I hate you hate me

I hear tiresome laughter. I’m dehydrated and feel pressure in my right kidney.

I see an attractive guy throw a glance at me when saying “tschüß.”

I taste blood between my teeth. You can never be careful with dental floss, not when you have impatient, nervous and angry hands. They have no sense of precision, care, or elegance; neither does my personality. I had known from the start that it would be hard, but not this hard. The people are still the same; therefore, it didn’t take me long to realize that it was all me. I don’t know what effects Germany had on me in the last three years: My comatose state, my uselessness to my family and working in retail being surrounded by peculiar customers? If that doesn’t sum up certain things, then I don’t know.

I seem to be the only one who writes because she has no choice. Writing – being something fun and merely liking it or having something interesting to tell the world – is no explanation for why someone writes. Not in my book. I’m so glad I’m a full-time student because I’ll have it done sooner than planned. I enjoy the workshops; on the other hand, the seminars are terrible. I don’t see the point. You listen to published writers’ ego trips. I would never ask a writer where they get their ideas from, whether they write to atone, or what effects their writings have on them or what the fuck!

All writers have to find it out themselves, dammit. Why not ask the writer, “How shall I change my personality so that I can write like you?” Though these questions are beyond impertinence, and some writers pretend to be nice. When talking about writing, there’s nothing to talk about – just write about it.

God, I hate the seminars.

Another week of poetry, too – yuck. I’m not sure if my stupidity is up for that.

Why did I choose that course? – So that I don’t have to speak all too much. I don’t know what’s so hard to understand here. You can talk with me for hours, but just not in groups; I can’t swim in so many different pools at once. It’s not something I expect anyone to understand. I’m not quiet.

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

I came because I need signposts; I don’t care about other writers’ ego trips.

I owe my parents money that they’d lent to me to 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 spreads, and my blood feels cold. My writing persona is back. Perhaps, I didn’t make a mistake. Coming here was a necessary step; I needed that change. I just hate the beginning of things. I hate the beginning of everything: first chapters, new home, new faces, new environment. I don’t adapt well unless my body does it, but my soul needs time.

I’m not sure if I’m fond of this place, but I couldn’t live without it either. I love my current freedom. I wrote my first good 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). I’ve really spread myself thin. But here, my principles kick me in the butt 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 three, 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, how ironic. 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.

He will fall in there.

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