An auto-biographical blog of [and about] a self-centered, porn-addicted psycho with a clearly fucked-up mind who tries to reobtain true and mutually felt 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]
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.
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 was 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 ascetically, ignoring the mentioned cancer sticks, I'm now coping with highly uncomfortable depression 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 of. 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 worldview 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 extent, 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 every one 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:
long time no see. We have April 21, 2024 and I finally feel eager to write again. Before I started writing I did myself a favor and deleted all posts from the past that turned out to be bullshit. Fortunately, as the stats on my profile show, no one read that BS in the first place. What's left is my post series "It's not supposed to hurt" that I want to continue at least until shit gets book length. Those posts are far from scientific, but they're at least comprehensible throughout the read; The shrinks who truly want to help me will love it and my friends who take their time to read my posts will understand me even more than they already do. Motivation and reason enough to continue writing. If no one will read my work, my real friends will; so it's worth the effort. Anyway...
To start with, I gave up weed entirely. Eventually I figured for myself that the drug wouldn't help people like me in the long run and it no longer made sense talking myself into believing that I could use weed like on-demand medicines, cuz in order to mitigate my depressions I would permanently have to try new strains, contact many dealers on the black market and accept many side effects that would make my illness even worse. Doctors constantly asked me to quit smoking weed and I finally followed their advise. I briefly amended past posts in order not to give you the wrong ideas about weed and linked a few videos below that helped me personally to understand why I obviously jumped to wrong conclusions when I experimented with the drug. If you are a regular (for whatever reason), make sure to check out the links, just to be up-to-date about your shrine. Can't hurt.
The story I am about to tell you lies about 12 years in the past. Back then I used to study at a department for translation studies in my home town where I'd be trained to become a decent English and Spanish translator. But let me type down a little prequel first...
I already tried out comparable studies in the same department about 23 years ago, right after getting my permission to study, when I finished AHS Gymnasium (more or less High School and College prep in the US or maybe Comprehensive Schools on the island). Back then (22 years ago), my Sehr Gut ("Excellent", A) at the final exam in AHS Gymnasium served as a qualification for STEOP classes (Entry and orientation phase) at the translation department. In this period of my life,... around the millenium year, I started lazy, probably wasn't ready for studying yet, and on top of that, didn't have the money, didn't yet realize how much I love language learning, then tried studying philosophy instead until I eventually decided to get a job in order to get other problems in my life sorted out. It would take me about a decade until I get another chance to study languages.
But first things first. In 2002, my father died. My father's death was an event that I appeared to accept easier than anyone else in my family. It later turned out that it got me the most and years would pass by until I started mourning and crying. I chose quite a different path when handling such losses and I would soon be misunderstood in my family since I chose the same approach when many of my relatives died the following years. "It's your grandmother's funeral and you are not crying, instead smiling as if you won the lottery. What is wrong with you? You didn't love your grandmother! It played into your hands that she died! You brought only problems into your grandmother's house and you're partially responsible that she's dead."... these things my anti-Semitic pseudo grandfather would say at a family meeting where we had to discuss who inherits what; my father didn't leave last will and testament (heart-attack by the age of 44).
By the way, just to "get a few corpses out of the cellar" (as we sometimes say in our country), the reason why I smiled at my grandmother's funeral, is, cuz I thought about the good times we had...
...I mourn for those who never knew you...
Lyrics quote from "Rose of Sharon" by Killswitch Engage from the album "The End of Heartache" (2004)
I remember leaving that particular family meeting totally perplexed; didn't want any money from those jerks in the first place. It wouldn't have solved the problems that I had at the time. But my loving mother and sister thought different and took me to court against other not necessarily related, so-called family members, in order to get me a fair share of what's left of the corpses. Many years later we had things sorted out and I suddenly had about fifty thousand bucks on my account--fifty thousand euros to change my so far fairly damaged life. I'm sure my father would have wanted me to spend it on something that makes me happy, so I decided to sell my cozy red Clio and from then on drove my bicycle to the university until I got my bachelors degree.
