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What is it that connects people? I engage in conversations with at least a dozen people a day, some of them repeatedly, some of them irregularly. For a long time, I thought it’s pain that connects. A vulnerable look into the other person’ eyes. You don’t like them? Well, maybe you haven’t felt the same type. I wonder what even dares me to think that others connect with me through pain in the first place, it’s kind of sad if you think about it, it’s as if I was reducing myself to the pain that I have felt.   Another contender for ThatsTheReasonYouLikeMe could be acknowledgement. You thrive to do something that is YOU, and I acknowledge it and you appreciate it. A subtle choice of adjectives that go beyond the usual day-to-day vocabulary to describe how you are, or a sprinkle of sarcasm on an otherwise serious topic.   The next option, a very special sort, is finding something in me that was missing in others, I call it TheLackingPiece. You place it into your puzzle, and Eh Voila!, everything makes sense.   And the final sort, my most favorite kind of people, are the kind, TheGenerousHandouts, who spare no drop of love and affection towards you, making it seem that they are drawing it out of an ocean of energy, when they have always been at their wit’s end.   It’s just a thought. It’s 1:54 am at the moment, and I going to work tomorrow again, MONDAAYYYYY. And for a long time, I can safely say that my Monday Scaries aren’t really scary, I am jetlagged this time.   I have so much to think about it’s driving me nuts. One of the things is Brandon Sanderson. The guy baffles me. I finished his first book of the Stormlight Archive series, and towards the end (don’t worry I never spoil), I thought he will do something that he didn’t and then I got really disappointed, because I am probably the very dumb, naive, reader that he thought – or essentially he was sure – he could trick. I flick open the second book and see a full page of books and stories he wrote, which is wild considering how good the first book of the series was. It’s so inspiring to me, because Brandon probably woke up one day and said: Well, let me tell you about a completely different universe with new races and religions and ethics, and let me go ahead and explain it to you into the exact detail that your tiny brain requires to get you to understand my point.  Since it is entirely fictional, I know for a fact that I can create my very own universe as well. It probably exists inside me already, right? I learned in university about Epigenetics, a scientifically proven study that we pass on experience across generations. And it has become clear to me that if I want to engage with everything built inside me, I shall learn how to communicate it to others, just like Brandon does.   (I will walk to my vape now just a moment)  (I also took a piss beforehand)  So, what I was trying to say: Brandon wouldn’t be able to write so much if he doubted himself along the way. He probably sits comfortably on his kitchen table (not a writer’s desk with fancy gaming chair) while his children are screaming around and his wife is cooking dinner. This is entirely hypothetical, I did not look up any of his life. It’s a great metaphor to how I would like to live my own life. Accept all the noise and continue working on your world. I mean, he wrote in his acknowledgments in book 2 that his child was born in the middle and could walk by the end of writing his book – what the damn hell?? Are you telling me you twisted my thoughts and ideas about your story in a mere two years? And here I am being a scared little bitch to finish my degree, for which I only have to write my thesis.   The thing that keeps happening to me recently, and I really mean almost on a day to day basis, is that I constantly see people doing things so easily; things that I thought to be impossible. Then, I realize that it was JUST ME that made it impossible in the first place. I change my mind, do it, and realize that I was stupid for thinking I couldn’t do it. Let me give you a very cool example from my wife. She fine-tuned a Large Language Model for her Master’s thesis on her laptop, which I am supposed to do at work next year (Yes, I wrote my own budget for the first time). She was telling me about it, and the only thing I was thinking is: How the hell did she do that on a Sunday? It was so big to me and yet she decided to “finish it already today because otherwise I will not have my Monday morning for myself”. Isn’t that something!!   (I’m gonna grab a drink, hold on, btw it’s 2:19 am now to give you a sense of time it takes me to write, which I really think famous writer’s have missed out on like crazy. I would have loved to know how long it took Kafka to write his first sentence to Der Prozess  [ https://www.derstandard.at/story/3000000213681/wie-kafka-den-fall-josef-k-in-ein-menschheitsraetsel-verwandelte ]. Dammit I was supposed to grab a drink just a moment).  So, I was saying. Brandon Sanderson really surprised me with his Acknowledgements. He then says “Thanks to that dude telling me to remove things because they don’t fit into the story”. No reason to be coooooooy, Brandon! Say that you had too much  story to share. Other’s die of thirst while Brandon is drowning in Fiji water. That’s what greatness is to me. Taking the thing I thought to be impossible – explaining yourself well enough to be understood – has wiped away a large chunk of doubt I have been having about my own prospects. But yes, it must be possible, because how else would I (M, 27) fall into his imagination and stand beside him while he is narrating life. What worth would you give to your own values after reading the first book?   The thing that keeps happening to me recently is that I am wrong all the time. It’s so strange. I do something, and it’s wrong. I try something, and it’s not enough. I have absolutely no cussing cell in my body that feels comfortable with what I am doing every day. No routine. I spawn every morning with a new side quest. Yes, sir, I would like to sit next to a woman in her fifties ringing in an interview with the Gen-Z employer sitting across from her, who for God’s sake could not be older than 27. And then I am sitting there, having my coffee and muffin, and I hear this lady fighting for her life. Bloomberg here, media outlet there, millions of viewers here, economic growth there. “Great, so can you tell me more about...” is all he says.    (Oh wait, I stood up and wanted to wander around a bit in the apartment, and I forgot to say. It’s 2:34am. Brb. Wait, why did I make this so special I stretched for a minute and came back.)  So, I was saying.  Boah, now I remember another sort of connection, it’s the GiversOfHope, a people of change, of promise, of excitement.   All of the fear mongering with AI is so stupid, it really shows how retarded we are as a society. Did you know that people would spread posters [ https://museumandarchives.redcross.org.uk/objects/46927 ] shying people away from vaccinations, at a time where children were dying because of already healable diseases. And people then were so retarded and said: Oh my god, they are injecting something into you that will make you stupid and turn you obedient. Sir, you are already stupid and obedient, what difference would it make. Why would anyone be worried about AI taking over, when we are already fully emersed into our phones already. Oh my god, I cannot shut up talking about phones, can I?   (I am going to try and sleep now, 2:54 am, and THAT’S HOW YOU DON’T SPEND AN HOUR OF YOUR DAY ON YOUR STUPID FUCKING RETARDED AND BITCHASS LITTLE TINY PHONE OF YOURS BITCH)  (10:12am small edit: I removed all of the unnecessary „just“)

No future, no past, just what is now. New York, can I get hit by a bus to find out how I can afford to buy an apartment by milking the cash cow. Lafayette or H, you pick. With you I feel no age, no stick. Where I can wear whatever I want,  hair clipped. Walk until I burn off the greese off my hips. Can you make my time stop again? Just so I don’t loose track of your scent and pretend To hold my breath until I can enjoy your air again. Every brick and bump shaping a chrysalis, for those who don’t mind looking up tripping ofttimes. Your light surrounds me and warms my soul, my desires replaced by hope, that there is a place that accepts me for who I am, a place of people like my own.

1.        50 Cent 2.        Reese Witherspoon 3.        Hans Christian Anderson Meeting God would be interesting, can I add him to that list though? He is kind of the OG celeb.

Whenever I don’t write something meaningful  – the time I spend sitting in front of an empty page - I tend to think about my past and future. The bright day awaits me after a dark night. A step into the next is another weighted by the previous. In sight for a second that will be forgotten – I pinch my soul time and time again: What truth was I sure to hold on to, except the one I chose myself?

