastards barely fitting in the hospital beds. A multitude of patients with ailments both physical and imaginary. The doctors like priests. The nurses like nuns. The patients like the feeble-minded churchgoers seeking salvation for the sickness inside their souls—a sickness that only death could cure. If a human body was so fragile that it constantly needed medical care, it could not be worth very much.

I sighed. Right. But what had landed me here? I felt my head. There was a large bump on it that hurt like a son of a bitch. Let’s see. I was leaving Scarlet Emperor, drunk as fuck and against my will, and I must have tripped when I came to the stairs. Which was not surprising, seeing as somebody had held me in a stranglehold at the time. I guess they had called an ambulance for me.

I looked around the room. Aside from me, there was an old man in another bed, silently reading a newspaper. My clothes were on a chair nearby. A nurse must have undressed me.

I sat up on the bed. Like life, I had been brought to the hospital without my consent. I decided that I was going to leave and nobody was going to stop me. I got up, got dressed, and walked to the door.

“Where are you going?” the old man suddenly asked in a shrill voice, putting away his newspaper.

“I’m getting out of here,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need to be here.”

“I think you’d better wait for the nurse.”

“The nurse can’t help me, old man. No one can.”

I left the room. In the hallway, I headed for the stairs, trying to avoid eye contact with the nurses. Nobody stopped me as I slipped into the staircase.

When I reached outside, I recognized the hospital. I had visited its emergency room once due to an extremely painful stomach ache, which had made me feel as though I was about to die. I wish I had.

I dug out a cigarette and lit it. Although I felt like shit, the drag from the cigarette felt good. I checked whether I still had all my items. My wallet, my phone, my keys, a half-empty can of pepper spray, and my flask. They were all there. The flask even had whiskey in it. I uncorked it and took a long hit. It felt good.

I looked at the time. It was five in the evening. I didn’t want to return to my apartment. Not yet. For I knew what awaited me there. Thus, the only logical conclusion that remained was to go to a bar.

Yeah, I was a broken record all right.

30

The hospital was in the Russian part of town. It was an industrial district with no industry, full of Soviet-era brutalist architecture.

Its inhabitants lived in massive gray concrete apartment blocks with hundreds of small and identical apartments. The atmosphere of the oppressive regime that built them still lingered in the air, even though it was now nothing but a cheap and ugly district full of urban decay. As were its inhabitants.

I walked between the ugly gray concrete buildings, smoking cigarettes. The sky was beginning to turn dark. It looked like it was going to rain.

Considering my surroundings, I decided to go to a bar I wouldn’t have normally visited. A Russian bar. It was possible that I’d get the shit kicked out of me in one, but I didn’t care. It would merely be one more thing to push me over the edge. And considering that I was afraid of heights, I’d welcome the push. For the carousel of life was wearing extremely thin at this point and I didn’t much feel like going for another ride. It was therefore possible that this would be my last night on earth. My last night of drinking. My last night of human interaction. And I chose to spend it amongst fucking Russians. Oh well. So be it.

I finally found a sufficiently suspicious-looking place with a generic green neon sign that said, “Bar and Billiards”. A couple of mean-looking Russians were smoking near its entrance. They gave me some looks as I walked in. It was as though they could smell that I wasn’t a Russian.

I sat behind the counter. The place had a cheap yet gaudy atmosphere, as did most Russian-owned places from my experience. Despite the sign, I saw no billiards tables anywhere.

“A Heineken please,” I told the bartender. She didn’t seem to speak any Estonian or English, so I pointed towards a bottle and made a gesture with my hand. This she understood.

After the unpleasantness of waking up in the hospital bed, the beer tasted extremely good. I practically inhaled it down and ordered another one.

As I’d expected, I soon caught the eye of a Russian who, for one reason or another, just didn’t seem to like the fact that I existed. Well… that’s how it was with some of these Russians in Estonia. Because of the animosity between the Russian and Estonian populations, it was often enough to merely glance towards a mean-looking Russian and they already thought you were asking for trouble. This was due to the majority population—Estonians—resenting the minority population—Russians—for the poverty they tended to live in, which bred crime. And the minority population in turn resented the majority population for not doing anything to help end their poor living conditions.

Every country has its ghettos, as they say. And in Estonia these were the Russian parts of town. And I happened to be in one. What made it particularly funny was that I didn’t speak a word of Russian. And if you didn’t speak any Russian, the Russians looked down on you, even though they were a minority in your own country. And they, of course, didn’t think anything of not knowing any Estonian.

The Russian walked over to where I was sitting and started picking a fight with me. He said something in Russian and chuckled.

“Sorry,” I said, “I don’t speak any Russian.”

He repeated what he had previously said.

