An auto-biographical blog of [and about] a self-centered, porn-addicted shizo with a fucked-up mind that tries to find true love in this world. Maybe irrelevant, stupid and backwards... but in many ways the only read (about weed) you need. Made for true friends and lazy readers worldwide. [Free temporary ads colored red in all posts]
Guys, I'm currently working on the audiobook of my first blogpost collection (It's not supposed to hurt) and I assume it'll take a while until I get it fixed for public. For now I'll leave you with a free teaser, just to give you an idea what the book may sound like...
[It's not supposed to hurt - Audio Teaser; Link to audio file follows]
By the way, I found out that none of you guys would ever tell me that my writings sometimes suck. I have no idea why you think that honestly telling me such things would be bad.... I also don't blame my friend who sometimes does the peer review--since he as a teacher usually corrects writings of fourteen-year-olds. Nevertheless, I would not have been mad at you if you had told me 😅, especially since I counted an estimated 20 Germanisms, dozens of wrong prepositions, spelling errors and one word that doesn't even exist in the English language... all that in the first post I reviewed myself. Maybe I should not have published that shit in my cannabis-influenced midlife crisis😆. Anyway, I'm just hoping the other seven posts are not that infested with "Austrish" expressions. For future events, I simply shouldn't tell anyone that this is the blog of an alleged English translator😜
Also, I need to thank all of you for forwarding the link of the penultimate post of the "It's not supposed to hurt"-series to other people...
Today's post is kinda the beginning of a new blogging season. What I'll do and haven't done in the first season is put two mindsets in the mix that I'd love to keep in my mental emergency kit. One is against pressure during psychotic episodes, the other is so that I won't blow my head off. The latter will be an iambic poem that I'll I put exactly in this first post, just to be safe.
But before I'll type that shit down, let us all creep down to the floor in modest adoration to the empirical sciences, that up to this day still can't tell us what to do, only what we can, and maybe what we want.* Let us all pray to our certainly creator-less universe while we still question everything we say:
Sacra convictio hominis sui ipsius cogitantis
I am convinced
that each and every child born into this world is in its very nature good, innocent and pure
but through negative imprint of all sorts gets bullshit shat into its skull
I want to believe from the bottom of my once tender, now sick and darkened heart
that once bullshit got into our skulls
there is a way to get it out of there again
and from what is accessible to the human mind
I think that once we got it out of there
there is no point in shittin' in there again
Amen
WORK IN PROGRESS
Borrowed plumes in this writing:
* Objektität sozialwissenschaftlicher und sozialpolitischer Erkenntnis - Max Weber
Hooooh, eventually I made it and picked up the keyboard again. So let's binge-write excessively 😅...
Hi guys,
If this is the first post of mine you're about to read, I just let you know that I usually start with a written exercise of mindfulness before telling the actual story. If that's nothing for you, just scroll down to the title in bold letters...
Anyway... Guys, I've been through a lot lately and I'm still trying to find inner peace, at least for a while. When I started the draft of this post I read the 14th of July and it was about 9 o'clock in the evening. The finals of the European soccer championship just started and I thought I'm concentrated enough to get at least one noteworthy story off my chest. But I was still far from being concentrated and focused; I still couldn't write. So I opened the window, listened to the rain washing down outside and let a breeze of cool, sprinkly air touch my skin. I lit a tealight and put it on my night desk, watched it burn down, hoping to find some rest. I fell asleep only a few moments later...
My idea was to sleep, let my unconscious order some thoughts and wake up the next morning with a clear head that I can keep up; thoughts ordered and problems that turned out to be ridiculous then already forgotten... That trick used to work most of the time when I was a kid; and my father, back then when he was still alive, knew about that magic. Every time I sobbingly ran to him in order to tell him about my fears and worries, he always came up with stories including comparable experiences and frightening feelings he himself had when he was a boy. Then (as a father, from outside my mind), knowing how to cope with such experiences and feelings, he would conclude by telling me "Tomorrow will be a better day"--and usually it was. In fact, it always was; and the problems were and appeared just as ridiculous as he promised they were when we sat on the breakfast table the next morning. My father was a fucking magician. I'm sure if I had him around today, he'd still invent a few tricks I'd fall for...
When I woke up this morning, today, on the 15th of July, I just thought the old trick would work properly. So I soon leaped up from the couch, poured some coffee down my throat, went out to grab some vegetables for breakfast and let the day start perfectly balanced. However, I feel a bit edgy and still confused from the thousands of experiences I had the last couple of weeks... ...and balance is not the word to describe what I'm presently perceiving from inside. I'm shaky, nervous, puzzled; in a nutshell, overwhelmed by the feelings that currently flood my head. But now that I'm realizing all this, I'm pretty sure those are good feelings that I just can't name, categorize or control. They might stem from my own courage, from myself going out of my comfort zone, from leaving the cage in order to enter harsh reality and let chaos in this absurd world bring about those unforgettable moments that can mend even my sick black heart. Diverted from the pointlessness of life, I can once again be warm and comfy until I wither again. And how that works, by the way, I figured out for myself lately. Spoiler alert: it's not magic.
I'll shortly tell you what I actually did right the last couple of months hoping that that might even help some of you guys. Then we can plunge into the main story. So, here we go:
First, what you might need to know about me personally is that I am someone who, after years that sooner or later feel like boredom, monotonia, hopelessness and frustration... I'm someone who in his tendencies longs for measurable, sensible big changes in life at least once a decade. Such big changes I need to feel and live consciously. Usually I get that kick by jumping from one extreme into the other..., in many ways by doing exactly the opposite of what I used to do the last couple of years. I don't say such big changes always help--since different doesn't necessarily always mean better--but this time it feels hellishly right what I'm doing. Performing such a 180-mutegrab just can be quite exhausting and up to this day I can't remember having managed to land that jump safely. At the moment I'm just up in the sky, hoping for the best this time.
However, as I wrote, the change must be conscious and therefore planned, maybe even scheduled. You may have read my last posts, #6 and #7 of the "It's not supposed to hurt"-series, right... In post #6 I told you that going vegan back in the day wasn't a mistake and that during that time I was true to myself. Just by writing it down and outlining what went awry back then and the like I automatically came to decide that I'd go vegan again. I'd do all the things I did wrong the first time right the second time. Doing away with all the bloody steaks, burgers, schnitzel, milk-infested meat-sauces and whatever else indirectly rapes and kills animals,... Doing away with such things not only appeared logical and reasonable but also made it quite easy to re-integrate veganism in my everyday life. So the first box on my life-changing checklist I confidently ticked with ease. In post #7 I told you that smoking tobacco is stupid and that all logical arguments against smoking tobacco wouldn't keep me away from the drug; I'd permanently fall for it. But by typing down why it's useless and stupid I helped myself out by putting the valuable thoughts back into the center of my mind; and today I count about four or five weeks without touching a cigarette, always strong enough to say no if I simply don't want that shit. Funny--but that is how the mind works... I'm pretty sure I made it again and I can postpone lung cancer. Just so much additionally: If the busses or cars won't roll me flat when I share the road with them, then I'll have a few more years to find out what life can be and maybe hasn't been so far. In all the other posts in which I blab about...how to put it... the modest amount of women that actually reached me emotionally,... In these posts I try to conclude what I make of past experiences in times when I was trying to find soothing love and true, enduring, easy-to-foster friendship. By time-traveling back to these days as good as I can, I take from these unforgettable moments everything I can to convince myself that sometimes there are girls out there stupid enough to love me, provided I'm stupid enough to love them. I'll keep that in mind, so I'll not easily lose hope in future events. If I'm on the right path then it just takes regular bits of courage and heart to get that creeping feeling of loneliness out of my system; and maybe just patience and calm are key in order to not appear needy and desperate when I go out, trying to meet girls...
