Honey for the soul

It’s nice to make people smile, and for some strange reason, I’ve been doing it a lot lately. They also make me smile, although I’d rather have a good laugh. The last time I laughed was during my favourite series. Witty puns and dialogues are the works of a genius. I used to write those too, but I’ve forgotten how to create such masterpieces.

The weekend was good. I like going out, except for those train journeys to the city, because you’ll always encounter young drunks who would pick on you on the weekend. I hate going to the city on my own at night. I went to meet my buddy Andreas on Saturday. And some ugly guy was sitting next to me with his bitched-faced female friends sitting across from us. I was listening to music and could still hear them talk. I wish I hadn’t heard a single word. The girls were making jokes about him, saying he should ask me out. But he said, “I don’t want a chink.” Well, I don’t like the English word “chink,” but you have no idea how much worse the German word is. I don’t even want to write it. The last time I got called a chink was in England when a thirteen-year-old townie girl threw a full plastic bottle at my head. It bounced off my shoulder blade. I wonder how these people feel. Do they think they are something better? Prettier? More human? Whatever makes them feel better about themselves, I don’t care, even though I wish they would die sometimes.

I’m working on a story called “The rain.” There are two Londoners (a girl and a boy) who meet at King’s Cross station in London. I’m unable to put an end to it. I currently have no inspiration. All I can write are some lousy poems, which don’t express my inner anguish. I probably don’t care enough about it, or I’m just too unmotivated. I have too many questions regarding the unknown—all those might-have and could-have-beens. I’m bad at acting fast, and sometimes I don’t even comprehend. Is that Asperger’s Syndrome? Hopefully, it’s just the lack of concentration. Though I never used to be like that.

Sometimes I wonder how to feel sexy. But then I feel sexy only during one particular song, and I’m happy the DJ at Grünspan always plays it. I often have to request it. And when the song is playing, I consider the whole dancefloor mine. “I drink the honey inside your hive–you’re the reason I stay alive.” Brilliant and sexy. It’s incredible what certain songs can do to you—dubbing your soul with honey.

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