“Listen. I don’t speak any Russian, you fucking oaf.”

He pushed my shoulder.

“The fuck’s your problem, big guy?”

He pushed me again.

“Right. I guess I’ll fuck off then.” I got up and started walking towards the exit of the bar.

It was raining outside. I took out a cigarette. But before I could light it the Russian grabbed me by the shoulder and forced me into a nearby alleyway.

“Ah, here we go again,” I said, not putting up any resistance. First the boxer and now this guy.

“Shto takoi?” he said as we stopped walking. He was looking at me with a furious expression.

“You know, you really chose the wrong person to fuck with. And it’s not because I’m a tough guy like you’re pretending to be. It’s because I don’t care whether I live or die. Which means that there isn’t a single fucking thing you can threaten me with, you Russian cunt.”

“Shto?!” he said aggressively, as though he was unable to comprehend that I didn’t speak any Russian.

“Listen. If you don’t speak any Estonian or even English for Christ’s sake, why don’t you fuck off back to Russia, huh? Why are you here?”

“Idi nahhui suka bljat!” he politely informed me.

“Yeah? Well, fuck you too,” I said nonchalantly.

He punched me in the face. The punch landed on my right eye and stung like hell. Although I wasn’t much of a fighter, I wanted to retaliate, so I threw my arm at him. He blocked it with no effort. As I said, I was no fighter. Or a lover. Or a liver. I was a goner.

“You want die?” he suddenly said with a very thick Russian accent and took out a gun. So he did speak some English after all, even though it was probably just something he had heard in a Steven Seagal action movie.

“Well, as a matter of fact…”

“Shto?” He held the gun to my face.

“Oh yeah? Then do it, you pussy.” I put my hand on his gun and pointed it towards my forehead, which was something I had also seen in a movie. “Pull the trigger if you dare.” He seemed visibly confused by this. I could tell from his expression that he wasn’t going to do it. Typical tough guy. However, the opportunity was too good to let it pass. If I was going to commit suicide, my plan had been to do it by hanging myself. But fate had now presented me with an infinitely better option. A bullet to the brain hurt much less and it was easy to pull a trigger.

I had secretly taken out my can of pepper spray while he was threatening me with the gun. I suddenly pointed the can at his face and shot the spray into his eyes while at the same time grabbing hold of the gun barrel and yanking it out of his hand. The shock from the pepper spray was enough for him to let go of the gun. I sprayed what was left of the can into his eyes.

I then pistol whipped him in the face with the gun barrel as hard as I could, busting open his forehead. He fell on his knees and groaned, putting his hands on his face as blood began flowing from the wound.

My first reaction was to get the fuck away from there as fast as possible. I pushed the gun between the waist of my jeans and started walking away from the alleyway at a quick pace. My heart was pumping so fast it felt as though I was going to have a heart attack.

I took various side streets, constantly checking that no one was following me, until I eventually found a bus stop where I boarded the first bus going towards the city center.

The bus drove through Laagna canal, which had been cut deep into a limestone plateau. I looked out from the rain-streaked window—hopefully for the last time—at the huge concrete buildings passing by. Relics of an era of poverty, corruption, and brainwashing. I observed them until I noticed a little child staring at me in the bus. He was staring at my waist. I realized that the handle of the gun was showing. The kid was looking at my face now. I lifted a finger to my mouth and made a “shush” motion. He looked away in fright.

When I stepped off the bus, it was raining heavily. It was about a twenty-minute walk home. I drained what was left of the whiskey in my flask, lit a cigarette, and began walking. It was a walk to the gallows.

I didn’t mind.

31

By the time I had reached my apartment complex, I was thoroughly drenched from the rain. I checked the mailbox. In it was a letter addressed to me—a rare occurrence. I opened it whilst walking upstairs, struggling with the envelope a little.

I stopped at my front door to read it. I stared at the letter in awe. It was an eviction notice. I had thirty days to vacate the premises. An involuntary smile crept on my face. It seemed that God had a sense of humor after all. A dark one at that.

Inside the apartment, I put the gun on the table, changed out of my wet clothes, and poured myself a drink.

I then sat on the couch and looked at the gun. It was a Beretta. It was tempting, but I decided to postpone my suicide until the morning. It was best to do mentally taxing things shortly after waking up when the mental faculties were at their sharpest since they got worn down during the day. And I could think of nothing more mentally taxing than the decision to commit suicide, which according to Camus was the only philosophical question that mattered. Since this was the most important decision that I would ever make, I wanted to make sure that I did it not out of an emotional fit of despair but rather from a logical conclusion. I would thus get to spend one last night in the company of my oldest friend—alcohol.

I took a drink.