Ohhhhh, finally. Thoughts are like wine; you learn to savor their alluring nature. You can press your grapes as fast and efficiently as you would like to; it won’t make the wine taste better sooner. Regardless of the attempts to allude to your truth, striking the balance of entertaining the thought enough to not lose track of it is a dance that you can pick the music to. You engage in tango and swing.   And if you’re very patient – I'm talking homeless-beggar-level of persistence - you reap the delicious benefits and dine opulently, which I get to do now – God bless. It does take a toll on you when you get challenged by yourself and make the impossible possible. It’s here, waiting to be formed by you after months and hours of contemplation. All of a sudden, it tastes just right.   Epidurals saved my life. They kept me going. Day in and day out. When I understood that there are people walking the face of the earth who deny women epidurals, because it is “not nature’s way”, I found hope again. To build a social construct of oppression, around the only minority making up half of the world’s population, requires surgical precision. Centuries of research to empower their doubts and operate where it hurts the most.   How really, retarded.  God gave me eyes to see, and since he didn’t show me how to use them, I like to see things my way and any other way is stupid and I don’t like you for disagreeing with me when I was made after his image and not you. And you can ask my momma and papa and my teacher and all of them say the same: I am better than you. Now stop scaring the hell out of me and listen to what I have to say otherwise I will use the only thing that I have more of, bone density, to my advantage.   How retarded, really.   Let‘s ignore all of the efforts, put ourselves down and get pushed around. Pretty please, tell me how to live my life. I won‘t like it but why should I inconvenience the bigger man. I know a hundred ways to get where I want, it‘s just that the idiot doesn‘t know any. Whatever, man. I‘m going to head off. You do you and I will do you, too, why would I need to do I! What does it even mean to be tired when you have been given everything – a soulless attempt at life?  Really, how retarded.

Chapter 1: the fall. A dull thump is all Allen heard in the very moment every parent fears the most happening to their newborn baby, followed by a high-pitched screech collectively recognized in the animal kingdom as the final attempt to draw from all available energy and signal that danger was imminent. For an outsider, it couldn’t have been more than a few moments, but to him, time stopped. No matter how much he tried, he could not move an inch from the hallway floor that he had just slipped on. Was his daughter's future forever ruined? His heart had never pounded faster, and his dizziness completely overwhelmed him, making him draw a blank page on what he had read and mentally gone through as preparation for such an incident. The flood of blame and shame lingering on every corner of the path of his thoughts left him momentarily paralyzed.   “What happened?” said a familiar voice in a firm tone.   “I, I, I don’t know.” is all that Allen could muster to say, scarcely audible, since the screaming has filled the whole room with a noise pitch that probably tore part of his eardrum. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to explain the surge of headache and his struggle not to fall unconscious to the ground. Adrenaline is said to help mothers lift cars off their children; to him, it felt like he was crushed by a truck.   “Try calming down and explaining to me how you got here,” asserted the same female voice again.   “I was about to go and change Diana’s diaper and forgot to bring the baby powder from the living room. On my way back, I slipped on one of her toys and she fell with me.”, narrated Allen. He could tell that he was slowly coming back to his senses.   A few seconds of silence, until he was met with “Do you know whether she fell on her head?”, when his face rushed red as he started screaming: “Why the hell do you keep asking me these questions, shouldn’t we worry about the crying infant first? What am I supposed to do?” wailed the desperate father cluelessly, as he was reaching down to his baby daughter, lifting her into his arms, pressing her gently onto his body, and rocking side to side.   “You need to take her to the hospital immediately”, she said.   “Thank you, Sherlock, how about you make yourself useful and call the ambulance for me?”, he said desperately - both his hands were tightly pressed against his infant daughter now in hopes that her crying would stop.   “They will be here in ten minutes, please walk down the stairs and wait for them there”, she advised.   “What do you mean? It’s minus seven degrees outside. If I take her out like this, she will freeze to death by the time the ambulance is here. Also, how am I supposed to get dressed and pack necessities if you are here sitting on your bottom and not helping?” he exclaimed.  