Okay, almost back to the main story. We're getting there... I suddenly felt rich and could afford the studies that I always wanted to soak up. When I proudly came back to the department in 2010, the department changed a few rules and my English grade from ten years ago would no longer serve as qualification for the STEOP classes. They now had entrance exams for every language that I wanted to study. In my case, English and Spanish. I used to think that my English remained "excellent" throughout the years and before the exam I spent two years in Spanish classes for children in arts school. In other words, I was confident that I would pass both exams immediately.... but, of course, I failed twice. Welcome to reality, Michael.
The next entrance exams would be scheduled in the beginning of the next semester and since I failed miserably the first time I tried, I wanted to be properly prepared the next time I enter the dragon's cave. But to be honest, I still had no clue how to prepare best. The first problem was that I had to finance life during my wait for the second chance. I mean, as I've told you, I had fifty thousand bucks on my account. But in perspective, that's not much, considering that I would need money for at least three years cost of living. If I wanted to study full time--and I'll later explain why I had to--there would be no further income in the meantime; and an average working-class-hero in Austria needs at least twenty thousand euros per year just to make ends meet, due to high rent costs (among other things). So, in order not to lose too much money while waiting for the exam, I felt obliged to work my ass off at Frank Stronach's Magna Steyr assembly line.
The job at Franky's wasn't satisfying at all; the opposite was the case; I hated it. Low wages for unexperienced newcomers in the business, hardly any bonuses for monotonous sometimes aching hard work while constantly on the clock, two or three five-minutes breaks to pee in a ten-hour working day, one mean guy among my colleagues that I couldn't get rid off, and worst, shift work that would make me lose my weekends--since I needed to manage my sleeping periods throughout the weekend in order to remain fit in the right cycle of shifts the following work week. I'd rather I had done a different job these eventually 18 months, but at the time I had no valuable qualifications or degrees earned that would bring about better perspectives or at least a humane full-time job. Of those there still appear to be only a few if you haven't managed to finish an apprenticeship or the like. Also, I'd rather I had done a different job these eventually 18 months, where I'd spend my well-deserved weekends going out, dancing in metal bars and in between pop metal chics in the toilets, like smart, educated fuckers in my age used to do. But I was neither smart nor educated.
The reason why I didn't call in sick a single time during that useless phase of my life is cuz there were two motivators that drove me. The first motivator was my wish to study languages--good choice. The second trigger was what I permanently got to hear and read--in a nutshell, "Geht's der Wirtschaft gut, geht's uns allen gut." Keep that bullshit and the like stuck in your skull instead of a real brain and you may never understand what drives poor people to do shitty work in the first place. But don't get me wrong. There are millions of jobs out there that are hard, that have to be done and that anyone eventually has to perform. Producing cars is none of them. However, if your working life is hard you should at least have something else in your life that gives you reason to live, such as a loving partner that eases your pain by hugging you, kissing you, talking to you, whispering kind words into your ears, you name it.
After three trials in a row I had finally managed to pass both the English and Spanish exam at the department. When I soon found out that even my studies would be hard (cuz of several other, more rewarding reasons), I had no such treasures like a loving partner in advance; so I made them up. I used my precious fantasies to escape reality.
And that brings us to the story that I actually wanted to talk about. Sorry for the delay. As I said, we're almost there. The second problem that I had when I tried to prepare for the exams was that I had comparatively no time. I had a few hours every weekend that I used for reading. So in this mentioned 18 months I read one book. "Angels and Demons" by Dan Brown. Nice stuff, but I didn't like the ending. Anyway, that was it. That was my preparation for the English exam; and to this day, I still have no idea how I got the positive grade. For the Spanish exam I had invited a Spanish student who studied master classes in the same department. I found her advertisement for Spanish tutorials glued to the department's pinboard and gave her a ring.