They said that life flashed before your eyes before you died. Of course, that wasn’t true. It was just a Hollywood cliché. But seeing as I had some time to kill before killing myself, I decided to reflect upon the predetermined trajectory of my life that had brought me now to the miserable point where my existence would come to an end with an exclamation mark.

I took another drink.

So let’s start from the very beginning. First, the universe began. A bad move. The source of all our troubles. Eventually matter formed and grouped together, making planets and stars and so on. And on one of these planets, a disease developed. A disease called life. It kept evolving into more and more complex forms until one of its forms became known as humans. Inspired mainly by delirium, they ultimately overtook the earth, littering it with their deluded little offspring. And eventually, from one of these I was born.

I took a long drink and sighed.

I didn’t remember much from my childhood. Perhaps because there wasn’t much to remember. But what I did remember was growing up in poverty in a one-room apartment. Not that I minded it at the time of course. For how different everything appeared to the naïve eyes of a child… how acceptable… how meaningful. Children, as Giacomo Leopardi said, saw everything in nothing, whereas men saw nothing in everything.

I drained the glass and poured it full again.

My mother and father split up when I was seven years old. My mother got custody over me. Although I visited my father sometimes, he eventually moved abroad. Me and my mother moved a lot as well. I guess it was because of the poverty. In any case, I had moved house about fifteen times before I was even a teenager. That might have been one of the reasons why I never had any friends.

Eventually, I started school. I was an excellent student at first, getting straight As. This lasted for about four years. Then, for some reason, I started not giving a fuck. My grades dropped and my attitude towards school changed. I often got summoned to the principal’s office. Yet I was never punished for this at home. Nor was there much of an attempt to fix this behavior from my “parents”—for my mom had found another man by then.

Regardless of what I did, my parents seemed to ignore me most of the time. Sometimes they appeared to take an interest, but when I discussed with them my lack of interest in school, they couldn’t explain in any meaningful way why I had to make an effort.

Both school and parents were terrible motivators and I began to see gaping holes in the fictions they spun from an early age. As a result, I struggled to finish primary school. I had started with all As and ended up barely finishing it. I had to take the last grade twice. I played hooky all the time. I constantly went on cigarette breaks with the other malfeasants. Yet I never much felt I belonged with their crowd. Instead, I often felt alone. And most of the time I preferred it that way since when it came to being with them or being alone, the latter was the more comforting option.

When I went home, I usually watched movies. I watched on average three movies per day, becoming quite the film buff in the process. It was refuge from the misery of everyday life. But despite my love of movies, I had no tangible ideas about what I was going to do with my life. Although I might have wanted to be Kubrick, I wasn’t even capable of being Ed Wood.

In high school, I made an effort at first, much like in primary school. And my grades were good. At least for a while. But the arbitrary rules of the school system eventually got to me. I began questioning why I was forced to learn about subjects that didn’t interest me in the least, such as art history and music history, and why the subjects overall were so poorly thought. I asked my math teacher why so many times that one day she had a mental breakdown. She just couldn’t explain to me how things worked or why they were relevant. One was not supposed to question these things. They were supposed to be self-evident. But they weren’t.

Soon, I developed an interest in philosophy. After all, philosophy was all about questioning things that other people accepted as self-evident, which seemed to be the only thing I was good at. It may have had something to do with the lack of a fatherly figure in my youth. As did my disregard for authority.

One day I borrowed a book from my local library called Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche. Although I hadn’t been much of a reader, I had read a book here and there. However, this one was different. It was the first book I ever read that wasn’t a thriller, science fiction, or fantasy. The book, amongst other things, was about the subjectivity of truth. About how there were various ways how to look at things. And how whichever way was common in society was a function of power, not truth.

I read the book during lunch breaks at school and soon began skipping classes. I borrowed more books on philosophy. I started taking long walks in nature to contemplate upon what I had read and to think about the world around me. Most of the things that I had been told whilst growing up were wrong, that much was clear. My parents, school, and society had all lied to me since birth. But why? I wasn’t entirely sure, but I was beginning to think that they had been lied to as well.

Ultimately, my interest in philosophy led to an interest in science. And though this interest would last for a while, it began making me more and more depressed. I soon came to see the people around me as unreasonable to the extreme. I saw their beliefs as fiction. Their reasoning non-existent. And the society that they had created as little more than an altar of lies where illusions were cherished instead of truths.

And though there were people who spoke of potential scientific utopias, these ideas, as time passed, began to seem more and more removed from reality to me. I came to realize that they were mainly based on optimistic and wishful thinking and could never be achieved in reality. So either I had to accept the shit society around me, work on changing it without really changing anything, or perish. Those weren’t pleasant options.

Since I had failed to find in science what philosophy lacked (solutions), I started questioning science itself. Particularly why scientists rarely seemed to use a scientific attitude towards society and its traditions and values. Indeed, they seemed well-entrenched in the illusions of society, most of them believing in country and family, some even in God. Ultimately, they didn’t seem like real scientists to me. A real scientist, I felt, would question everything. Not just what they were paid to question.

So I went back to philosophy. Disappointed in ideology, I sought out writers who had been similarly disappointed. I discovered a book by the Romanian philosopher Emil Cioran called On the Heights of Despair. The book blew my mind. Although it was negative to the extreme, it seemed to say what I had suspected all along. That we were living in a world of delusions, that life was mostly suffering, and that it would have been better never to have been born.

This kind of thinking, I soon learned, had a name. Philosophical pessimism. And for obvious reasons, it was about as non-mainstream as it got.

As I dug into it more, I discovered some really far out there thinkers, such as the German philosopher Philipp Mainländer who thought that before the beginning of the universe there was God. However, unlike Christians, he concluded that the reason why the universe was formed was because God wanted to commit suicide. Thus, God shattered his timeless and non-material being into a time-bound and material universe—in other words, the Big Bang. The reason God did so was because existence was unbearable even to him. And since the entire universe was essentially God’s rotting corpse, everything in it had an inbuilt will to die. Everything was destined towards oblivion.

To me, his philosophy appeared to be a more poetic way of saying that entropy always increased and would ultimately result in the heat death of the universe. Although Mainländer’s cosmogony was a rather wacky idea, it held a certain doomed romance to it and it was without a doubt the most interesting alternative theory of the universe that I had ever heard of.

Out of all the philosophical pessimists that I discovered—and for obvious reasons, there weren’t many—I found the most reasonable among them to be the Norwegian philosopher Peter Wessel Zapffe. The main problem with humans, he claimed, was that we had too much consciousness. Unlike other animals, we weren’t satisfied simply with being. We needed a reason to be. In other words, we were the victims of an evolutionary oversight—the need to have meaning in a meaningless universe. And this was the tragedy of our existence.

According to Zapffe, mankind had invented four major strategies to cope with this. The first strategy was to isolate all unpleasant thoughts from our minds and to banish them from our daily lives. This was why people tended to be optimists and why they didn’t want to go “too deep” on any given subject for fear of what they might find.

The second strategy was to anchor ourselves to artificial social institutions like church, country, and family, so that we could live within the illusions of certainty that these provided. This was why people thought that family was everything, why they went to war for their countries, and why they went nuts just to believe in a god.

The third strategy was to distract ourselves with pointless pastimes, such as sports and drinking and nightclubs and dancing and violin practice and movies and pornography and soap operas and so on. Which was a very popular strategy indeed.

The fourth and final strategy was to sublimate the horrors of existence and use them to create a meaningful experience, such as a novel or a painting or a song or even a philosophy. This was clearly the best strategy out of the four. But it wasn’t easy to achieve.

Of course, Zapffe had also found suicide a perfectly natural reaction to our existential predicament. As, indeed, over time had I.

Although at first it had felt good to discover these outcasts who felt the same way about life as I did, this soon grew into a confirmation of how bad life truly was and what a curse it was to be forced into this world. Philosophical pessimism had thus made me feel even more depressed. Alas, I had passed the point of no return, and it was now too late to go back to the land of naïve dreams and happy fantasies.

Ultimately, due to the incessant disappointments from school, family, philosophy, science, jobs, girlfriends, friends, and life in general, I began drinking. Drinking often made me forget the shittiness of things, even as it sometimes made me act erratically. This culminated when one morning, after a night of heavy drinking, I woke up on the outskirts of another city. I woke up with my phone smashed, my cash gone, a cut on my head, and my hands bloody. I had no recollection of the last fifteen hours, but all the signs pointed towards violence and insanity.

Of course, I knew inside what had happened. For when I drank enough alcohol in a low mood, which I usually was in, the anger of having been forced into this world and having lived an unsatisfactory life came bubbling out of me and eventually exploded like dynamite. Alcohol removed the chains holding in check my wish for revenge over having to conform to the stupidity of everyday life. Alcohol turned Jekyll into Hyde. But Jekyll was merely a façade. Hyde was there all along. Hyde was hatred for the world. And Jekyll the attempt to hide it.

And yet, I had managed to find something positive about the experience. I wrote a short story about it called Desolation. It was the first story I had written that was based entirely on my life. Although I hadn’t realized it at the time, the story was a Zapffean attempt at sublimation. Unfortunately, when I sent it to various magazines, they all rejected it.

I continued writing more stories which also got rejected. It didn’t help matters much that I didn’t have any friends or relatives who were involved with writing or publishing. For it was often through connections that people got things done in this corrupt society. Of course, it was also entirely possible that the stories just sucked.

Still, I continued writing. Some of what I wrote was pure fiction and some was based on my own life, though all of it was pessimistic. Regardless of whether it was good or bad, it seemed unlikely that I would ever get published because the stories focused mainly on the negative and rarely had a happy ending. Dark and depressing stories didn’t appeal to most people, and even when they did they had to have a happy ending. In horror fiction, the serial killer had to be caught, the monster had to be killed, the ghost had to be banished. A happy ending was expected. Despite how much suffering was caused, all was well that ended well.

But what if the monster was reality itself? What if there couldn’t be a happy ending because the horror in the story was existence itself and existence always ended in misery and death? That was what my stories were about. Not exactly a light read.

Out of all the stories that I wrote—and truth be told, there weren’t many because I was a perfectionist who lacked motivation, which meant that each story took a while to finish—only one of them got published. It was one of the best feelings I had ever felt in my life. Even if it was just some obscure online magazine that didn’t pay me anything for it.

Inspired by this small success, I kept writing more stories and sending them to various magazines. All of them ended up getting rejected. And it usually took months to even get a reply. One magazine—a major one—managed to take an entire fucking year before getting back to me with their rejection. I was beginning to get disillusioned to say the least.

In total, I sent stories to about fifty different magazines before giving up. It seemed that the story that got published had been a rare occurrence, a fluke. Indeed, I soon learned that only around one in ten thousand books that were written ever got published. It thus began to seem that writing wasn’t going to be the salvation that I was seeking. And so, I eventually stopped writing altogether.

I tried to find other things to do in life. I tried exercising. I tried traveling. I tried other jobs. Other girlfriends. But it was never enough. None of these things were enough in the long run to keep me satisfied. Sooner or later, that old thought crept back into my mind. About how utterly futile everything was. How nothing was ultimately worth the bother. And so, whenever I tried to find something in life worth doing, I quickly lost interest. The only constant companion that I had was my depression, which rarely left me. Even as everyone else did.

Occasionally, my depression turned into anger. Anger over not having any friends because I couldn’t relate to people. Anger over my family not caring about what I was going through. Anger over not being able to keep a girlfriend. Anger over having been born. Born without a choice into this rotten world. It seemed that my brain just kept remembering the bad shit over and over again, repeating it like a broken record. “See how bad your life is?” it reminded me. “See how everything keeps getting fucked all the time? See how you’re never satisfied with anything?”

“At least you’re alive.” That’s what normal people said. As though just being alive was such a boon. “You’re making yourself miserable by thinking these things.” That’s what my mother once told me. As if I was intentionally trying to make myself miserable. People who said such things clearly didn’t realize how the mind worked.

The mind was not a thing that existed by itself. It was an illusion that emerged from having thoughts. But what were thoughts? Thoughts were based on experience and information that was stored in the brain by having specific neurons fire in specific patterns. Since thoughts consisted of millions of such neurons firing together, any one of them was not a memory in itself and only a large number of neurons firing together formed the image of a “thought”.

As an analogy, one bit in a computer held nearly no information whereas many bits together could form an image on a screen. However, unlike the information stored on a computer hard drive, the image a thought formed was much more vague and volatile and subject to change.

But how were these thoughts recalled? Why did they occur in our brains? Was it because we chose to recall them? Did we choose to think about miserable things? Clearly not. Recalling a thought was a reaction—light entered our eyes or sound entered our ears, which created an electrical signal of specific strength in a specific area of the brain, which traveled to a specific region and made certain synapses between a bunch of neurons trade various specific chemicals in specific amounts; this then formed a pattern, which formed an image in our consciousness, which we then automatically either expressed or did not express, depending on the circumstances.

The more one reacted to the external stimuli that activated these patterns—which started out as very simple and were built upon over time, as was obvious when one thought of the development of a child—the more one strengthened a particular thought and the more likely it was to be recalled when reacting to the things in one’s environment related to it.

Consciousness, on the other hand, was being cognizant that all this was happening, whilst erroneously thinking that the reaction happened because we willed it to, when in truth it was all automatic. This was what Schopenhauer meant when he said that a man could do what he wanted, but that he couldn’t want what he wanted.

There was thus no “mystery” to consciousness despite what most people thought. An artificial brain created exactly as a human brain, which received the same sensory information from the same body would behave just like a human being would. Provided it also had the opportunity to grow and slowly gather experience and information which made the brain automatically choose what was subjectively useful or not, depending on what provided more pleasure and less pain, thereby creating the illusion of a persona that through many a feedback loop was ultimately able to perceive itself. Which was the reason why very young children didn’t realize that they existed until the brain had developed enough of these feedback loops.

Simply put, human beings did not think, there was no mind, and there was no consciousness. Not to mention something as utterly absurd as a soul, which for inexplicable reasons many people still believed in. Why hadn’t science found any of these things? Because they didn’t exist. They were only self-flattering fantasies that stemmed from the illusion of having free will and were in no way needed for the operation of a human being.

Which brings me to free will. Since thoughts were automatic reactions that formed from physically encoded memories in the brain, our reactions to our environment were involuntary. The illusion of free will arose from the simple fact that both human beings and their environments were vast and diverse and with an inconceivable number of variables that each affected another, which in turn affected another and so on until the outcome indeed appeared to be a mystery.

So it was with our so-called choices, for we were in most cases unable to see the specific string of causes and reactions that led like a mathematical calculation to a particular “choice”, whereupon we proclaimed that we had made it, as if by magic, as if it had not been affected by anything other than our own free will.

However, a choice was always affected by something. If we had never learned about a thing, it would not have been possible for us to conceive of it, and thus a choice that presupposed—and all of them did—knowledge of something beforehand would remain impossible for us.

And even if we were to have more or less equal knowledge about two distinct subjects and were put into the position of having to choose between them, wouldn’t we simply choose the one that seemed more beneficial for us at the time? And wouldn’t this “free” choice come from our past experiences which had tilted the balance in the present towards the choice that had worked for us in the past?

So where did our persona come from? From our environment. Environment shaped and created people while people shaped and created the environment. And when one was wretched, the other one was likewise—a vicious cycle from which there was no escape. Yet first there was the environment. And since man did not have free will, which would account for his malignancy, it must have been the environment itself that was malignant. Which meant that man was ultimately little more than a suffering puppet in an adverse universe.

At least, so it would seem when one anthropomorphized it. To put it more objectively, the universe didn’t even care enough about man to torture him, for it operated without any purpose whatsoever. We were merely the unlucky fragments of it that had become conscious. And most of these fragments were so weak that they would take any delusion that came their way and even preached it to others just to make their brief period of consciousness seem less empty and meaningless than it actually was.

So in conclusion, consciousness was an illusion, the self was an illusion, free will was an illusion—hell, EVERYTHING was an illusion if you thought about it enough. Colors didn’t exist without light bouncing off of objects and entering our eyes. Even shapes were abstractions as nothing ever really touched anything; the sense of touch was an illusion created by electromagnetism. The actual universe was dark and shapeless, and we were only grouped parts of it that moved about deterministically, all the while hallucinating a dream which we called reality.

I took a long drink, some of it spilling on my shirt.

Everything was an illusion. And yet it was real. Although the world was constructed of illusions, since there was no “true world” to compare it with, the illusions were our only truth. So if life was little more than an absurd dream hallucinated by our brains, killing ourselves was the act of becoming free of this dream.

And what did freedom look like? It looked like nothing. The only freedom that existed was non-existence. A thing that existed always had rules and conditions and limitations. A thing that did not exist had no rules. It was infinitely free. Free not to be.

Perhaps nothingness was our true home and existence was our exile, as Emil Cioran proclaimed. And perhaps entropy was a way for the universe to show that it longed for this nothingness. Was meant for it. Because it was the natural state of things and not this aberration called reality.

Back when I was into science, I kept seeing how scientists were cooing over how “wonderful” the universe was and how everything was “connected” in it since our bodies contained elements that came from exploding stars.

I had even heard it proclaimed that we were the universe “experiencing itself”. But if so, wasn’t every suicide then a part of the universe killing itself? As was every murder, catastrophe, genocide, and war. In fact, weren’t all harms that had ever been committed then the universe harming itself? So what good were such meaningless and prosaic one-sided statements? They meant absolutely nothing.

And—did it change the fact that we were forced into this world without a choice? A world where from an early age we were fed fairy tale lies about how wonderful it was and how everything was possible in it. But if all these fantastic things were possible, then why did they never materialize? Why did people end up working at McDonald’s? Why did they shoot heroin into their veins? Why did they molest their children? Why did they kill themselves? Our parents never seemed to mention those parts for some reason. Or when they did, they thought it was the person’s own fault. How fucking convenient!

And then we were forced to go to school. Which was essentially a mandatory prison sentence where we were little more than slaves and learned almost nothing useful at all since it was not actually designed to educate people, but rather to train them for a job, which in this society consisted mostly of a variety of menial and meaningless tasks, which we were forced to partake in to feed ourselves and to pay our rent. And yet, we were “free”. The world made sense. Everything was beautiful. Everything was good. Being alive was wonderful.

And if one got depressed over living in this scam of a society—again, without a choice—one was declared mentally ill and was either brainwashed by psychologists or drugs. This was really convenient. It was always easier to blame the victim, you see. And when someone committed suicide, we were shocked. But why? They had merely stood up against the scam they were born into. The scam of life.

Suicide was the only way to escape from this hell. Killing yourself was nothing more than the disruption of the mechanisms that created consciousness and kept the body alive. By shooting a bullet into your brain you were simply speeding up life, which would end in death anyway. The question was, when? And how much suffering did you have to go through before you’d had enough?

Nietzsche said that to live was to suffer and to survive was to find some meaning in the suffering. But what if there wasn’t any meaning in the suffering? All there was were explanations. Explanations that revealed how hollow and meaningless everything was, making reality senseless. And it was this senselessness that filled me with rage. Nothing in the world actually made any fucking sense at all if you thought about it enough. In truth, we were all born into an insane asylum and the only reason we thought it made any sense at all was because it was all we knew.

I started pacing in my apartment. The whiskey bottle was empty now. The idea that I had been born into this world only to suffer and to then violently off myself because I just couldn’t take it anymore filled me with rage.

What was the point in any of it? There wasn’t any. There couldn’t be. Life was but a monstrous and cruel joke that nobody asked for.

A joke?

No—a nightmare.

32

I woke up on the floor of my living room with a throbbing headache. My right hand was covered in dried blood and the skin on my knuckles was broken.

I saw that the room had been trashed—a table lamp had been smashed on the ground; framed pictures were lying on the floor, the glass smashed to pieces; liquor bottles, drinking glasses, books, DVDs, candle holders, a clock, and various other knick-knacks had been thrown all across the room.

The cherry on top of the shit pie was a picture of Vicky pinned to the wall with a black butterfly knife through her face. Of course, I didn’t remember doing any of this.

When I went to the bathroom to puke, I saw that the mirror on the wall above the sink had been smashed—with my fist by the looks of it.

After I finished puking out my insides, I gazed into the broken mirror. A fragmented monster looked back. I had a black eye, my eyebrow was busted, my hair was disheveled, my clothes were dirty, my face was anemic. I looked half-dead already. I decided it was finally time to kill the other half. This last week I had put the value of life to the test. The conclusion, as always, was negative. There was no value. None as far as I could see.

I went looking for the gun I had gotten from the Russian. For a moment, I considered whether the whole incident involving it had all been but a dream due to its inherent absurdity… until I found the gun laying on the floor of the living room.

I picked it up and examined it. It was made out of metal and it was heavy; it was, without a doubt, real. I recalled a passage from Will O’ the Wisp:

A revolver is solid, it is made of steel. It is an object. To come up against an object at last.

Aside from alcohol, this book had been my only companion during this last miserable week. It was based on an actual person who had committed suicide—the author’s friend. And now I was going to be inspired by it. It would be life imitating art imitating life.

Could a book even inspire somebody to commit suicide? Probably not. It could merely give you the final push needed, which might come from any direction. In my case, it was no single thing that had led to this point but many things in tandem. The direction had been set many years ago and it was now time for the culmination. The finale. The wild finish.

In the end, it wasn’t even my decision to kill myself. For I was but a small part of the universe. It was the universe, constantly at war with itself, that had decided upon removing this one sentient being from its midst for no good reason aside from having tortured it long enough. And that was all right by me. For I did not condemn the universe for it, as I was sure that it was but another victim of external circumstances, just like everybody who has suffered ill or done ill in this evil world of ours. I very much doubted that the universe could choose whether it wanted to exist or not. It was forced to. Just like me.

With the gun in my hand, I sat down on the couch, considering where I should do it. For some reason, doing it on the couch didn’t appeal to me. I’d get blood on it; blood that would never come out. I decided to do it on the floor instead. Yes, I know; it was silly to care about the couch. But it was merely one final act of irrationality in an irrational life. In other words, a sure-fire sign of being human, all too fucking human. So be it.

I kneeled down on the floor as though in front of God. However, there was no God. There was nobody that would look out for this miserable pathetic soul who’d had enough of the vicissitudes of fate. There was nobody that cared for me. Not Vicky. Not my mom. Not my dad. Not even me.

I didn’t know much about guns, but I had been to a shooting range a few times and this Beretta seemed simple enough to operate. I took the magazine out to make sure it was loaded. It was. I pushed it back in. Then I took the safety off.

All I had to do now was to pull the trigger. It was such an easy thing to do that I began wondering why more people didn’t do it. Was it because they were against guns? I chuckled at the stupidity of my final joke.

I made a last-minute attempt to think of a good reason why not to go through with it. I couldn’t think of one. Besides, a million people committed suicide each year. It was nothing unusual. I was nothing special. Although it may have been a great tragedy for me, for the world at large I was just another statistic.

I put the muzzle of the gun against my right temple. I positioned it so the bullet would more or less directly penetrate the center of my brain.

I took a deep breath. “To die is the finest thing you could do,” I quoted from the end of Will O’ the Wisp to an invisible audience. “The most positive, the most you could do.”

I pulled the trigger.

Sublimation

There was a click, but nothing happened. I pulled the trigger again. Click. Still nothing. What was going on? Was it God? Had he intervened at the last moment because he cared? Was he preventing me from killing myself?

I chuckled. Of course not. The gun had jammed. Guns did that every once in a while. And even though the odds of it happening were small, unlike miracles it did happen. Especially with poorly cared-for guns, which this one indeed appeared to be. It wasn’t divine intervention; it was pure chance. And yet, according to my views, this chance was predetermined since the beginning of the universe.

Well, shit, I thought. Now what? It seemed I was a failure in both life and death.

I sat back down on the couch, considering my options. I couldn’t jump from anywhere up high because I was afraid of heights. Hanging myself from the steel beam in my closet didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore; besides, I didn’t have any rope. Gun range? But it was closed today. Also, since the instructor was right next to you, he might intervene, and I might end up getting locked up instead. I couldn’t slit my wrists either because I was afraid of the pain. Nor did I have any pills, which I wouldn’t be able to take anyway due to my fear, again, of physical pain.

I sat on the couch for a while, at a loss as to what I should do. I had reached the lowest point in my entire life. I had read somewhere that when Nietzsche had reached a similarly low point, he had decided to become an optimist. How he managed that, I had no idea. The hole I was in seemed fitting for only one thing. A grave.

Eventually I started thinking about Zapffe again. About his four strategies for coping with existence. First there was isolation. But that wouldn’t work since I couldn’t isolate disturbing thoughts from my mind. I was used to being honest with myself and facing the unpleasant aspects of existence head-on instead of ignoring them.

Then there was anchoring. But I couldn’t anchor myself to fictitious institutions like family, God, or country. At least, not anymore. Due to the way my family had raised me, I had no belief in family anymore. They were strangers to me. As were all the women who had left me. Obviously, I didn’t believe in God; I was amazed that anybody could at this point in history. Nor did I believe in the concept of a country. A country was an arbitrary historical idea—an illusion if you got right down to it. In truth, there was just one planet, arbitrarily divided, its various cultures engaged in their own specific forms of superstitions and delusions.

The third strategy was distraction. But I had already tried various pastimes and amusements to make life more bearable. I had seen thousands of movies. I had read hundreds of books. I had traveled, not immensely, but enough to realize that every place was essentially the same underneath its facade. I had gone to bars and restaurants, to concerts and festivals, on hikes and road trips. I had drank and I had fucked. But it was all too little. Entertainment was simply not a good enough of a reason to survive. Sooner or later, it began repeating itself. Sooner or later, it grew boring and unfulfilling. Sooner or later, it would make me feel like just another brainless consumer, one of many, mindlessly consuming some worthless fucking product.

The only strategy that remained was sublimation. The art of using your pain to create art. Of turning muck into gold. Nietzsche said that art was the proper task of life. And even though I didn’t like most so-called art—especially the pretentious kind—what I did like, for instance my favorite novels, I loved dearly. I loved works that were authentic. That were about their authors’ struggles. About their desolation, suffering, misery, humiliation, and despair. And perhaps, also, about their hope.

To me, a book that I could relate to—as rare as that was—was something to be cherished; it was more valuable than anything else on earth. What if I tried writing such a book? After all, weren’t most of my favorite books written under similarly shitty circumstances that I was in?

I could write it about my past week; it had been quite the rollercoaster ride, both tragic and meaningful at the same time. At least to me. And if it was meaningful to me, perhaps it could be to others. Others who have felt themselves similarly outcast from human society; not fit to live in this world and the world not fit for them to live in it.

Writing such a book might not solve all of my problems. But it would give me the chance of using my pain to create something for a change instead of using it only to destroy. And this alone might be enough to help keep me going for a little while longer. Just a bit. Just enough.

Whether the book would end up being considered good or bad didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it was authentic. That it was honest. That it didn’t hold back. That its contents, as Nietzsche put it, were written with the author’s own blood.

And if you’re reading this, then it seems that I’ve succeeded.

And I hope you will too.

Copyright

Copyright © 2020 Keijo Kangur

All rights reserved

Edited by Maria Sütt

Cover design by Keijo Kangur

Cover photography by Maria Sütt

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ISBN: 979-8-6632-1634-0

Content

Keijo Kangur
THE NIHILIST
A NOVEL

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Sublimation

Copyright