You may have guessed, I'll tell you another girl story. I won't give you a year or period or epoch. I'm just telling you that it happened during the first couple of years when I used to perform with my main Metal band in the 2000s. It was a period of my life that I didn't really forget, but, how to put it... knowing that puberty, alcohol, weed and magic mushrooms were in the mix should pretty much explain why it took me an entire week to tell you that story orderly and logically 😂
Technically, well ...and factually, I was still a teenager and I haven't lost my virginity yet. But that was a status of mine soon to change cuz being frontman of a renowned Metal band, as I may have mentioned in past posts, helped a lot to attract women who, when they were young, were in for the experience--to put it mildly. Anyway, those days were great and unforgettable for many reasons. One of these reasons was a girl that--just like me--lived and flourished in the Metal and Gothic subculture that used to be vivid, social and perceivable back in the day. That cute red-haired moonskin--to anticipate briefly--was into things such as dragons and Celts. So, let's call her Gwendolin.
I met Gwendolin for the first time when I bought my favorite Death-Metal album "Slaughter of The Soul" in a music store a few hundred meters away from the nuthouse where they'd two decades later drug me into quietness. I bought the album from her, not even realizing that I bought it from her. Cuz in order to get my attention she first had to say something like "blablabla 16 bucks; and you've got a great voice, by the way". Just then, buffled by the comment, I held up my head, noticed her cute freckle-covered face smiling and responded "Sorry, what do you mean?"... and she was like "I saw your band the other day and I liked your performance"... I can't really remember the rest of that first conversation with her. But the reason why I remember it at all might be that up to this day no woman in my entire life caught me emotionally as much as she did. So, just to give you an idea how the conversation continued: It must have been me stuttering, stummering and stammering and in between blubbering about bandstuff, trying to impress her, or something, I assume. Whatever it was that kept her patient that cloudy afternoon, I just remember her showing me a photograph with her posing next to Cradle of Filth when they came to visit her shop in order to promote their album. And then she might have given me her number or asked for mine, I dunno. But that is how we met. Not that I ever had the balls to call her, but since we lived both in the same cozy city, we would sooner or later meet again anyway. Lucky me, cuz my low ego and shyness back then kept me from getting to know girls like Gwendolin in the first place. But Gwendolin was, among thousand other things she was special for, special for doing one thing regularly that in our country you'd expect from boys, not so much from girls: she came first; she made the first moves; and she made her intentions clear, so I would feel encouraged to leave my comfort zone.
And so it happened a few weeks or months later when we met again in a rock pub in the city center. Of course, she found me there and then ushered me to a couple of seats where we would chat and have a few glasses of her favorite drink: vodka lemon with ice... ..and again, there is not much more from that evening that I remember. Just so much: throughout the night that we spent in this pub, boys in the club helloed her, hugged her, chatted with her while I--totally puzzled, not knowing what was going on--just counted suspicious and reproachful looks the boys threw at her once they turned their backs on her. I wore a question mark over my head the entire night and probably left it there for a while. Cuz years went by until I figured why these hundreds of men that hugged her that night all looked that stupid and frustrated when they saw her with me. Anyway, as much as I would have liked to know what all these guys thought about her that night, that night I just wanted to hear her stories and her views--of which she had plenty. By the end of the night the two of us were almost the only ones who haven't left for other pubs and my constantly staring at her obviously annoyed her. And shortly before the pub closed, the two of us sitting almost alone in a corner, she was like "I have no idea what you're still waiting for. They're all gone. I know, you wanna kiss and shit, but you know, you need to talk as well"... something like that she said. What she actually meant or wanted that night I have no idea. From today's perspective, I think, what she meant to say was: "Make your fucking move. The hell, it's your turn". In other words, she probably was trying hard all the time while I just kept waiting for something to happen. But, you know, I was a teenager and obviously didn't have the manual. I just remember then talking to her in a clumsy and nervous way. Whatever it was I eventually said to her, she was good with the answer--even if it must have been like pulling teeth. (Dt.: Sie musste mir jedes Wort aus der Nase ziehen). However, sooner or later we kissed and I therefore managed to calm down and suddenly had an easier time being myself. After leaving the pub, we (once again) exchanged numbers in order to meet again for a romantic night at hers.
And so it happened, I guess, about a few days or weeks later that we met again in her tiny studio. I remember calling her a few times to get the date and she postponed the event several times. But one day she called me and told me that she finally managed to tidy up and that I can come and visit her. When the day came I was very nervous cuz... I don't quite remember, cuz as I've told you, those were my most chaotic years... but I think, Gwendolin was the very first woman I had sex with, and it was about to happen that night. When I entered her studio, I saw there was not much she could have shown me. She introduced me to the rat she kept in a cage and I think we maybe ate a bit, or didn't we?... but sooner or later we kissed and danced in her living, toyed with each other until we finally took off each others clothes and sank into her bed. She switched on her tellie and we started watching a stupid horror film called "the Ring" or something. But that movie running in the background was just a requisite anyway. Once in her bed I couldn't keep my hands off her. First she tried to play with my penis and softly asked if I didn't find her attractive since I couldn't get an erection. A moment later I just thought "What the fuck is wrong with me" and suddenly got a boner as if on cue. Everything in my head changed within seconds. First I tried to remain calm by simply diving deep into her eyes with my own, sometimes in between softly kissing her lips. But the moment she closed her eyes, I totally lost control. I felt poisoned, addicted, desperate like a vampire craving for blood. She whispered something like "I want to feel your claws" or something into my ears and so, I remember, violently let the fingernails of my right hand sink into the flesh of her back and scratched a bruise along her spine. She moaned painfully, then put my penis into her vagina. A few seconds later... definitely not much more... everything was over. I might have moaned, dunno, but I remember a disappointed expression on her face when I let all my body's weight fall on her. Much more I don't remember of that night. I just know, we cuddled a bit further, fell asleep and spent the entire night together. Maybe we tried to have sex a second time that night but if we did, it can't have been that intense cuz I can't remember. The next morning she had a hard time ushering me out of her studio--since I didn't want to leave. I just know, I left her studio brainless and walked back home into my cellar flat to take a long and decent power nap...
Before I continue with the story, I need to make that train of thought a little more accessible that named the post series that ends with the post you read now: In post #4 I told you about that awesome chic I met at an Unearth concert in Vienna, right... When what I thought was a serious relationship went awry, I first blamed everyone else for my "loss". But sometimes I tried to talk to my friends about the feelings that made me go nuts cuz--and that's true to this day--sometimes, leaving aside whether views can be right or wrong, it just needs a change of perspective; and an honest friend has all the wherewithals to give you just that. When I told one of the few decent friends I had that the girl I love was ghosting me and that I had no idea what to do, that smart friend was like "Yeah, you mentioned her, I think. How often did you actually meet?", and I was like "Yeah, we met at a concert, she visited me twice in my studio and we talked a lot on the phone and stuff", and then he was like "I see where you're heading; that sounds like you. Just one more question: Did you ever have sex with her?" and after a second pondering I was like "Nah, not a single time; we didn't get that far", and so my friend concluded "Well, Michi, then there was nothing; you're best getting over her". Of course, back then I didn't want to hear what he suggested and threw all the hatred and frustration at those I could reach and talk to, those who truly wanted to help me; in sum, all my real friends and my family. I turned away from my loved ones and chose a lonely life. But years later, when I realized how much my then gone friends meant to me, I thought: "Man, you were right. She didn't really love me. Whatever it was, it could not have been more than a brief brainfuck... and it was not supposed to hurt"--not necessarily cuz I haven't fucked that girl* but cuz she ran away early enough to make clear that she wasn't that interested in me. Gwendolin, however, did not really run away; and to be honest, [hätte-hätte-Fahrradkette] I wish she would have run away, so that the pain I would have felt when she'd leave would have helped me conclude that what I felt was no longer good, justifiable or sustainable. Having typed down that, let's get back to the Gwendolin story:
The months to come I couldn't get that woman out of my head. So, my brain was still gone but the woman was in there instead. Every time I couldn't sleep I thought of her eyes, her cute pig-like nose, her gently-freckled cheeks or the shampoo smell of her curly hair. Every time I got super-randy I thought of her round luscious ass, her small breasts, her shaved pussy and the faint smell of her sweaty, white skin. And when I wasn't obsessed with the thoughts of her outer appearance, I thought about the shit she talked about, such as the books she had read, the movies she had watched, the religious view she promoted, the dreams and wishes she told me about, the necklace she wore and the messages that necklace conveyed. She was all up in my head and all I could think of was fucking her brains out for the rest of my life. But she herself might have had other plans...
