Why you should hire me

I dreamt I had a criminal record. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but I knew that I had committed something very bad. The sense of guilt was going a bit too far there. I actually felt paranoid – anxious of getting caught. When I woke up I realised the ludicrousness of the dream, but I didn’t understand the meaning of it.
Weeks later I listened to Alkaline Trio’s ‘Radio’ and immediately remembered the one and only short story I wrote which involved murder. And not just any murder. It was a ‘first person perspective’-murder. I haven’t read that story in years. I remember receiving an ok-mark for it, although I think I must have made my tutor nervous. The story is pretty much based on the Trio song. Lastly I just have no desire to re-acquaint with my former English. I think I would crouch in shame.

Job hunt has been hell, especially because I’ve been postponing the flat hunt – ideally would be not having to travel to my future work place. Ah, Hamburg, Hamburg – meine Perle.
It’s quite daunting when companies or agencies ask you “Why should we hire you?”
Depending on the position that you’ve applied for, you start to think…The only answer you can come up with is “This is the question.” And then you freeze.

Anyway, my attempt to disappear from social networks’ surface this month failed. I wouldn’t have signed in on facebook, if the riots hadn’t got me so wound up. I suddenly felt necessary to communicate. Initially it was Alec Empire who came up with points that I undoubtedly shared with, but I didn’t want to worry about that shit, because I have a thesis to complete. Thankfully I’m less under pressure now. It should be finished in two weeks, I hope. The last two months have been a walking madness. Every step I took I sweated like a pig. My daily run is just not enough. There’s still this bursting energy that I need to release. I don’t know what it is.
So I’ve spent a year as a reclusive writer. I need to enjoy it to the very last day of being a student.

Don’t you hate it when diary keepers call their diary content secrets? Who says that the content of a diary is based on your secrets at all? Once it’s written, it’s been told. At very young age I understood that the purpose of writing was exposure – a signed agreement to unload the mind and a devoted commitment to keep your readers’ interest in high regard.
I never cared about the reader until now.
Then I realised that writing was the best thing ever invented. Now if you want to make money with your writing, for instance as a copywriter, they will all say you need to “SELL! WRITE PERSUASIVE COPY THAT SELLS!”
This kind of upsets me. And only Bill Hicks will agree with me. I don’t want to kill the artistic world by using evil words to coax people into things; persuading people to spend the money they don’t have. I think it’s more provocative than effective. You do aim at rich people, but don’t you hate them and their decadence? And then you’re told to enrich this decadence.
As a writer, I don’t want to trick people, and yet – unreliable narration is all I can offer. I can’t trick you in the way Nabokov tricked me, for instance. I don’t think I am THAT unreliable.

They all wonder why I stay in every weekend. Even if it wasn’t the thesis, I would stay home. I would only go out if I was back in Hamburg, though – where people are familiar and less intrusive, less persistent. I feel a lot freer in Germany, yes. But what’s freedom without challenge anyway? And this is why I am here. I’m doing something constructive, creative to revolt against boredom – the absurd, the meaninglessness of life. Do I care? To a certain extent I guess I do, yes, but overall no, I don’t care. But if I didn’t, I’d be doomed, right?
Think what you want. I know what I am doing, but you are right, I should get out more. I haven’t experienced another Londoner night life since New Year’s Eve. After that I told myself I wouldn’t again, but well, who knows? The experience I had about Londoner night life is that British guys want me for the night; Indian guys want me as their wife, Chinese guys think I understand mandarin, Austrian blokes refusing to speak standard German, etc. I can’t communicate with them. What all these men had in common was that they were DRUNK. There is nothing more off-turning than drunk people. I pretend I find them funny at times, but they are not, not one little bit. If you are not Bukowski, then don’t talk to me when you’re drunk. This is all what night life is about, I figured – no matter where you go in the UK. Only in Germany I can cope, despite my friends drinking stupid amounts sometimes, but at least I have a dance floor all to myself with decent music ringing in my ears. Germans give you space any time. Night life never meant socialising to me; it’s always been about music and dancing – and only my friends in Germany understand this. And here you can’t even dance without suddenly feeling a dirty hand on your waist or bum. Why are Londoner men so desperate? I’m desperate myself, but I am picky. Busy wanting those I can’t have. The emotions are always stronger then, aren’t they? Useful stuff…

A friend just called, asking ‘What’re you doing?’ – “I’m making the most out of the last month of being a full-time writer,” and trying to understand this agonizing energy.

You should hire me because I’m a cardiac surgeon. I’ll make sure that all four chambers in your heart are air-conditioned, I’ll help you accommodate whatever you want, suture each bleeding hole, unclog the coronary pipe, but most importantly, I’m good at lying in my writing – but in defence, you have to let me call it fiction.

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