She soon visited me in my studio on a hot summer evening. She had about 160 centimeters in height, wore her dark-brown hair long, and the tight curry-colored clothes she wore made her nipples [above her almost invisible breasts] visible and showed almost everything I wanted to know about her sweet, tiny, apple-shaped ass. The moment I saw her I felt like drawing her into my cave and make brutal anal sex with her all day, or at least the usual 25 seconds. Anyway, instead I offered her a cup of tea and gave her some compliments about the color of her dress; she had a beautiful smile. She then took out her books and taught me everything I needed to know in order to do a good job on the exam. In fact, she taught the entire grammar stuff so well, I realized that it would take me a great deal of time and work to reach her level of knowledge in Spanish learning. I therefore also assumed that I was out of her league and thought that guys like me wouldn't get laid by such attractive and smart women--and of those we had many at the department...
...although they hardly ever dressed as hot as my Spanish tutor. When I started going to classes, as I mentioned, about 12 years ago, there sat about 80 to 90 percent women in the class room. The rest were college boys, most of them about ten years younger than me. But all of us testosterone producers sooner or later found a way how to not get an erection during class time. I assume, when I say "we", that we just focused on our actual studies and if we wanted to stare at people, we stared at our teachers. They, just like the younger student chics, most of the time wore wide jumpers, fancy looking, long skirts, buns that made them look like hobos and--most effective--they didn't wear make-up. When younger female teachers came to class early in the morning they presented faces that reminded me of krampus masks rather than shiny doll faces that average pervs like me know from Naughty America doctor and massage porn. So, the outer appearance most women created helped a lot to not get randy throughout class time.
When you have a crush on your English teacher (1/2)
She, let's name her Wacholder, cuz just calling her by her real name gives me a boner, so let's call her Wacholder,... she was different. Yes, she adapted to the look-like-shit dress code of the others, but she appeared cute and fantastic anyway. I couldn't help but falling in love with her from the first moment I saw her (💖). Unlike me, she had a very silent but sweet voice; like Minnie Mouse... and she looked like a daisy. Her bun upon her head looked stupid, I admit. But not wearing make-up didn't make her look less attractive. I could imagine waking up next to her without screaming hysterically or calling the police due to illegal eyesore provocation. No,.. If she was my girl, I would want to kiss her good morning every morning no matter what facial condition she conjured up with her hangovers...
She taught first semester English and culture classes. That is a combination of advanced grammar lectures, writing skills, learning words, pronunciation and basic history of predominantly English-speaking cultures--in her case, since she's American with Irish roots, US-American and a bit of Irish history; quite interesting.
Wacholder's lectures/courses were really great. In the beginning of my studies I very often couldn't follow lectures of her English-speaking male colleague, let's name him Crank, who, unlike Wacholder, used thousands of online sources to teach basic stuff about the same topics Wacholder taught. Crank's courses brought about too much input for people like me, who hadn't studied in ages. Wacholder's lectures/courses on the other hand were visibly organized step-by-step, using only few sources to make lessons clear. I mean, I learned much more in Crank's classes than in all the other classes combined, but most of the stuff I managed to understand from his classes were extracurricular issues that wouldn't help me pass his exams--the so-called progress checks. When I first came to Wacholder's classes in the second year of my studies, I soon was positive that I would get a positive grade by the end of the semester. I was wrong, but let me continue next time.
Til then, as we say in my home village, have a nice kukuruz work week.
over the fear that I will never find a way to heal my soul
and I will wander till the end of time
torn away from you...