...cuz, no idea how long it took me, but when I kinda came to senses again after that night--'though I actually never ever again came to senses after that night--I called her dozens of times cuz I wanted to see her again. Her reaction wasn't mere ghosting, but of a twenty incoming calls or short messages on her Nokia she would respond to maybe one or even none of them.
It turned out that in many ways Gwendolin was like my sisters first red-furred cat Radieschen (eng: radish): My petting was something she liked more than daily food but not when I felt like petting her but only when she asked for it; and when you told her to do or not to do certain things as in the beggings "Don't jump up the table", "Don't carry your birds into the garage", "Eat that mouse, don't torture it", "Leave that thing, it's dead already"... she clearly understood what I was saying but she just didn't give a damn fuck about it. And Gwendolin was just like Radieschen in that she might have loved me but like a toddler (who while experimenting in an early age hits you cuz he or she doesn't know any better) or like a cat (that actually never really turns into an adult and regularly cruelly tortures mice in order to get the entire hunting experience when studying their final suffering)... like such unguilty creatures she might not have fully realized that the hundreds of partners she chose had strong feelings of love... or maybe she knew and simply was an evil human being; who knows...
But well... as I said. It wasn't mere ghosting. I called and texted her many times throughout years and she must have had a feeling about how to keep my feelings for her alive...and when I think about that I just think of Radieschen torturing mice:
For instance, one day, Gwendolin sensationally took off her phone and talked to me. We met in the city and spend some time in a bar or something talking to each other. I have no idea why she felt like meeting, but she told me that she was in a relationship and when we finally departed, she gave me a kiss on the cheek. I haven't seen my face in the mirror in that moment. I just know for a fact that the expression on my face was precisely that odd, frustrated one of the hundred guys she talked to that night in the pub.
From the first day we spent the night together to the day when I fell in love with the girl from Vienna, I just remember thinking of Gwendoline every night before I go to bed, hoping she would call me, respond to my messages or something. When once in a blue moon she would answer my calls, I would tell her that I want to see her and that it wouldn't make sense if we didn't meet regularly. She then would tell me that she's always busy working and stuff but in between promising that she would soon come and see me again. Of course she barely did what she promised. I have no idea what sometimes brought us together again and why I always raised my hopes anew, thinking that she would ever change. Now that those years of useless yearning actually are gone, I count the days we've actually spent time together. Guess what, I remember four noteworthy events in a time period between the years 2000 and 2005: One time we met in the city center to have french fries and chicken. One time I invited her for a Shenanigans concert at St. Patrick's Day. One New Year's Eve night we kissed in the midnight hour on the bridge next to the local arts museum. And one night she made up for forgetting my birthday and fucked my brains out in one of her friends appartment. But those events of course were just intense enough to always get my heart back into her jar. It usually would take only one estimated call each year to make me fall for her again, thereby ignoring the rest of womanhood for ages. Every time she herself was in the mood to give me a ring she re-obtained what was left of the love I felt for her. As said with famous words of a tender-hearted soul artist:
...Just when I think
I've taken more than would a fool
I start fallin' back in love with you...
Lyrics quote from "Fallin'" by Alicia Keys from the album "Songs in A Minor" (2001)
But it never felt as if I permanently fooled myself into thinking she'd love me. I think she loved me but not only me and definitely not as much as I loved her. That it always felt real and irreplaceably good might have been the reason why I couldn't let her go...
The funny part
And now we're talking 2005, right? Around that year I found solace in a handful of mouthwatering, hot girls who were in for the experience. A
few of them I briefly mentioned in post #4 of this series. Those crazy
ladies--all of them looking like they jumped out of a Playboy
cover--usually kept me for a couple of weeks before they eventually ran off in the woods or somewhere. But at
least they stood for a while and by spending time with them I got an idea of what a relationship might look like. Most of the time I was with one girl and one girl only cuz otherwise it still would have felt like cheating. But in all endeavors of morality, when I made it to divert myself from past heartaches cuz of Gwendolin or Miss Vienna, I had an easy time permanently asking for consent. That's simply much easier once a healthy pot chic for instance is good with you as her temporary fucker being a male pig. Sooner or later healthy girls get us pervs without feeling molested. And the girls I rocked around 2005 just had that undamaged sleaziness in their mind; they knew that when you like them and have thousand things in your head that you'd love to do with them, they only have to agree to the fifteen things they like as well. The girls sooner or later broke up with me but me asking for consent when I was randy was usually not the problem. I learned a lot that year and I assume what I found out is how you ask for consent once a girl is actually your girlfriend. Here is my list of rejections from girls I shared beds with that I couldn't forget in twenty years; starting with the most frustrating one:
"No, I'm with Max now". "Michi, I don't want to sleep with you tonight". "Take your hands off my breast". "Take your hands off my ass". wordlessly taking my hands off her breasts wordlessly taking my hands off her ass wordlessly putting my hands from the breasts back to the belly, then kissing me and eventually the least frustrating one: "Again?"
The approval list starts with "Again already?" but doesn't get much longer.
Anyway, I think that experienced women never came up with the idea to make rejection lists unless they have a thing for blank paper...
No fun at all
Alright. I promised you a few months ago, when the time comes I won't deny deep thoughts, even if you don't want to read them. I couldn't really do that. I constantly had to leave out things knowing that I would be misunderstood if I said certain things. A bit I try to tell you anyway cuz I think you're brave enough to handle my world view. So let us pretend that for a second I'm telling you things every honest man would like to tell you in a reflected state of mind; let us pretend sooner or later every man who has had the experiences I had might preach the following words:
Know that for most people sex might merely be the icing of the cake in a relationship. (Not for me, by the way. I'm just assuming;) As you may have found out by reading, I personally had to find out the hard way that it's not a fulfilling friendship when there is not even cake. So, I recommend serving cake on a regular basis; it's healthy. However, if you as a woman spend a lot of time with a man and think that cake doesn't need much icing, just two straight hints:
1. If you wanna talk but don't wanna listen, get a dog.
2. If you wanna talk and listen but don't wanna rock the dude, just know that there is no shame in being a lesbian. Just make sure you wear an army haircut and look like a classy dike. The problem pervs like me have is that we think you girls are beautiful the way you are. So most of the time with you, we're having a hard time keeping our hands off you.
Allright. It's out again... Glasses may shatter and hate may be felt; shame on me. If you knew from the start what I was talking about then the green part wasn't made for you. I might just have felt the urge to let it out at least once to make sure Gwendolin's imprint on me won't rub off on the sweethearts that do deserve my love and devotion; and emphasizing on icing I felt was necassary. Cuz if that girl would have fucked the rest of my body just half as much as she had fucked my brain, she would have been the jackpot I always wanted her to be. But she wasn't--cuz she wasn't there for me and hardly ever with me.
Eventually I realized that Gwendolin would never have given me that little bit of time that I needed to feel complete inside... ... and so one day, about half a year or something after finishing art school, I stood in the shell of a women's toilette performing voluntary artistic tiling, when suddenly my Nokia peeped. It was Gwendolin who asked me repeatedly if I wanted to meet her in the city. I remember not texting back much more then simply "No" every time she paraphrazed the same question, obviously expecting I'd change my mind. But I went with my cold answer until she stopped texting. It felt wrong in the beginning and I couldn't sleep well that night, but I had sworn myself months before she texted that I would rather stay alone for the rest of my life than to ever again needle my brain with the same stupid illusion I had started to create when she fucked me for the first time.
