I hate you hate me

I hear tiresome laughter. I feel my body dehydrate and my right kidney pushing. I see an attractive guy throw one single random glance at me when saying “tschüß”. And I taste blood between my teeth. You can never be careful with dental floss, not when you have impatient, nervous and angry hands like I do. They have no sense for precision, care or elegance neither does my personality. I had known from the start that it was going to be hard, but not ‘that’ hard. The people are still the same, therefore it didn’t take me long to realize that it was me. I don’t know exactly what effects the last three years in Germany had on me: My comatose state, my uselessness to the family and working in retail being surrounded by peculiar customers. If that doesn’t sum certain things up, then I don’t know.

I seem to be the only one who writes because she has no choice. Writing – being described as fun and simply liking it or having something interesting to tell the world – is no explanation for why someone writes. Not in my book anyway. I’m so glad I’m a full timer, so I’ll have it done with sooner than previously planned. I like the workshops. The seminars are terrible; I hate them, I don’t see the point. I would never ask a writer where they get their ideas from, whether they write to atone, what effects their writings have on them or what the fuck ever. Find the hell out yourselves, for fuck’s sake. Why not ask the writer “How shall I change my personality, so I can write like you?” God, I hate this. Those questions are beyond impertinence as well and there are seriously writers who pretend to be nice and try to explain these things. When talking about writing, there’s nothing to talk about – just write about. God, I hate the seminars, but I’ve already said that. Another week of poetry – damn – not sure if my stupidity is up for that.

Why did I choose that course? – So that I don’t have to speak. I don’t know what’s so hard to understand here. You can talk with me for the whole day alone, but not in groups, I can’t swim in so many different pools at once. It’s not something I expect anyone to understand. I am not quiet.

Call me a cynic, an egoist or an intolerable little monster with self-centered intentions, but I didn’t come to the university to share my viewpoints, feelings and thoughts, but – to fucking get ’rid’ of them. I cannot hide the bruises any longer.  I’ve had enough pills; it’s time to face the nightmare either with my fuck finger or a metaphorical axe.

I came because I need help to get what I want and go where I want to go. I don’t care about anything else. I owe my parents money which they’d lent to me so I can work on my life, because my whole self was decomposing back home in anger and I could hear the time bomb ticking. But to my surprise my existential crisis didn’t start until I got here. My detachment has spread itself and my blood feels cold. My writing persona is back. So it doesn’t mean I made a wrong step. That was a necessary step, I need my changes. I just hate the beginning. I hate the beginning of everything. First chapters, new home, new faces, new environment. I don’t adapt myself, unless my body does it by itself, but my soul never adapts to anything. I don’t know if that makes sense.

I hate this place, but I couldn’t without it either, because I’m in love with my current freedom. I finally wrote a worthwhile story since 2006. Though, life isn’t going smoothly at all. There is so much to do, so much to take care of and too many people to think about (I wish I could lock all them fuckers away and just concentrate on my family and what I want to do for them and them only). I’ve really spread myself thin. But here my philosophy tends to kick me in the bum, because I treat people the way they deserve to be treated. There are so many of them, so many I can’t count (up to 3 I can’t count). My paranoia won’t leave me alone either; I think I’m still being stalked. I dug a grave for that person, but he hasn’t fallen in yet. I guess I’m supposed to fall in there myself, so my hatred will just become irony. That’s what the German idiom says. Dig a hole for someone and you’ll fall in there yourself. If I fall foolishly, then again, please bravely. The hate won’t go away. No, he will fall in there.

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