Lyrics quote from "My Heart is Broken" by Evanescence from the album "Evanescence" (2011)
The story I'm about to tell you lies about 16 years in the past. Back then I led a hollywood life that you couldn't imagine. I was frontman of a quite respected metal band, went to art school to train myself in jewellery, painting and arts history and once in a blue moon popped girls I had met at my concerts. Bruce Wayne couldn't have performed any better. Best days of my life, cuz I hadn't really fallen in love yet and my experience with women so far made clear that drowning in pussy would be my prefered way of committing suicide. [later engraved on the tomb stone "Died doin' what he loved. Peace mothafuckas]". But I was busy being a rockstar and didn't perceive much of other people's problems and realities. My ego was driven by the people who supported all my creative work--and back in the day I had plenty who supported me. Don't ask me why.
In that years I thought I had climbed the Maslow pyramid with ease, cuz literally everything appeared to work out for me personally. The problem later was that I thought I could get everything I wanted if I just wanted it bad enough; and that didn't work out when I fell in love with this refreshing Viennese sensation of a woman...
... some just want everything
but everything means nothing
if I ain't got you...
Lyrics quote from "If I ain't got you"
by Alicia Keys
from the album "The Diary of Alicia Keys" (2003)
... She was about one year younger than me, had dark brown eyes, wore her dark hair long, painted her face like Masuimi Max (just cuter and younger), and was easy to chat with on a platform named MySpace. (MySpace was pretty much a playful predecessor of Facebook, just so much cooler to play with for kids in my age. Anyway;) the two of us eventually met personally for the first time when I came back from a trip to Helsinki, Finnland. The evening I flew back to Vienna a US metalcore band performed twenty minutes from the airport... and that, in my view, was an ideal prolonged vacation. Cuz metal concerts were my home area back then.
So the atmosphere was fantastic. Nothing says more "Let's get laid" than a metalhead like me who meets a Viennese chic at a concert. If weddings in Las Vegas were as awesome as rock concerts in Vienna, I would have married already. But they aren't, and so a mix of melodic death metal and hardcore in my ear held my head high when we hugged each other to say hello. She asked me if I was exhausted from the flight, I nodded and she promptly ran for two big cups of white whine spritzer. And I was exhausted, and a big cup of white wine spritzer was exactly what I needed in that moment. But she turned out to be a catch for many other reasons...
As in our MySpace chats, she was easy to talk with that night. But the first thing she wanted to discuss, while we were sitting two-some on the floor next to the bar, was her approach to relationships. In that moment I didn't feel like listening, cuz I wanted to start something planless from scratch; and so I interrupted her monologue about relationships by kissing her as passionately as possible--in order to make my intensions clear. She went with it and we would most of the time just sit somewhere and kiss ...and every time I wanted to tell her something, she would interrupt me with another long-lasting kiss. But that was our first night together: an evening to celebrate life as it is.
The next month or so we would talk a lot via phone and discuss everything in detail that young souls like ourselves had on our minds: deep conversations and lots of stuff to laugh about. It was the only period of my life where I'd actually enjoy long conversations on the phone before going to bed. Sometimes I even fell asleep during the calls, so comfy and cherished I felt when talking to that girl.
...Now as I lay me down to sleep, this I pray, that you will hold me dear
Though I'm far away, I'll whisper your name into the sky
and I will wake up happy...
Lyrics quote from "As I lay me down" by Sophie B. Hawkins from the album "Whaler" (1994)
But meetings were far too scarce. Unfortunately, one of the two of us would always have to invest a few hours drive to reach the other person's city and so we would only meet two times in my studio, once at one of my own concerts in Vienna, and once at another concert. With time she for herself then figured out that a relationship with me wouldn't make sense. I, hopeful as I used to be, had to figure that out the hard way since she just tempered out our calls instead of "breaking-up": Less and less she would call me and eventually she wouldn't respond to my calls either. That's why I one day panically canceled arts classes kinda illegally and drove my Audi to Vienna in order to surprise-visit her at work. When I stood at the reception desk of her working place, the receptionist ushered me out of the facility immediately and minutes later my assumed love interest texted me "STALKER". I felt missunderstood... and like shit, but afterwards accepted that future endeavors would be useless. She obviously never really felt the way I wanted her to feel about me. Anyway, I would never see her or hear from her ever again.