And today Gwen no longer hurts; and my wishes that the girls I loved shall be happy when I'm gone might have come true: Assuming that Gwen's mother was dead--since Gwen once told me that she was already very sick when we last met about fifteen years ago--there wouldn't be much that would keep her in my Austrian city. She always had a thing for the Brits, for the Irish and other northern cultures; and she travelled around some time when she wasn't selling underground music, toy blocks, or computers. About a year ago I was curious what had happened to her and so I googled her. She later in her life worked as a translator for a while, started studying the things she already was interested in back in the day and, fortunately, married a Scandinavian dude with whom she has two lovely kids now. That'll keep her away for quite some time and chances are high we both are going to be happy sooner or later.
To conclude
In
the past I made it a habit to drown myself in fantasies instead of
making dreams come true. I would meet girls and not find courage to make
my intensions clear once my feelings were too strong to not deal
with'em. Probably this poisonous concoction of wishful thinking, the
fear of rejection and the childish idea that good things happen
coincidentially would keep me from talking business with the women I
truly wanted in my life. Also, hoping that people might change was a bit
naive; just the ones with the 💛 can do that; and those are hard to find*.
Today
I take with me that from the thousands of great women that are still
out there, only one single girl needs to muster up the courage to mirror
my feelings. And if she can do that, then scheduling twosome hours would come free-willingly; and spending every fortnight
together may be a piece of cake.
Peace
Thanks to my real friends (and my mom) who never give me the feeling that spending time with me once in a blue moon wasn't worth it
I fucking love you for everything you've taught me while just being friends with me
and with tears in my eyes I end this horrible post
Feel free to listen to the song I felt listening to when I finished this post series. I put the video below.
Yours, Little Kulla ❤🐙
--------------------------------------------
Sources (in case you wanna dig deeper;-)
* "...not necessarily cuz I haven't fucked that girl..."
it's the 30th of May 2024 and my friends and family spend the Christian holiday of Corpus Christi doing things without me...
The last couple of months I didn't have that kinda situation cuz I've been around great people almost every week throughout the week. Today I come to be reminiscent of the last 15 years where every day off, whether it was a weekend or a holiday, I had to stay alone and then quite frequently had to endure loneliness. But I'll come back to that shit later in the story. Let's do the fun part first...
When your sexy working colleague starts being honest
The story I'm about to tell you happened a long time ago. I used to work in an air-conditioned cozy office that I could reach from my flat in a twenty-minutes train ride. I came in late once in two years working there. Stress was an issue but not the reason why I had to leave that office. In fact, there were a few reasons why I liked that club much, but first and foremost the girls were the reason why I would enjoy the work in the first place.
When I started the job, my bosses put me in a large office with about ten girls, each of them hot in their own way. Unfortunately, since I couldn't hide the desperate expression on my face that tells everyone that I'm single, each of the girls started talking about their lovers and boyfriends the moment they thought I wanted to date them. But just to put that in perspective, every girl does that to me. I don't have to ask them about private stuff. Asking them for a cigarette might be cue enough for an unnecessary, boring boyfriend story. I probably wear that warning expression on my face all the time. So I tried everything in my power in order not to appear lost and horny. I even once quickly jerked off in the men's toilet and then ran down to the open-air smoking area for a conversation with a lady I haven't talked to yet: "Hello, my name is Michael. We haven't met yet."--immediate boyfriend story; they always know it. I should have asked each and everyone of them if they thought that having sex with their boyfriends might be as great as having sex with me. But I had neither that idea nor the balls to do that at the time. Now, many years later, that I'm finally good with rejection of all sorts I'm contemplating to one day give that nasty response a try; the outcome can't be worse than a slap in the face.
Anyway, in my department, which never counted more than four employees in sum, workers would come and go. I mean, three of us would stay all the time and the fourth girl or guy to first fill the empty fourth seat would leave the office for whatever reason within a couple of weeks. The jobs we did in the office were not everyone's business. Lots of kind guys tried but eventually gave in. And so one day a chubby girl from the balkan came in and took the seat next to me. I don't remember much from the first encounter since I was busy typewriting, covered in work. A few hours later when she left to pee for the first time, my colleague on the opposite side of the table provocatively asked: "You like her, do you?", and I thought, "Good question. I should have a look at her when she comes back." A few minutes later she came back into the office and I took my time to let the perv in me do the observation: She had long dark brown hair and a round chubby but perfect face that she combined with an astonishing subtle smile. Her boobs weren't tremendous but I could imagine hiding my face in there since they appeared soft and luscious. I couldn't look at her ass yet since she didn't walk in backwards. But since the proportions of her body made clear that she liked cake and chocolate I came to the conclusion that she's quite a sexy elephant. Later that day I glimpsed at her round ass to get the whole picture and realized that many men would kill just to have sex with that woman. Optically, she was one of a kind and in her way good-looking.
Unfortunately, she obviously got hurt when she fell from the sky; and I had to find that out the hard way. In our first week together the four of us office workers had plenty of time for some chit chat and it felt as if we were a good team. Even in shady moments, a cigarette break and a cup of coffee once in a while would break the ice in case we got frustrated by doing our monotonous office work. So, everything appeared to be fine and I would sooner or later get the chance to find out more about our new girl if I just gave it some time. I found out that she loves to keep her life simple, that she's a wine drinker, that she's contemplating an IVF, that she doesn't want to marry again; lots of personal stuff that first made me think that she's accessible in private. But then I stepped on a minefield...
One morning, I came in a few minutes later than usually but still in time, not noticing anything special. I was the last to enter the office. I went to my table, switched on the computer and sat down, helloing everyone. The computer warmed up and I looked around me, then kinda shocked asked the new girl: "Oh dear, you look horrible. Are you sick?" And she quickly responded: "No, I'm fine. I overslept and therefore don't wear make-up". My colleague on the opposite of the table couldn't help but laughing, adding to his roar "Michael, now you're full of shit. You know nothing about women!" and the girl might have come to the same conclusion. Cuz the next couple of weeks, she would permanently preach what she thought I got wrong about life. During her calm moments, she would softly explain to me "You're nice. That's a quality. But women don't look for nice guys; they want assholes as lovers". In an open conversation, for instance, when I mentioned heartaches during my vacations, she would emphasize on her asshole theory. And when I couldn't leave my depressions at home, therefore keeping a sad face and being calm, she would explain: "You're horrible to look at. With that sad expression on your face, you're pulling everyone around you down. That's why no one is fucking you!"...
My depressive phase that I had at the time might really have pulled her down. She really couldn't handle such days of mine and it might be one of the reasons why she eventually quit the comfy office job. She definitely had problems sitting next to me every work day of the week, not seeing what she wanted. But just to address the elephant in the room, that was her being insensitive and her being closed towards me.
However, when she let it all out before she tromped out of the office for the last time, she took one shot that slightly got me. I don't remember in what context she said it and what kinda story I told her. I only got the gist. It was something like this: "Your problem with women is that you show weakness. You show that you're needy. You show that you make your happiness depend on whether you're with a woman or not. And you want to be saved. No woman wants that."... and these words, I assume, are always true when my mind fucks me from behind*. Cuz everything I've told you so far about my approach when dealing with lonetime might make you think that this is not something that tortures my soul. But it sometimes does and I'm alone more often than any other person I can think of. Loneliness makes me suffer sometimes. On the other hand, solitude is something I need and I have my ways to turn loneliness into solitude creatively. But more and more I can't get rid of the need to find my soulmate; a person that makes me feel complete, balanced, understood and loved, not only fucked (in case you got that wrong by emphasizing on my my perv content).
I will continue pondering about that needy mindset of mine and that's why I'm kinda thankful for that girls open thoughts. But everything else she said, she could have kept for herself. Cuz first, there's no point in telling a man what he may have to change about himself if the reward for that change isn't being saved by particularly that woman who demands that change; cuz we're all different and need different things to mitigate hardship in life. And second, better lose while being yourself cuz you can't win while being someone else. Just so much.