With no time to spare, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He did have an emergency bag ready for such cases; he just had to reach back in the bedroom closet to get it. He threw his wallet and keys inside, got dressed, and they left. The commotion had led neighbors to curiously peek outside their apartments and stare at the restless family rushing down the stairs and into the ambulance trunk.   “We need you to provide us with your daughter's health insurance card to react fast once we reach the hospital,” said the paramedic.   “You can reach for it in my satchel,” insisted Allen.   “Sir, by law we cannot. You are required to have the health insurance card of your daughter scanned so we can react fast once we reach the hospital”, repeated the paramedic. As silly as it may have sounded to him, he fixed Diana to his left and pressed her firmly against his belly, while simultaneously reaching into the wallet inside his bag to fish out the card and clamp it between his palm and the scanning device to the right of him. The repeated turns and breaks made by the driver rendered the card valid only after the third attempt, which was met with a deep sigh of relief from Allen.   “What’s going to happen next?” he asked, visibly distraught. Diana’s crying abated in the car, though her body was trembling. Her father’s lullabies had a soothing effect on her shock, and her cramped hands and feet had loosened up slightly. A pediatrician was waiting in the emergency room to examine the infant for concussions and visible injuries, the paramedic explained. “Afterwards”, he resumed, “she would be placed into special machinery to screen for internal injuries to organs and bones, followed by a brain scan to assess damage to cognitive functions”. Having just arrived, the ambulance door was opened from the outside, and the baby was gently placed into a portable baby pod. Just as Allen followed them into the hospital, he was instructed by security to register first at the reception. Without valid identification, he wouldn’t be able to accompany his daughter to the examination room. At the desk, the receptionist handed him a tablet and asked him to register. Allan barely managed to type his name and personal information; his fingers were still shaking from the tremor that had spread to his extremities.    When submitting the form, an error message popped up on the screen. “I am receiving an internal error. Is that normal?” he wondered. “No, sir, may I see?” the lady inquired. “Very unusual, please try it once more.”, she insisted. “I am sorry, but my six-month-old daughter is being examined right now, and I need to be next to her”, claimed the father. “Without proper registration, the law states that we cannot admit you as the guardian of your daughter, who – from what I can see in the system – was already registered ten minutes ago on the way to the hospital. Please, try it again.”, she demanded. Allan reloaded the form, entered his personal data again, but the error reappeared. Worried about how long it had been taking already, he quickly tried it two more times. No success. “It is not working! What the hell of a system are you operating here?” he screamed. “I can offer to reboot the system. An alternative, however, would be to write down your information by hand, and we will scan and enter it into the system later.”, she proposed. “I never learned how to write; we only studied on keyboards in school”. He couldn’t believe the absurdity of the situation and remembered the dinner discussions his parents had long after the state passed the “Digitalization Act”, which ruled that children born after 2034 would no longer require handwriting, which led to writing classes being replaced with touch-typing exercises on a keyboard instead. Had he listened to his father and paid more attention to his advice in the evening sessions when they were trying to teach him themselves, but gave up because he was crying and screaming stubbornly. He hated writing; it was an unnatural motion his fingers weren’t used to early on in his childhood. The idea of pressing a wooden stick between index finger and thumb to smear symbols on another piece of wood didn’t resonate with him, when he could simply speak to his metal buddy and get any answer immediately.   But that didn’t matter much to him, or did it? Why should he feel shame for a system that did not prepare him for such a situation, but slowly disarmed him of every ounce of critical thought that was ready to be had, had he just looked more closely into himself. All he felt was anger at everyone who joined in watching him, desperately trying to argue his case.   Please, it will take at least ten minutes for anyone I know to come and sign the sheet for me, but I need to see my baby now! he exclaimed.   Should’ve known better, fool. replied a person he did not recognize.  Must be a stranger, spoke Allen to himself.   What do you mean by stranger, you weirdo? Keep your thoughts to yourself! shouted another one.  It couldn’t have been his fault; if that damn system was not working and kept rebooting, it’s the hospital's fault for not providing enough security and redundancy to their own system. he thought to himself. The only thing he wants is to stay close to his only piece of life and avoid losing any future chance of a joyful moment free of worries and fears; instead, he must fear missing whatever was left between them. He has heard of cases where babies had to stay for weeks on to monitor for damages that would occur long after an incident happened.   