You'd imagine that if you never fuck someone and if that fuckable person never tells you that she loves you, you'd get over her with ease since nothing actually happened. But me, I reached a level where I'd fantasize to spend the rest of our young lives together and every plan B would be worth- and useless in comparison to the millions of A plans I had in mind with her (or rather with her in my mind).
This entire experience made me change completely. I suddenly felt as if I needed to be as self-sufficient as possible and therefore tore down everything I religiously had built up around me: I stopped meeting with friends (especially pot smokers by the way) and kept distance from mother and family by constantly performing as an angry, frustrated and hateful child, I assume. A year later my beloved metal band split--certainly cuz of quarrels I had with the other guys of the band. Eventually I got in a fight with our bass player, my best friend with whom I shared a studio. We soon stopped living together and departed with many things left unspoken. I was suddenly all alone; and however hard it felt, in that situation I thought everything I did was right...
...and I'd walk desperately to find a better life without anyone else in this world.
The sad part of the story is that this girl was a pot chic. There were many signs that I ignored and that I eventually perceived as such when I'd spend the months after the stalker-accusation pondering in solitude about what went awry and what I may have done wrong or something...
I then remembered situations when she was in a bad mood, for instance, when she visited me and complained that I didn't have weed at home. Also, in one of our last calls she would explain in between that she likes hashish though it pushes, though it puts some pressure on you, and stuff. I ignored such stories at the time. Whenever she wanted to tell me about her wisdom about drugs, like in that case, I would divert to another topic. It seems as if I simply wasn't open for drugs back then since I rather orientated on an ascetic life. The only thing I did excessively those years was playing basketball, so drugs wouldn't come in handy.
In sum, maybe that girl that I thought I'd love so much was on a different path... and drugs would be part of her life during a time in which I simply wasn't compatible with her, due to my contrary view. And maybe my reaction to her pro-drug views was something she couldn't handle. I understand it today but couldn't make sense of it back then. I changed into the person she could have had discussions with, even about drugs, but ages later. To become the accessible man she would have loved, I had to ruin my life first.
After this long-distance pseudo-relationship with who I thought would be the woman of my life (not counting my mom) I would never be the same person again. In the summer to come, I dated another awesome, hot chic (pot chic on occasion, by the way) with whom I really enjoyed sex. She knew me from my concerts of course. When I first saw her I thought I was out of her league, but fortunately she had a thing for ugly metal musicians, so I got lucky. However, in an honest conversation, I had to tell her that I wasn't over that Viennese chic. She appeared a bit puzzled then but made clear that she'd get over me by cheating on me with another metalhead. Our affair (she wasn't quite single yet) ended with a fight; from then on she hated me. In retrospective, I get her.
Months later I would try dating again and dated a hot 18-year-old virgin I met in arts school. I introduced her to certain things in life; shouldn't have done that. but we adultly agreed on a serious relationship where I'd get to know her family and the like. She also baked me a cake for birthday and we even participated in her grandparents gold wedding anniversary. But after about three weeks I'd realize that she couldn't fill the void I had created mentally; and so I turned into a power asshole until she broke up with me.
But then I gave in. After finishing art school I stopped dating. I thought, as long as my heart is not open, as long as I am unable to love again, I shouldn't confront the rest of womenhood with my heartache. Too embarrassing anyway.
And that's when I decided to live alone for quite some time.
Okay... It took me some time to complete this particular part of the story. Reason for that is that I wasn't necessarily able to write since I was emotionally overwhelmed by the experience I'm about to describe. Now that I see everything in perspective I can stop licking my "wounds" and continue working on my writings as emotionally exclusive as every other vacation junky. Don't skip the read, even if it emphasizes on love interest and future planning rather than cannabis smoking. In sum, it's all about lifestyle and decision-making related to cannabis smoking. So, read it; be informed and entertained...