I told you in the instruction of that post that I'm suffering loneliness these days. But I'm also telling you that this suffering won't kill me. Otherwise I would have been dead already. It's a void and it hurts and it's a pain I don't get used to. But when I'm with a girl I'm in love with... that pain is gone. That is nothing individual about me. Everyone gets that. And the only thing that distinguishes me from most of the other guys is that they found a girl who saved them.
Okay, it's not getting any better today. While I wrote that shit I just ruined my best option for a happy ending. Have to start from scratch...
I'll call it a day and lick my wounds Be kind 🐘 Hopefully see you soon
Allright. Let's see where we're standing. We have the 15th of May, five o'clock in the morning and I got up earlier to get some stuff done. As promised, no serious content this time--provided you scroll down to the main story. Cuz as usual I'll start the writing with a brief diary entry in which I blab about things that momentarily bug me, so I get them off my chest; it simply helps me to focus on the ideas of the main writing once it's out. So, let's do that quickly...
As I've mentioned in past posts, I let go of all drugs and I'm more or less free from my addictions. But that's not entirely true. Alcohol, nicotine and anal porn are still on my shopping list, so I'd lie to myself if I alleged that I'm totally free at the moment.
Now, alcohol is not an issue for me personally. Actually, most alcoholic drinks I hate. There are only a few drinks that I swallow once in a blue moon: tasteful Scotch whisky or Irish whiskey and a few bottles of beer when I meet with friends. I'd recommend those drinks to anyone and I pray to the universe that Allah may soon release a sequel to the Quran including that recommendation so that even devout, sweet-tempered, good-natured muslims out there no longer feel blasphemous when having a delicious Austrian beer. I hate getting drunk, I hate hangovers, and seeing how real alcoholics crawl through their private hells is warning enough for me to never have too much booze. In a nutshell, alcohol is not my problem.
I also don't consider my porn addiction a problem. In fact, I'm quite grateful that, despite of all my unhealthy life choices the last couple of years, I'm randy all day; and going vegan again will keep everything happy down there, I assume. What's more, at the moment I can't afford any services of our local sexworkers and no one else is fucking me. So, why shouldn't I watch messy movies at night when my favorite toy down there wants to vomit all day. There is just one thing I changed about that habit of mine since I saw the movie Pleasure --a Cannes-awarded Swedish movie about the contemporary porn industry in the US, pictured from a feminist angle. The movie tells a story about a cute, blonde, skinny Swedish girl that wants to be a porn star in the US. A few decent and famous male characters from the real contemporary porn industry serve as actors and play their sexist counterparts in a movie that portrays an industry that in sum--up to this day--is sexist, violent, racist and inhumane; definitely worth the watch. However, having seen that movie, I decided to pick only such movies where the girls aren't portrayed in a condescending way and obviously enjoy every part of the rite. For instance, I canceled deepthroats from my watchlist cuz I can't imagine that she would truly like that stuff, even if she smiles happily after spitting out cum. Anyway, porn is not my problem either.
My real problem that I can't get rid of so far is nicotine. The moment I write down these lines I'm smoking and the three packages a day I mentioned in an earlier post are now at least four packages daily. I sit here and do all kind of office stuff, writing, designing and reading, but while I'm doing that I permanently burn the fags down to the filter. I usually leave the house every third hour to buy a new pack of Chesterfield at the gas station on the opposite of the street and then continue feeding the little demons in my head*. I know that it would take me ridiculous three weeks of not smoking until these little bastards would eventually lack the energy to constantly yell for the drug, but at the moment that knowledge doesn't help; no ever so well-thought-out mindset can currently keep me from being stupid--and everyone everywhere who is currently smoking cigarettes is just that--stupid; no exception. Cuz face it: you hear it from others, you read it everywhere and you constantly experience it yourself... that smoking cigarettes is useless and unhealthy; and that nicotine is the most addictive drug of all.
Okay, before I'll start with the main story, I'll preach [to you and myself] a few lines from a book that helped me quit smoking for 12 years in the past (I put a link below). Maybe that'll help. Scroll down to the main story if you're non-smoker; you know all that.
It costs you the dear--and the profit of these permanently rising direct taxes you pay when you buy that pack of cancer... those profits are very likely to be distributed to the governments and industries that brought that shit in the first place.
It doesn't even taste good. In fact, it doesn't taste at all: The taste buds in our tongue makes us perceive five different tastes: sweet, salty, bitter, sour and umami. None of these describe the taste of a cigarette puff. You wouldn't be able to write a wine review about your favorite cigarette label since there's no taste. What your tongue perceives is merely disgust. Observe it yourself the next time you smoke if you think I'm bullshitting you. You're best smoking that one in front of the mirror just to let you know what your face looks like when you "enjoy the taste". Spoiler alert: You'll look as if you just ate shit.
You won't get high. You may live as foolish as I do, meaning you're stupid enough to try every drug at least once in order to make up your own mind about what it's like. My big exception in that view is heroin. I've read, seen and heard enough to be fully convinced that once you try heroin, your life is over, you'll live a few more years for the drug and you'll soon end your then miserable life when you finally find a dealer who sells you the overdose. The reality about heroin is that harsh. It is that addictive, that dangerous, that hopeless; and whenever I see someone preparing a needle not far from me, I turn around, run as fast as I can until my feet bleed, just to make sure that this drug won't get me too. Anyway, the reason why people sometimes even take heroin voluntarily is cuz of an amazing high that makes you feel like you're in heaven; and that's what even heroin has in common with all the other drugs, nicotine beeing the great exception: In the beginning, it is useful cuz it helps you escape the harsh reality you can't handle at the time since it brings you an incomparable high, a temporary feeling of ecstasy, light-weight and joy that you won't feel without taking drugs. But I'm being licentious now. My point is, if you smoke a cigarette, you don't even have that. You have only the addiction. You only raise those little demons in your head that loudly yell "Gimme more" into your ear. Let them starve and they'll calm down.
You smell and taste disgusting all the time. One cigarette is enough to smell like ashtray. You yourself will never notice it, friends who don't smoke might tolerate it, and maybe a few honest dudes may mention it politely once in a while. But minutes after you light up your first cigarette in the morning after your morning shower, you'll smell worse than a homeless dude who didn't have a shower for weeks. What is more, your non-smoking girlfriend/boyfriend doesn't enjoy French kisses as much as you do since she has to lick up the entire ashtray every tim his/her tongue touches yours.
The sooner you quit, the higher the chances you won't die from it. Everything you just read in the last two paragraphs I got from a guy who spent his lifetime on convincing people that quitting nicotine is easy and only takes three weeks. When I read his book I stopped smoking for seven years, then smoked another three months; and remembering his well-thought-out mindset helped me stop smoking for another twelve years. Today, I'm counting about three years since I started smoking again; and every time, after years without cigarettes, I fall for the drug and smoke much more than I smoked before. The writer I told you about--formerly a heavy smoker--preached his ideas for about thirty years without consuming any cigarette. A few years ago--passive smoking among smokers might not have done him a favor--he died on lung cancer...
Okay, I think I'm done. Let's get to the funny part. Hope you enjoy.
My so far desperate endeavors trying to convert the ravers into metalheads
Those of you who know me personally may have noticed that I cherish solitude and barely leave the house. (That's a bit paradoxical, by the way: On the one hand loneliness makes me suffer; on the other hand I need plenty of time for myself, Anyway...) I pretty much spent a coma at home the last decade, probably due to my mental disease that I've written about fairly little so far. That's cuz--as I've told you--I'll teach madness gently. Just so much for a start, I need a safe haven I can escape to when paranoid episodes are on the rise. However, lately my mental health improved considerably and I continued hanging out in the city with my best friends again. Years have gone by since I enjoyed life in the real world out there; and when I eventually crawled out of my cave, not dissolving into dust when sunlight touched my skin, I realized that METAL IS DEAD.