Instead of watching me, why is no one willing to help me out? He wailed at his surroundings.   You are not worth it; you’re just going to pull us down with you! is the first response he received to his surprise.  All I am asking is for someone to help me fill out my name on the paper sheet. I will compensate you for your time, please! cried Allan in wane.   James, man, hey, it’s me, Allan. Look, I had an incident today with my baby daughter, and I can’t see her unless someone enters my personal information written by hand. he spoke on his phone. It was his work colleague that came up when he tried to think of one person that would be able and willing to help.   i might be tripping but this Wix service seems to be super buggy. i really don't like it, and I am thinking to just stop pretending like I don't do IT for a living and just code out my own fucking blog page. AHHHEHIEHI, that's me retching in case you were wondering. quick insertion end>  An hour later, James arrived at the hospital in work attire.   “Is she doing okay?” he asked.   “I don’t know, man, they won’t let me see her. Thank you for coming, you are my lifesaver,” said Allen.   “I’ll have to get home to Jannet right after, but if you need anything else, just drop me a message. I will make sure to have my notifications on loud,” assured James while he was filing the input form.   “You’re too kind, thank you. I will go as well and see my daughter. Thank you so much again. Please send my regards to Jannet,” said the relieved father as he scribbled a signature he had not used in decades.   He walked past the reception and followed the secretary's instructions: Up the elevator to floor number three, then a right turn into the intensive care unit along the hallway; the infant station would be to the left in sector E. He did as he was told and was searching through a glass wall for his daughter in a room of incubated infants.   “Are you Mr. Glasburry?” asked the Doctor in charge.   “Yes, how is she doing?” responded the nervous dad. He identified her in the opposite corner and saw her sleeping.   “Diana has no broken bones or internal injuries. The brain scans did not show any unusual patterns. We sedated her slightly to calm her from the shock that she experienced from the fall. You will be able to take her home by the end of the week. You can see her during visiting hours until then,” comforted the doctor.   Injuring himself and his daughter on a Tuesday evening was certainly not part of his plans, and he could feel the toll it had taken on his energy levels. His bones were sore, his body was tired. He stood outside the room for another hour and observed his daughter sleeping. It occurred to him that his work was unfinished since he left home around 3 pm, which led him to request a cab and drive home. There would still be time to see her tomorrow after some rest. Chapter 2: the beginning. “Go ahead inside, children”, hushed Ms. Faunt at the two dozen primary school children running into their very first and own classroom.   “When I was your age, we had more enthusiasm to study,” she gently guided the remaining, shy children to their seats. The sheer sadness that came with her occupation rose to mind, which led her shaking off her doubts and start the class with the excitement she remembered her teacher have.  “Alright, children. I know many of you cannot wait to try out the school equipment, but before you get to use them, we will first teach you how they work. It is important to us that you realize that you are enough and don’t need Agents to feel joy in your life.”, no matter how much she tried to rationalize her life, it sent shivers down her spine to regurgitate the misleading practices of the government. What was all her study worth if after years of teaching, a single governmental reform would destroy the essence of what was considered schooling once.   “Ms. Faunt, Allan turned the Agent on!” shouted little Raley on the other corner of the rectangle-shaped order of tables.   “Mr. Glassbury, I warn you once and for all. You are not to be toying around with your Agent.” said Ms. Faunt, boiling over the edge of the table.

It happened. I wanted to write something but decided not to because I am not anonymous. I am going to NYC again in the second week of December, and I would like to try out an OpenMic. The topics I would like to discuss: What everyone gets wrong about Hitler The difference between capitalism and the roman empire NYC TSA Long-term relationships I checked today on how to reserve a spot, and the following spots expect a sign-up either on the same day or the Sunday of every week: Sohoplayhouse: https://www.sohoplayhouse.com/open-mics Eastvillecomedy: https://www.eastvillecomedy.com/pages/open-mics Comediansontheloose: https://www.comediansontheloose.com/open-mics In case you would like to see me, drop me a message on my IG @theaustrianyoumet. Wish me luck!! P.S. I finished the first chapter of my „mental retardation“ story last week, you should really check it out it’s great and I love it.