Well, let's get started...meeting a sweet pot chic in my age up in Amsterdam 😊 As there was my last day in Amsterdam and only few hours left until my flight back to Vienna, there wasn't much space/time left for offensive plans. Thinking me back into the situation, I guess I should have tried to calm down and make the best of the situation--cuz the situation wasn't bad at all since I was sitting there in the GOA coffeeshop with great hash and a seemingly awesome person. I knew exactly what to do with my hash, of course. However, I wasn't quite sure what move of mine would work best to make the girls heart beat a little louder. When we sat to our table in the coffeeshop, she remained quite reserved. We didn't get an empty table and therefore had to sit opposite some pot kid with a cap. It appeared as if she wouldn't feel comfy then; she must have felt confined due to the crowd around her and the narrow space she had for herself to roll a joint. From all the impulses she conducted throughout the last three days, I would have thought that she would love to sit [so] close to me. The opposite was the case; she was one of these ladies who need a little zone of empty space around their waistes to feel free and unrestricted.
I myself wasn't responding smart at all but impatient instead and so, after asking her about her professions (she was astrologer, masseuse and yoga teacher), I would pick on her astrology thingy and question her beliefs loudly. That wouldn't turn her on, I creepingly (🐌) realized. She then suddenly picked up her phone and sank into it. Now, usually that's a red flag that makes me vanish, but in the moment it felt as if it was my fault that she'd escape into her wonder screen. So I asked her about what she was reading on her phone and stuff, hoping to get her back into a conversation. But it wouldn't work; she was lost already. After a few minutes that kid from opposite the table left the shop. The girl then asked me kindly to change seats. After that and before I finished rolling my first joint [on the other end of the table], she stood up and blabbered something about a deadline for an application for traumasensitive massage or something (doesn't matter), then shook my hand and left forever. (Forever--cuz back home, when I texted her a few times... you guessed it: she 👻ed me.) And so another pot chic passed by on my seemingly endless search for a soulmate in a hell that whispers "You won't find her"...
In a nutshell: nice girl, sweet smile, soothing voice, but what I missed where deep
conversations that would bring me any closer to her. On top of that, I
didn't do her a single time (far far far from that). Briefly, nothing happened, so it's not
supposed to hurt--but it kinda did 😢, and when I left for Vienna I felt 💔. I would spend the next days and weeks asking myself what went awry, but nothing would make sense. I fell into a slight depression and intended to dwell down there at least for a month. But the heartache would fortunately leave after about two weeks and after that time it made no longer sense to pity myself. However, the pain and the sadness I carried through the day brought about some fruitful ideas that, I think, are worth sharing...
Now, that was not the most breathtaking story you've ever read, was it? That probably happens to you and your tinder dates all the time; right? Nothing peculiar at all. Hm..., it was kind of bitter for me, though 😔. Let me explain...
As you've certainly figured out already, I'm single most of the time I roam around in this world. It's less that I want to be single all the time; I simply cherish my freedoms and my independence as a single so much that I hardly ever feel eager to find a partner; I hardly ever feel the need to bond with someone else, probably cuz I don't know much about the comfort of a decent fulfilling relationship. I dunno... Some of my colleagues tell me that they need the security and that they choose to search for a partner when they endure too much loneliness. I scarcely ever feel this way; in fact, most of the time I enjoy my lonetime [of which I have plenty]... and a certain amount of it I need almost every day. However, I feel that strange void in my chest already.
Friends around me found families and therefore have far less time to nourish our friendship lately; and the profound communication I have with them is now rare and already insufficient. After all these years it suddenly makes sense to have a loving friend around, if necessary every day. So here I stand with a fresh desire for friendship and love, ready for a certain commitment that I wouldn't have contemplated years ago.
The reason why I told you about two of the few interesting encounters that I remember in recent months, is cuz these encounters made me realize what I'm after; and I assume almost every pothead in my country is coping with the same scarcity of pot chics and therefore might face difficulties when it comes to meeting potential, compatible lovers, friends, companions, soulmates; cuz, face it, if you prospect for your soulmate--a person who accompanies you for quite some time on the road--you want it to be someone who shares interests, someone who supports you in who you are and the things you love to do, so, of course, it has to be a pot chic; it has to be someone like you.
The hard thing in a typical Austrian setting is to eventually perceive pot chics as who they are...you know, there's no dresscode or something. Maybe they weigh less in average since they prefer their calorie-free drug to 🍰, chocolate and 🍔, I dunno. My point is, you don't know before you know,... and the trick is to make'em visible first. So, here is how you do it:
Instructions on how you first "approach" a pot-loving, kind-hearted pal that [therefore] turns out to be a potential soulmate [in mothafuckin Austria].
1. Just be yourself
Now, that sounds a little harsh, but what I meant to express was
2. Roll a joint right in front of her...
...cuz if she actually is the one (or as educated polygam dudes out there would put it: if she's good to fuck for quite some time) then she deserves to know in advance what she can expect from her love interest. But we aren't that far yet. First you have to
3. See how she's reacting...
...cuz if she's not completely frozen or asking "Willst du den etwa hier rauchen?", instead staying right where she is, willing to smoke that shit with you,... then she's at least open for your habits--and that's worth diamonds. But you know,.. when she leaves, that's pretty much it. Anyway, next
4. Light whatever crooked thing you just nervously created
--since you've practiced rolling a joint for spontaneous ceremonial occasions several times-- you then
4. Light the joint and hand it to her
If she doesn't run away, continue with Advice #1 and you'll be fine, promised.
So, that's it, folks. Hope you liked this introducing post section and you took something with you until we meet again. In the next section, before neglecting the topic completely, I will mix up the cannabis topic with something different. Contact me if you want to participate in this blog project. I'm grateful for every tender soul who accompanies me on my journey. Feel free to leave a comment anyway.
Allrighty. So, if you've read Part 1 of this post already, then you've just accompanied me on my tour on King's Night, the pre-party to the greatest national holiday for the Dutch--King's Day. But I perceived comparingly little of this pre-event since the most interesting venues were sold out. I could have visited a few more coffeeshops, but when I left the Green House shop I came to ponder about the girl I had just met. First, cuz I am always getting suspicious when an attractive lady shows interest in me; I am simply not that much of a fuckable-looking contemporary these days. (In fact, I usually give them the creeps). And second, cuz I couldn't get her out of my head for a while... too inspiring and too nice for a girl of her fashion. So maybe sleep would help me order some thoughts. I left for the hostel...😴
Next morning I woke up at about 10 or something--too late for breakfast in the hostel where I stood. So I went out on the streets rather early and got myself an English breakfast in the city. It was about eleven o'clock. The later it became the more people dressed in orange would appear on the streets. Lots of people already opened their private sales stalls or less where they would sell stuff. Most of the time they sold refreshments and fast food. The ubiquity of spots where you could buy beer and hot dogs, in fact, made it easy for me to organize lunch. On my way from the city center to Vondel (the shop I recommended in Part 1) through Vondelpark, I had a hotdog each estimated 500 meters, I guess. I visited several bars and had my long-anticipated edible in a coffeeshop called The Rookies. It was an orange space cake with half a gram of weed in it. Tasted good but didn't have much effect on me. I needed something stronger and therefore had another primavera in mind.
So I headed for the next coffeeshop that smiled at me: Terps Army. I recognized the logo of the shop from a fairly successful cannabis social club in Barcelona, went in hoping to get the best there. The shop itself was rather small, but an entire seating area was empty, so I gave it a try: Although they had mostly indica and hash I ordered one of the two sativa strains they offered that day. I think it was ordinary Amnesia weed; served the purpose. Later I rolled a joint with tobacco and the darkest hash they sold. After sucking that shit in I remained high as a kite for hours. I slowly walked through the city, passed a few canals, didn't count the hotdogs I swallowed during that time.
Later in the evening when I came to senses again, I was eager to know if it would work out with that
girl from the night before. So I texted her and asked her out for nine o'clock.
She postponed to ten then stopped responding. Something went
awry with our WhatsApp connection and I expected to never see or hear her again; unlucky. But since a
holiday romance wasn't part of my Amsterdam plans anyway, her ghosting
me wouldn't ruin my night. However, quite early I felt tired from walking through the city. I called it a day rather early in the evening and went to my hostel dorm where I would fall asleep with ease.
Next morning I woke up at about 9:30 or something--just in time to grab a few slices of toast, ham and tomatoes plus some orange juice from the breakfast bar in the hostel. I checked out at ten and headed for a coffeeshop I avoided to visit just until then. It was an eyesore of interior design that I didn't want to condone and it's called The Dolphins. The hash I eventually got there was light-brown and had a nice kneadable texture. I stood for one joint in the bar, not cuz I started to get used to the environment but cuz the shop was the only place so far where they would play Metal music. When I heard them playing "Two Minutes to Midnight" of Iron Maiden I knew I would have to stay at least for a cup of coffee. The coffee was great and the women behind the bar looked awesome in their white blouses. To summarize, a lovely place, not only for the blind ones.
Speaking of women, that girl from King's Night texted me in the morning. We chatted a bit and she invited me for a cup of coffee and a stroll through the streets. We finally met at two--and my flight was at eight. So there was still plenty of time left to get to know that hot stranger.
But before that, I would go to the STRAAT museum. A free ferry brought me from the station to the area where STRAAT is located. I walked a bit further to check out the only coffeeshop around. It was called the Funny People coffeeshop and it was just a take-away-counter 😟. The selection was very basic; insufficient information about the strains. I bought two pre-rolled joints, 5 bugs each; one with hash, the other one with a sativa mix; both had too much tobacco in it and scarcely gave a high. Taste was...yeah...like tobacco pretty much.
Speaking of tobacco, they say there are certain coffeeshops where they'd not allow tobacco smoke. That appears to be a myth. I am one of these people who roll their joints with tobacco and everywhere where I'd ask for the "tobacco zone", they'd say "It's not okay to smoke cigarettes, but it's okay if you roll your joint with tobacco in here". Even in shops that had boards on the table saying "NO USE OF TOBACCO IN ANY WAY" they'd allow me to roll and smoke my joint with tobacco. To conclude, don't feel urged to change your smoking habits; it's not necessary 😁.
It was necessary, though, to meet that cute girl. We texted about four hours just to find a spot where we could meet and at two I found the bar where she had two pieces of cake while waiting for me; I picked her up there. I should have waited until two thirty, cuz every further slice of cake would have done her well; she was just skin and bone, I figured. Anyway, we canceled our stroll due to rainy weather and had our coffee in a coffeeshop named GOA. They served Lavazza in paper cups; didn't have oat milk, so I drank mine black with sugar. She paid and even wanted to invite me for the hash we'd have there, but we picked differently, so I wanted to pay for myself. The selection was quite pricey, but the quality was convincing as well. Here is where I'd find my favorite hash variant; it was a White Choco Bloc: Dark brown, lovely kneadable texture, slightly creamy, tasted more like classical Marrocan hash. In a nutshell, I had a hot cup of coffee, the most formidable hash that I sucked in in ages, a starting conversation with a lovely lady, and about two hours left to.... I don't know...
...What were my intentions with her? Making out like two sixteen-year-olds at promnight in a sausage-party-like environment like GOA, as a souvenir or something...? Having a deep conversation about the meaning of life then falling in love with each other and cancelling the flight due to a spontaneous mission of love? Making an appointment for ayuverdic massage or private yoga classes with her the next time I visit Amsterdam? Those were all good ideas that I didn't have in that moment. Instead, I fucked up so bad; I don't know if I can put it in words...