Fortunately, I kept and defiled a few cadavers in my cave (--you know them as YouTube-Videos) while it happened and I'm about to dig out some holes and put up some tombstones so that you as a compassionate friend can help me mourn adequately. Luckily, my cave has always been a tiny, cozy temple for metal culture and as it turns out, it is now what the Vatican is for the Roman Catholic Church; and when I tell you stories from the HeavyMetal fairyland, I'm usually telling you about what is left of a once worldwide empire.
Many things in this cave may arouse you. For instance, as a matter of fact, I do have little fairies in there. I smuggled a handful of them from Ireland and keep them in little cages cuz they usually bite cock-blocking visitors when I let them fly around. They feast on Death Metal blast-beats and bark, scream and moan to choruses of my At The Gates lullabies at night, when I turn off the light. Strange thing about fairies, they die if the don't have that proper diet and meditation setting. If you wonder why there are only few fairies left and people even come to this naive conclusion that they don't exist – that's why: Because people stopped nourishing them. In Styria, Austria's largest federal state, we already knew about the ongoing fairy extinction back in the day and we had the necessary resources to produce Metal within the region. In order to keep stocks high we produced on a regular basis and to keep breeding fairy mother's healthy, we invested in quality over quantity. But cock-blockers and tit-hiders from the conservative political spectrum did everything to wipe out the fairy population. And the few concerts were metalheads catered for fairy satisfaction were regularly corrupted by those envy people. They found out that by only turning down the volume of a Metal live performance fairies don't feel the groove they emotionally need in order to bang their heads ecstatically; and they found out that every time you turn off a Metal song a fairy dies. Cruel bastards.
Today fairy research is scientifically neglected and what people think to know about fairies nowadays may stem from foul stories people tell about them. I realized that when I visited my first Drum and Base concert about a year ago in a former post office garage. (Spoiler alert: there were no drums.) When I asked for the ticket prices they said "15 bucks each". I was a bit suspicious then, because at a time when I myself catered for the environment, we would charge about 5 bucks per visitor. So I asked the cutie at the box office what kind of music they usually play in this garage. She said "We play absolutely everything, except Metal." Perplexed by her answer I got goose bumps and started shivering. I might have been about to enter an institution that in their very nature was cock-blocking, tit-hiding or even speciecist. Whether my assumption was right or too far-fetched I had to figure out personally. So I decided to spy on the local industry to find out more about rave culture. To give you an idea, I'll first compare Metal with Rave.
We already found out that the ravers don't have drums, so they can't produce blast-beats. But, by the way, metalheads don't necessarily need or like blast-beats either. It's an element that we usually have in uncompromising Death-Metal and Black-Metal, not so much in Metalcore, T[h]rash Metal, hardly ever in Power Metal, True Metal and New Metal, and never in Progressive Metal, Gothic Metal, Techno Metal, Hardrock or Scandinavian Schlager. By the way, you can light a candle upon a single tombstone by clicking one of the links. If you listen, for instance, to an entire Black Metal song from the beginning to the end, ancient evil, mostly satanic creatures from the past may be unleashed but you may also attract starving fairies in the neighborhood.
Anyway, ravers, unlike metalheads don't sing. There are usually a few motivation coaches on stage who pretend to be rappers, but the music usually comes from two instruments: the mixer and the turntables. Whereas you sometimes have entire orchestras to perform live in Metal, in rave music, Techno and DnB only a few guys put all sophistication into these two (or a combination of both in one device) and maybe a personal computer.
once more I'll use a temporary post for stories that are more relevant to the present. I just wanted you to know that I finished this blog's first main chapter "It's not supposed to hurt" with the concluding eighth post "The love I had to give up". It's not my best post but a necessary one I had to write for myself. Anyway, I am about to rearrange the entire written chapter for a brief audiobook version that might fully differ from what you can read in this blog. In the listenable version I'll count on other content and design elements to make ideas perceivable. If you're interested in reading the mentioned chapter, make sure to check out the English-speaking hyperlink below. And if you wanna get an idea of what my audio stuff will be and sound like, stick around. I'll put a link to the teaser I'm about to record in the first post of my upcoming series "The bullshit in our skulls", once it's done.
Local advertisement Werbung für euch in Wien und Graz
Upcoming DJ workshops in Graz and Vienna cancelled
Zuletzt hab ich euch über meine temporäre Werbung von einen kleinen Verein erzählt, der sich zum Ziel macht, leistbare Kunst und Kultur u.a. für marginalisierte Gruppen unserer Gesellschaft zu schaffen. Der Verein bekam für ein paar kleinere Projekte Förderungen der Stadt Graz zugesagt, wie etwa für einen DJ Workshop in Graz, der für diesen Herbst angedacht war. Laut meinem Ansprechpartner hat der Verein derzeit mit gravierenden rechtlichen Problemen aufgrund vergangener Ereignisse zu kämpfen. Die Projekte für die ich mich gern stark gemacht hätte – wie eben dieser DJ Workshop – sind daher leider auf Eis gelegt. Mir tut es leid, diesbezüglich keine positiven Nachrichten zu haben.
Yours,
Michi Kulla 🐢
Upcoming posts:
The bullshit in our skulls. Part 1: Two prayers in advance
In the first "season" of this blog I started telling you about my ongoing journey with heterosexual women, finally concluding that the few women I couldn't get out of my head won't define what I'll think about women in the future. In this second chapter, season or whatever, I'll talk religion and other collectivisms that kept me from being happy and self-determined. I'll start with a belief-independent prayer that you can even preach and pray together before performing a Satanic orgy...
The bullshit in our skulls. Part _: Kisses are more precious than sex
A brief story about a nice but tortured soul who reminded me of the little gifts that mitigate the pain and spend love for the moment. Definitely a sad story, but also including hope.
Alrighty then. Fuck, my brain hurts... Since I gave up weed, I smoke at least three packages of Chesterfield Blue per day and for now I would lie if I told you that quitting weed is easy. Next to weed I also tempered out a few pharmaceutical bonbons that lately brought about a mix of cramps and constraints in my lower jaw that sometimes made me want to kill myself. Almost askethically, ignoring mentioned cancer sticks, I'm now coping with highly uncomfortable depressions and I'm overwhelmed, almost flabergasted, with the feelings and thoughts that come with the cold turkey. Those my little demons definitely don't stem from the weed but from the missing pills my head is longing for. But I'm still contemplating going back to weed due to those hellish depressions that I can't get rid off. Plus, weed used to shut off my brain and helped me fall asleep. The sleeping pills that I still use as on-demand medicines help me through the night, but they are far too strong; my heart beats like a fucking Black Metal drummer and I constantly swallow water to give my tortured body something healthy to work with. In a nutshell, life sucks these days and since I cannot sleep and my friends are gone, I hope writing helps. So, let's give it a try...
Before I start, I'd love to apologize to those who read the manuscript of the last post before my best friend did the peer review. With him I usually go through stuff that is absolutely crazy and can be too much for beginners, however patient and truth-loving the reader. In other words, sometimes my writings appear as if Hitler wrote it. That happens a lot when I'm manic and in future events I would love to show you even the deepest of my thoughts--just not like Hitler did. My friend and I decided to teach madness gently. So we had to delete a few lines that were inappropriate and simply not funny, at least for people who don't know me. But there is something that I would like to write down in advance, whether you like it or not...