you dream, day in and out until you start asking yourself what the fuck you are doing. hello, hello, sings the tiny bird on my balcony. another day that you waste on what you are not!, it laughs at my agony, may i forget and see what is being pushed into me, my face right into yours. i switch it on but it falls black again. dive through a cloud and have thunder strike me to feel my head instead. we fight with fists and red our knuckles as we bleed out on the floor. through another one and see it brake like glass.     Sunday, 9pm, and my Monday Scaries bide their time, almost make me miss them again, but life is going so well, why be worried then?    The Darkest Place I Have Ever Been (2025). 931 Reloaded (2016). Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009). Suicide Season (2008). Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind (2004). Slaughterhouse-Five, or, The Children's Crusade: A Duty-Dance with Death (1969). The Castle (1926) In a Thousand Years (1852)

Is it the shift into the winter season? I am not tired, but I do feel a lack of energy. Year by year I end up in the same situation, however, with every new season I learn to deal with it better. I took some time off work, and spent my leisure time reading and gaming, mostly.   I read Freida McFADDEN’s “The Housemaid” on the train ride I took to visit my brother on Sunday. It’s mind-boggling to me how women are so invested into true crime, because Freida pushed my heartbeat higher than my yearly jogging does (I wish I was more consistent but yeah). Now I am finally brushing up my book backlog and starting with Kevin Barry’s “The heart in winter”; seems to be a story of hope; it’s written sporadically, but poetic and earnest, the enactment or rather an mise-en-scéne of emotions, a sudden turn to the reader: What do you think? is tiptoeing in your thoughts as to not agitate the known, the self, and risk loosing the unknown, the self. Fuck! SHIT! God, dammit! In the meantime, I kicked off Brandon Sanderson’s “Stormlight Archive” series and like it as well.   Gaming-wise, Battlefield 6 and Dying Light were released, which is super fun.   Today’s post is a bit meta, since I am not in the mood to write about anything. The “mental retardation” story is going great, but writing alone is boring at times.   Work is also fine, even though the increasing number of events I have visited in the last few weeks does strain me considerably, simply because I am not used to the amount of exposure.   I still haven’t worked out “consistently”; it’s been months at this point. I used to do Yoga for more than two years; I miss the days when I was flexible and back-pain free.  For anyone new to my blog, I would suggest the following posts to get a feeling about my writing:  Mental retardation  Das Schaf und der Papagei  I could never survive a terrorist attack  Is my table happy to be one

To the walking germ that has infected me with an unshakable cough: thank you. It‘s been two weeks and my dry throat made my cough morph into dinosaur screeches;  I can‘t sleep and tomorrow is Monday. „Screech“ happens to be a noun I used in my new addition to the last week‘s „mental retardation“ post. I hate pharmacists. You go and ask them for one thing, they pretend to listen, and hand you whatever pharmaceutical company paid to recommend. I just wanted pastilles to suck on, not useless tablets that dissolve on my tongue. I don‘t hate them, „hate“ is such a strong word. Does she make me question the dangers of the Great Replacement; a phrase I made up right now on my couch (it‘s Sunday and almost midnight and I can‘t sleep because I cough uncontrollably every 30 seconds) which is very much about the „mental retardation“ post I extended this week. You might be wondering why I bother you with so much text, who reads anything nowadays, that is why you should read my latest blog post! It‘s how we will all end up mentally retarded if we lean more into AI and computers and phones and apps. Using „if“ isn‘t really correct, it‘s more of a „when“.  I miss the days where I could just sleep without coughing, it‘s been ages (2 weeks). I fell right into the trap of ungratefulness; I would have never considered not-caughing as something to be thankful about. And here I am. Boredom, boredom, boredom. Random fact about me: When I was seventeen years old, I commuted 45 minutes by bus every day in winter to observe deers outdoors in a nearby forrest. Binoculars around my neck, leather gloves, and hiking boots – just before the sun would set and the wild animals would find a place to rest and sleep. My approach to deer-watching was rather unconventional. Instead of laying on the ground and not moving, I would climb up a tree and wait until they passed below me. Once I even managed to jump on one of them and ride it for some seconds. Yes, I did make up this whole story. Imagine how pitiful I am feeling wanting to waste your time reading this text. I am considering to do something very radical with my blog, which is to write every single day and post it for about a month or two, because my ideas have been fun so far and there isn‘t really anything stopping me from doing it. Another lie, I barely have time to post once a week, and quality-wise? It is safe to say that my vocabulary is tiny and my imagination limited. What is it with Sundays that I end up going to sleep so late. Do I dread work this much? It‘s my cough, I know.. A thirty-second interval reminder to stay uncomfortable and miserable, especially throughout the night. Sleep – who needs it nowadays? What would I do for a BigMac now, damn. Or a ChilliCheese. You know what, I will grab breakfast from McDonalds tomorrow. I deserved it. Several McToasts, a McMuffin, and an Iced Tea. Sounds like a plan.

Boom boom boom. Boom boom boom. Boom boom boom. NIaaaaaaaaaa NIAAaaaaaaaaaaa NIAAAaaaaaa nIAAAAAAAA.   It would be time to do it. As of me writing this, it is Sunday, 11:30 pm, but my week wasn’t too bad – was it? Complaining is something I am much better at, and there’s no room for cheerfulness. I scare, when the inevitable hasn’t presented itself to this day.     Der kleine Marienkäfer  Es war einmal ein kleiner Marienkäfer namens Johanna, der es sich zu seiner Lebensaufgabe gemacht hatte, Menschen zum Gendern zu überreden. Er sei eigentlich kein Mann, sondern heiße Johanna und würde in Zukunft gerne als Marienkäferin beschrieben werden, nur sind dem Käfer die Ideen ausgegangen. In allen Menschenbüchern hatte er gelesen, dass der Mensch sich mit roter Farbe am besten verführen lässt. Da er nun mal über keine Lippen verfügt, entschied er, sich den Rücken rot zu färben, wenn sich da nicht der Mensch wieder überlegen gefühlt hatte und aufhörte, sie ernst zu nehmen. Es brauchte nicht viel Gehänsel, bis sich das Schwarze im Marienkäfer wieder zur Oberfläche drängte und dem Menschen so eine Angst verursachte, dass sie von dem Zeitpunkt zum Thema Geschlecht immer mit dem Maskulin verwiesen wurde.   Grübelnd krabbelte Johanna raus aus der Buchenrinde, um ihren Ehekäfer Gabriel mit ihrem Trübsal nicht vom Schlaf abzuhalten. Der Anbruch des Herbstes verging so schnell, dass sie sich nur wundern konnte über den Nebel, welcher sich mit einem halben Meter Abstand vom Garten der Menschenfamilie gelegt hatte. Ihr prunkvoll ausgestattetes Gemüsebeet mit Vogelhäusern am Fenster anstatt des Baumes gehängt bat ihnen genügend Sicherheit, sich täglich auf Ausflüge und Wanderungen zu bewegen, um die Menschen aus erster Hand kennenzulernen. Jegliche Versuche, mit ihnen zu kommunizieren, sind gescheitert: sie sprechen weder dieselbe Sprache, noch ist ihr Gehör fein genug, uns zu verstehen. Mit Körperkontakt haben sie nicht viel auf sich, bis auf den geregelten Wechsel, der in ihrer Familie, ihrem Umkreis, der Stadt und dem Land erwartet wird.   Was sie als Nächstes wagen werde, habe sie Gabriel nicht zu erzählen. Er solle sich um sie nicht kümmern, da sie ihr Leben lang selbstbestimmt gehandelt hatte und nicht mit diesem Gedanken aufhören werde. Dennoch protestierte ihr Käfermagen mit viel Gebrüll und Geschwür, bis die Nervosität ihr völlig den Magen verdrehte: “Du hast Angst, Johanna, und das ist auch gut so. Du bewegst dich auf etwas zu, auf das du dich nicht vorbereiten kannst, sondern du schließt deine Augen und rennst durch.”, sprach sie sich leise zu, während sie sich langsam auf den Weg zum Menschenkinderzimmer am ersten Stock machte. In ihren jüngsten Jahren wäre sie wohl den ganzen Weg auf der Höhe der Buchenrinde ins Zimmer geflogen. Heute war sie schwach. Jedes Hoch drückte sie ins Tief. Flog sie über das Gras, standen ihr die Blumen im Weg. Mühte sie sich über das Gewächs, saß sie im Bienenverkehrsstau fest. Höher traute sie sich nie aufgrund des dichten Nebels, der den Hinflug erschwerte. Gerade noch rechtzeitig am Weg zur Menschentochter, die jetzt noch schlief, aber in wenigen Minuten sanft von ihrer Menschenmutter Hannah zum ersten Schultag in das weichste Gewand gekleidet und bunt geschmückt wird, um ihren Mitmenschen zu verdeutlichen, dass sie tun und lassen darf, was sie will.   Als Johanna auf der Fensterbank landete, sah sie Lisa fertig gekleidet am Bettrand mit dem Gesicht in beiden Handflächen sitzend schlafen. Ihr Zeitpunkt war jetzt. “Schau, Mama! Eine Marienkäferin!“, lief die geweckte Lisa ihrer Mutter Hanna mit gekrümmten Händen entgegen. “Der, es ist DER MARIENKÄFER, kleine!”, erwiderte die Mutter, während sie versuchte, ihr das kleine Ungeziefer wegzuklappen. Äußerst vorsichtig schritt Lisa zurück in ihr Zimmer, um die kleine Käferin besser in Schutz nehmen zu können. Auch nach langwieriger Streiterei war es Hanna nicht möglich, Lisa von Johanna’s dreckigen Fühlern zu befreien. Sie musste mit, sonst hätte Lisa nicht mit ihrem Geschrei aufgehört. “LASS MICH IN RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUH” buhte Lisa vehement. Lehrt sie es Lisa nicht jetzt, dann wird sich ihre schon zwanzig Minuten lange Verspätung morgen wiederholen. “Dann soll dich der Käfer von mir aus bepinkeln, ich wasch dir die Hände dann sicher nicht. Das machst du gefälligst selbst! Haben wir uns verstanden?”, platzte Hannah aus dem Mund. “Das ist eine MarienkäFERIN, Mama. Bist du blind?”   Johanna konnte sich vor Glück nicht fassen und entließ vor lauter Freude stampfend den Schweiß vom Körper. “Oh nein!”, mahnte sie zu sich selbst, ihr Tempo bei so viel Freude nicht zu hochzuschrauben – egal wie leicht sich schnell anfühlt. Langsam fällt leider sofort auf, wenn nur auf Schnell geschaut wird.   Yes, I am posting the whole thing. And no, I did not think I would end today’s post this way after starting it with a bim bum bap pow. Language can be really limiting sometimes, do I flag it as Sunday Scaries? This is boring. I envy rock stars. People pay money to get screamed at, and they cash it all in.

Jetzt aber Schluss, pause! Ach so, ich hab ja auch ein Mitspracherecht. Schafft ja jeder, sein Leben auf der Hand herumtanzen zu lassen. Vergötter mich! Lass Dir Zeit, mir geht’s auch ohne Dir gut. Mit deiner Mühe kriechst du eher dem Leben an, als darin anzukommen. Ich halt den Klugscheisser nicht mehr aus, bitte, Hilfe! Ich bin wütend. Ist es nicht Traurigkeit? Oder doch eher Liebe und ein Instinkt, zu reagieren? Tut mir leid, wenn ich halt lieber einen Abend über Radio plaudern will. Ich möchts so sehr wissen, dass ich vergessen habe, dir das Gefühl zu geben, meinem Umgang mit dir keine Bedeutung zu schenken. Und dann hör ich auf und denk mir: ich hör ja eigentlich nicht auf, sondern weg? Wieso hört man auf, wenn man etwas beendet? Ich höre auf. Wenn das nicht konfus ist, weiß ich es ja auch nicht. Aber was weiß ich schon, ich bin ja nur ein erbärmlicher Versuch meiner Eltern, beim Sex zu verhüten – hat nicht so ganz funktioniert. Aufhören. Wir hören hin, hören etwas, aber wenns zu viel wird, hören wir auf. AAAHHHHHHHHH. Also eigentlich schätze ich jemanden mit meinem Gehör? Wenn Du es so willst, hör ich auf (dich)? Und wenn ich’s mach‘, sind wir beide glücklich. Verwirrt, durcheinander, auf den Kopf gestellt, unklar, verschwommen, unsicher, schwach, entkräftigt, vorsichtig, behutsam, erwartend, eigen, allein, gebrochen, verschmolzen, geformt, erpresst, einladend, frei, offen, schwerelos, hoffnungsvoll, verliebt, getrieben, angespannt, widerwillig, erschrocken, achtend, verloren, verwundert, eingeschüchtert, verdreht, sturr, arrogant, befleckt, entlassen, einsam, wütend, aggressiv, laut, bestimmt, bewusst, beleidigt, erdrückt. Das alles, aber kein Feigling, ptui!!!