Useless

Chapter 1: Introductions

I still remember when I decided to stop writing. It just happened, out of the blue. After all, I wasn't making a living from my novels or little stories—romanzucci—as the press called them, burying my short-lived writing career. Let's be honest, I've never been one to persevere. Maybe if I had, something worthwhile might have come from my unpolished pen. But to hell with writing! I'm not a writer, never have been, and never wanted to be. I only pursued this profession to prove to my mother that I wasn't useless—which, let's face it, I am.

I have no interests, no passions, no job, nothing at all except a state-of-the-art smartphone and four walls to live in, which are mostly in my mother's name anyway. I could have done a lot of things. I could have been somebody, considering my mother is one of the wealthiest women in town. But to hell with all of it—I don't want to be anyone. I don't want to have anything.

I spend a lot of time with women; they're a constant in my daily routine. After all, the money my mother deposits into my account has to be spent somehow, and I admit, they're my favorite pastime. I'm not sure why I said earlier that I don't have any interests. On second thought, I do have a few, but they probably fall more into the category of vices than interests. Call me crazy, but I believe there's a pretty close relationship between the two: if interest is the father, then vice is the son.

Here's a small demonstration: Take soccer, for example. I started following it purely for fun, to fill my days. Then, once I started to understand it a bit, I downloaded a betting app on my iPhone and started gambling, turning it into a full-blown vice. That's how, in short, an interest can morph into a vice. I could give you more examples to back up my theory, but I can't be bothered.

As I said before, women are a constant in my life, like pasta is for Italians. I love women, and even though they all look different—at least on the surface—there's something they all have in common: they want to be desired.

Desire. Let's dwell on that for a moment. How would you define it? I don't even have to think twice: I'd say desire is nothing more than a vice! Quae est retrorsum, everything comes full circle. Why, you ask? Well, because it's what keeps relationships alive; it's the flame that warms them. And when it dies, the relationship crumbles. And if you can't call that a vice, then you might as well stop reading now, because I'm going to say things that won't sit well with you. But you can't always hear what you want—life doesn't work that way.

At this point, you're probably thinking, "Look at this slacker, trying to preach to us about life." Well, my friends, I may not be a successful man, but at least I can say I have my own opinions, unlike you—bees in a hive, sheep in a flock. Your opinions are just reflections of other people's, and you're empty inside. I am anything but empty.

You know, growing up without a father isn't easy, but let's say my mother was so overbearing that she took on both roles. Badly, but she filled them. Not having a father figure to look up to, though, made me more independent. I had no one to emulate, no ideas to sell as my own. I can honestly say I am the product of myself, pure and untainted. You, who claim to love freedom so much, know this: I am a free person. And the fact that I choose to drown in my vices is proof of that. I can be free; you cannot.

Right now, I'm smoking a red Marlboro, paired with a perfectly aged glass of rum, and I don't feel the need to do anything else. Meanwhile, you're reading this crap, probably wasting time you could be spending with your family, at work, or on something worthwhile, and you'll regret it. And that's the difference between you and me: I have no regrets, and I never will. Because I have nothing, and those who have nothing can regret nothing.