I hope you've read my past posts and still feel like reading, cuz I tried really hard to keep my fucked-up world view appear funny and entertaining. I sometimes do that by showcasing foul and provocative language, making remarks that are not always polite--locker room talk, Donald Trump would say. And here I need to clarify why I do that. In my opinion, cherry picking won't bring me or anyone honest in this world any further. And only listening to the things, thoughts and ideas we wanna hear is just that--cherry picking. To understand how other people think and feel, we sometimes have to confront ourselves with not so pleasant ways of expressing emotions, and--admit it--we often turn away when people say or do things that we don't want to confront ourselves with; we're being lazy and ignorant. So, face it, the big problems we're dealing with today are not easy to explain; and the same is to say about the solutions we have to find. We're all, to a certain extend, facing hardship in life and we want simple solutions to complicated problems; we want easy answers to hard questions; but that is just wishful thinking. Life can be a pain in the arse. And so we have phenomena like Donald Trump in the US and right-wing populists like Herbert Kickl in Austria who--through fear-mongering--preach simple but understandable racism and xenophobia to people in rural areas where there are almost no foreigners, black people, turks, or whoever present. But those people nowadays make up a third of the voters in our country; and you're fooling yourself if you think that we can ignore these manipulated 33 percent any longer. It makes sense to neglect the interests of the politicians those people vote for, since they are assholes, but we mustn't neglect the real and understandable problems these 33 percent of the voters might have to deal with,... and--as much as you would love to do differently--we have to have our serious conversations with each and everyone of them if we don't want our world views to polarize. Just so much.
Now, locker room talk is not a right-winger phenomenon. Boys do it all the time. We never perform it in offices, schools, universities, family meetings or feminist meetings--thank god (if that fucker exists); we hardly ever print it on our shirts, but we always let it out it in bars, on the streets, in warehouses, on construction sides, during our lunch breaks, during our cigarette breaks, during sex, during our strolls through the park, when we pass around a sativa joint in a sausage-party-like setting, and of course, in the locker room. But girls, don't be mad at us if we do that, cuz here is how it works--no mansplaining: When we average boys talk openly among men only, we let our hormones do the talking; we let it all out; we send our demons further South AND THEN walk towards nice ladies we wish to chat with in the North and try to be as kind as possible, cuz we think that you're far more sensitive than we are; we simply don't want to be the assholes we can be, right in front of you. If you want an asshole as a lover, fine; forbid locker room talk; I'm convinced he'll let it out on you. But don't fool yourself into thinking that nice guys don't talk like that; they sometimes do... and every dude who alleges that he doesn't and would never do is a hypocrite.
In 2016, the famous pussy grabber video appeared only days before the election in the US. Democrats back then thought that this "scandal" would be a game changer in the elections to come. The fact that the appearance of the video in mainstream media didn't have an impact on the election pretty much proves my point. Donald Trump, back then, did exactly what I explained to you right now; and just like today, back then no one truly gave a fuck but a few hat knitters who made a profit of this fly-by-night left-wing campaign.
Okay, that felt like yelling. How are you? Still reading? Cuz I am still asking myself the question whether I shall publish these lines or not. But my friends always say that I can't be anyone's friend, so I'll have to risk it, even if it means you won't read me any longer.
...Nothing to discuss,
there are always two paths
but only one that you pass
And if you grasp that bit
it means you don't give a shit;
and sometimes that hurts.
Cuz that means above
you disappoint those you love
and that no one will suss
that for your own sake
you sometimes walk through broken glass...
Lyrics quote translated from the German original "Scherben" by Daniel Wirtz from the album "Erdling" (2009)
Well, now it's out. Enjoy the read.
NO! One more thing: don't confuse locker room talk with hate speech. You'll come across hate speech in all sorts of social media sources and if you want those conversations with right-wingers that I'd want you to have, you will be confronted with hate speech as well. Even try to get used to such violent rants but don't copy or utter them in any way. Don't condone them and report them whenever they appear in social media. And when being confronted with such slurs in your private conversations, make sure you'll do everything possible to get that hatred out of your opponents system before you continue with the argument/discussion. Just a hint: Remain calm, praise him or her for the honest, sometimes even smart and understandable points he or she mentioned before the rant, and finally express in a soothing voice what bad things might happen if we utter, repeat or share hate speech.
When you have a crush on your English teacher (2/2)
So, as I've told you in the first part of the story, I didn't pass Wacholder's classes. I remember spending my days in a hostel in quaint Ljubljana, Slovenia during the semester break, where I had a few days left to score on my blogwriting, which counted about 5 percent of the final grade in Wacholder's classes. I wrote a lot in the hostel, hoping to be sufficient this time, thought the few lines I wrote in Ljubljana would make a difference, then missed the deadline to submit, and a few hours later got the information that I didn't pass.
But I wasn't disappointed, cuz failing STEOP English classes with Wacholder, pretty much meant that I can go to her classes the year to follow. In other words, I got plenty of time--not only to be prepared for future classes but to do everything in advance to impress Wacholder the next time we would meet and chat.
Talking about chatting with Wacholder, there was only one single event where we would talk "unter vier Augen" (eng.: among four eyes, which technically means where we would talk eye-to-eye when no one else but the two of us is around); and it was not a private conversation; it was a professional meeting in her office. She then solely did her job as a teacher, giving each of her students the opportunity to chat with her eye-to-eye about individual language learning issues, thereby preparing us students for the upcoming progress-check. I used that conversation for exactly that purpose, but in the same time I was hoping, dreaming and fantasising that she'd want to have a private conversation on which I could build on mentally and emotionally. Unfortunately, the only two things she mentioned about her private life was first, that she is vegan, and second, that she likes books (and that books might help me personally to improve my skills as a language learner). And that was all I needed to go nuts on myself:
My thought was that if I really wanted to impress a woman that for the moment is totally out of my league and doesn't consider me a potential lover,... if I really wanted to impress such a women, I would have to change myself entirely, not only for her but for myself. And for those of you who say that's madness or even plain stupid, let me explain by telling you what I changed throughout a year without ever suffering and without the idea of not being myself.
1. Going vegan
When I left her office--by the way, totally enchanted cuz of her being funny, smart, kind, sexy, mysterious and thoughtful within ten minutes of a conversation with me,... when I left that office, I became vegan, not the other day but immediately 😂. From that moment on, I would cancel all kind of food that is in any way responsible for animal suffering--so I thought. But let me explain a few paragraphs later. First, let me tell you about the mindset that made me turn vegan so easily.
The next few paragraphs introduce you to my views and experiences about what I think is real and responsible veganism and what people perceive as veganism; views and experiences that I think are worth sharing. If you're not interested in the topic or the feelings of people like me, skip the following three paragraphs; they're not made for you. ...and if you can't count till three, just go fuck yourself.
First, let's or let me define veganism, so that we're on the same page. Uncompromising veganism is an ethical movement and a philosophical or at least ideological approach that abstains from any kind of behaviour that through your own conscious micro-political choices leads to unnecessary animal suffering. I know, plants also have measurable feelings--fact--but I haven't found a way out of that particular hell yet. Veganism takes plants out of the equation and so do I when I preach it in my writings. Anyway, the ideal motivation to go vegan is one that bases on respect for life and the feelings of other animals. Practical veganism is by any means always compromising but there are millions of things every single individual can do to walk in the right direction, performing veganism in the real not so utopian world.
And here I'm not trying to convince you. Just a few examples of what veganism isn't: condoning bull fights, condoning palm oil production even if the economy of your country doesn't depend on it, shooting animals for sports, keeping animals other than cats and dogs as pets, buying unhealthy products from the obviously green-washed "vegan" industry, using dairy products regularly when plenty of other more healthier resources are available for the same price, buying fish from the ocean or using plastic or more plastic than necessary (for instance for food that can be packaged differently)...the list is endless.
When I, back in the day, considered myself a vegan, I did many things wrong. For instance, I used the wrong products for nutrition. That's why throughout six years of thinking that I was a decent vegan, I gained about 40 kilos (basically fat) with the food I ate. I became fatigue and in the end, I had to give in and continued eating meat, basically cuz I couldn't get enough human-like proteins for my muscles. Working in an office instead of performing physical labor would also bring about health issues that I couldn't accept. I had to think of my own health, even if it meant that I had to demand chicken meat in stores.
But the idea to go vegan was a choice that I don't regret. In these six years I was true to myself, not ignoring the fact that many animal species suffer cuz of the ignorant, most powerful, most complacent animal species in our contemporary world... and there are still a thousand right reasons left to go back to veganism, not only for the fantastic chic I would have loved to rock all night, but for myself.
2. Reading books
To start with, if a pal or whoever says "Read a book", he or she in a flourishing way (dt. durch die Blume) tells you that you're stupid and work is necessary to change that; no hard feelings. The problem with books nowadays is that every stupid mothafucka has the resources to write a book. That's a problem we may have since the invention of the book press in the 15th century. Since that period of time, propaganda can be easily spread through readings and even in creating what Benedict Anderson calls imagined communities, mass-produced writings play a vital role. The good thing about books is that if you use them wisely, they're like silent friends who are not mad at you if you put them away--and if you put them away, you have all the time in the world to make up your own mind whether what you just read was bullshit or not. But you don't need that knowledge to enjoy reading a good book. In fact, sometimes reading books can be joyful only if you consume them without too much thinking-breaks in between. A good example for that are the world-famous and Nobel Prize winning South American so-called magical realism writings of García Marquez and Allende. If you read them without too much thinking in between you may dive in a world that is absurd and unreal, fantastic and mind-blowing. In García Marquez's case, while you're diving in there, you even come to grips with South American history, such as the exploitation of banana trusts in Columbia or wars between liberal and conservative movements that changed South American society.
I didn't pick such books in the beginning of my year-long reading mission. I first read a wide-spread German version of the Old Testament, a German interpretation of the Holy Quran and Herman Hesse's Buddha novel, hoping that by reading such material I would find the right religion, at least for myself. That didn't work out, by the way. The opposite was the case. I drove myself crazy by trying to find solutions for an issue even the smartest people in the world haven't found solutions yet... and here is how I fared:
I concluded that the written traditions of holy books, especially those of the three major monotheistic religions, are too radical and intolerant towards other usually older and now extinct beliefs and if you start believing that your chosen religion is the only right one, you're very likely to wish that you are part of the chosen people and that you sooner or later legitimate violence, killing, even genocide towards different-thinking tribes once you're convinced that everything you do, you do in the name of the super-natural being you want to believe in; history proves me right manifold. But that I personally came to conclude that I don't need to believe in gods or one particular god doesn't mean that we should give up religions entirely. It just means that religious institutions nowadays have a great deal of work and progressive reformation and interpretation in front of them if they want to serve mankind as a whole in our contemporary world. They can do that by permanently acting out of love and compassion towards others in their temples, churches and mosque associations; and they can do it in exchange with atheists by letting only arguments count that are accessible in both world views, the religious and the atheistic.
If you want to make writings of Christian mythology count for everyone, you can do that by something I usually condemn, which is cherry-picking. Pick everything from the teachings of Jesus Christ that goes hand in hand with all other world views that claim to be egalitarian, loving and peaceful and no one will question your beliefs. Get that right and you may even get followers for what even the Roman Catholic Church got right in the first place. Things like praying as a source of meditation, choir concerts in churches, letting kids in school draw pictures of Jesus during a rave party where five loafs of bread and two fish were sufficient catering for the entire crowd*.... such things.
About the Islamic world I know fairly little and integrating or even including muslim believers into Austrian society is something most Austrians, me included, can't handle with ease. Reading a German interpretation of the Holy Quran was not as fruitful as I was hoping since I couldn't understand what I personally couldn't believe in. And when I read that interpretation I also first came to conclude that cherry-picking might be at least part of the answer. But after reading Tom Harris' "Islam and the future of tolerance" and throughout the research for a scientific pro-seminar exercise at the university (using an Arabic and four English interpretations of the Holy Quran as primary sources), I realized that most liberal muslims, who consider Islam to be an egalitarian movement (which is the way I want to see it), wish the teachings of the Holy Quran to be understood as a whole; no cherry-picking. Well, if that is necessary, plus you want to calm down Austrian politicians like former FPÖ-candidate for presidency, Helmut Hofer--who during a TV discussion (with present president Sasha van der Bellen) asked for a standardized German version of the Quran to be used in Austria,... if you want all that... if you want a modern version of a book that permanently used to be criticised for being man-made, so let feminist approaches count and--doing that, render interpretations like Laleh Bakthiar's "The Sublime Quran" into your language and then recommend it to your local mosque associations to serve as a source we all can live with. Cuz face it: Every contemporary version of The Holy Quran, including all existing Arabic versions, is only an interpretation of what muslims believe is the ancient word of God/Allah**.
All the muslims I live with--no one excluded--are good from the bottom of their hearts and I don't fully get why right-wingers from the Austrian nazi party FPÖ still harrass them publicly. They wouldn't if they knew that in cities like mine muslims give to the poor, whether you're muslim, christian or atheist; and faithful muslims probably do that, I assume, because the Holy Quran asks them to do***
In a nutshell, reading one single book and then relying on that one as a source of wisdom in order to find my place in the world seemed unmanageable and ignorant to me--especially when it comes to religion. In that field of interest I had to read much in order to understand little... to understand what is accessible to the human mind; or as I'd interpret a popular line in a useful way:
[May the universe] grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can
and the wisdom always to know the difference...
Splinters taken and slightly rearranged
Original source: "Slaugtherhouse Five"
by Kurt Vonnegut (1969)
Anyway, if I wanted to impress Wacholder the next year, I would have to read many page turners. Religion wasn't my tool to escape reality; I fell for fiction, Disney comics and detective novels. Between 2012 and 2013 I enjoyed well over a hundred books. Most of them I read out loud in order to improve my pronunciation. But that wasn't always possible in the hostels, where I spent most of my nights. Some room colleagues there just couldn't handle reading noises in the background when they had to loudly chat with one another...
But I couldn't care less. While spending time with my silent friends, thereby ignoring real people around me, I dreamed of meeting Wacholder again. With all the love fantasies soothing my mind I felt free and it also felt as if I could let go of the Viennese chic that stole my heart years ago. My fantasy girlfriend Wacholder would take care of me, slowly heal my wounds and tell me fiction stories that help me fall asleep. Finally she would even reappear in the real world. Well, that final thing didn't happen. But I'll tell you later. Let's first sum up why reading books was important and useful.
To start with, my readings weren't always readable. My blogging used to be at best cryptic if not merely utter nonsense; short, my writings didn't make sense. I didn't have a feeling for the language and when I had to answer questions during the mentioned progress-checks at the department, I always struggled to explain simple things, even if I understood them. But I always wanted to write in order to share ideas and express my feelings understandably towards others. With every book I finished I became better at writing and faster at reading. I would soon finish STEOP phase at the department and evolve as a student. So, it was all worth it.
Unfortunately, I didn't get the chance trying to impress Wacholder. She left for another institution pretty close to ours the following semester and never came back. Slightly frustrated and on top of that obsessed [as if haunted] with the idea that nazis and Germans would have too much influence on Austrian society, I requested a vacation semester at the university/department and left for Australia with the money left of my heritage. But that's another story.
Before I crossed the Indian ocean, I also let go of the idea that efforts to impress Wacholder were smart. I could have found her easily in the city if I wanted but didn't want another woman to think of me as a stalker, therefore canceled all my plans. My efforts to impress Wacholder should have helped me to kinda relegate into a higher league one day, where women of my fashion would challenge me even more than Wacholder ever did. But that wasn't the case. I felt exhausted like a mountain lion who after chasing deer unsuccessfully needed a break from hunting, although he needed to eat... and I was chasing a dream, again fooling myself into thinking that if I wanted something bad enough I would sooner or later get it.
I
didn't do Wacholder a single time and absolutely nothing happened, so it wasn't
supposed to hurt. But of course, it did; and I left Austria 💔, convinced that I won't find a soulmate here...
Of course, the conclusion I have to accept one more time is that I didn't see the forest for the trees and friends that constantly tell me "Låss den Wåld net wegn am Bam steh'n" of course are partially right. But if you want not only a decent fucker in your bedroom but a real friend you can identify with as a lover and soulmate, you'd sooner or later have to leap up that particular tree you fancy the most; and you'll be driven by songs like the one I listened to all day:
