Suchergebnisse

Herr Doktor, mein Telefon macht mich krank. Mir tut es nicht gut. Gehe ich Reisen, sei es mit Familie, Freunden, oder Kollegen, dann freu ich mich schon extrem auf ein bisschen Alleine-Zeit, aber nicht mit meinem Telefon, nein! Das pickt mir nämlich nicht nur in meiner rechten Hosentasche, sondern auch auf der Seele, wo ich mittlerweile von einer Allergie befallen worden bin, die mir wiederholt zuckend meine Brustmuskeln zum Spannen bringt, sobald sich der kleinste Gedanke über dieses Stück Metall in mein Gedächtnis schleicht. Ich will meine Freunde in einem neuen Lokal besuchen, mach die App auf und wähle den schnellsten Weg zum Zielort. Eine Entscheidung wurde nicht getroffen; mich hat keiner gefragt, wie ich dort hinwill. Ich habe bewusst “schleicht” verwendet, weil ich mich nicht erinnere, je irgendetwas von meinem Telefon bekommen zu haben. Nichts. Meine Zeit hat es mir verschlungen und mich als Produkt an Großkonzerne perverser Menschen geworben. Sollte mein Telefon nicht ein Zweck zum Sinn sein - und nicht umgekehrt? So stark ich mich Dir zeige, bin ich bei meinem süßen, leistungsstarken iPhone 16 ein ganz anderer Mensch. Letzte Nacht war es doch wieder eine Zeitverschwendung! Aber ich versteh’s, du kannst mich ja nicht jede Sekunde in meinem Leben unterhalten, es bin doch Ich, der einiges mehr an Verständnis aufbringen muss, um dich nicht zu verärgern. Tut mir leid. Wer bin ich schon, um mit dir über weniger Stunden in meinem Leben zu hageln. Mit viel Um und ohne Aber. Erbärmlich. Boah, ist der Sonnenuntergang schön SCHNELL DAS HANDY RAUS SONST IST DER MOMENT VERLOREN. Da wird mein Chef stolz auf mich sein. Wieso? Na weil ich mir die ganze Energie spare, und mir das seichte Teilen meiner Erfahrung die Mitmenschen zu unzufriedenen Kunden Rollen wechseln lässt. Es spricht mir nicht Gutes zu, und da wir nicht in derselben Welt sind, ist es entweder das Telefon oder Ich. So klein muss ich sein, wenn mir der Daumen am Display und die restlichen vier Finger sorgfältig um die Rückseite gefestigt als Berührung ausreicht. Naja, ich werde hier nicht den Teufel an die Wand malen. Brauchbar ist es ja. Den einen oder anderen Schub an Glücksgefühlen hat es mir auch geschenkt. Mir nimmt es die Worte. Äääah. Schon wieder gezuckt. Schon wieder das Handy in äußerst befriedigender Stimmung im anderen Zimmer geschlossen aufs Bett geworfen, um meine als Romeo gezogene, kalte Wange meiner Juliet des einundzwanzigsten Jahrhunderts im Sommernachtstraum einer neuen Antike zu zeigen. Na hawidere, zwei Stunden ohne Telefon und ich schwell sprachlich stärker als nach einem Bienenstich. Übrigens, die Biene nimmt sich das Leben, um dir mit aller Lebensenergie schmerzen zu verursachen. Die weiß nicht mal von deinem Schmerz, kann sich in ihren letzten Sekunden keine Erinnerungen vorspielen, sondern genügt sich nur mit dem Gedanken. Der Stich. Ein Aufschrei. Kinder weinen; da reichts, wenn du die Eltern stichst. Tagelanges Wehleiden. Wie viele Gespräche sie damit starten würde? Wenn ich die Zunge steche, lass ich den Staat auch noch zahlen dafür!

Yeah, aaaaaaaaah. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. Seven and a half hours ago, there were three brothers. Each of them had their own space that they called home, where they would spend their mornings basking in the sun. “Life do be bitchin’” thought one of them to himself, and it was a rare moment everyone collectively felt the same, and there was really no need for the brother to disturb the peace describing it, because he knew that once he explained his feelings, they would take shape. In that moment, however, he felt like having no shape at all. The sun would rise to his left and part ways on his right at noon, which did not discourage them from staying. As long as they had each other, it did not really matter whether the sun was there to warm them up – being cold was another way to experience the other half of the day. “Life do be bitchin’!” exhaled the one in the middle. “That’s what I am saying!!” said the first brother. And they sat in silence. The third one didn’t react, as he was contemplating life. “Is there more to it?” he thought. There is this huge ball of fire we center our life around, and it’s so hot and millions of miles away, but it expectedly and punctually shows up on our horizon every day and fares well to leave us in darkness. “Why doesn’t it stay with us?” he felt, accompanied by frustration and anger. Even if he shouted from the top of his lungs, jumped and cried like a little child, the sun would spend no matter to his existence – it would be on and about with or without him. Seven hours ago - when they were all sleeping - their father came home late at night. It wasn’t unusual to hear him quietly enter the apartment at midnight, since spending his money outside was one way for him to either start, celebrate the middle of, or end his work week. And you know, it goes without saying, well, there are plenty of sayings about it. He was inebriated. But not the unpredictable kind or the crash-out type of drunk. The kind that made him not forget about the three brothers. He brushed his teeth, folded his outside clothes on one of the chairs in the kitchen, walked up to them, grabbed one after the other, and placed all three into the sink. He watered brother one, brother two, but with brother three, his oblivion made him push the faucet open a bit too much, and a beam of water gushed at the thoughtful one. “AM I DROWNING?!”, he exclaimed. And this time, he wasn’t poetic about it. Instead, he was fighting for his life in that very moment. The unnatural amount of water the soil was soaking up made him lose his footing, and the roots he worked so hard on expanding were uplifted in a matter of seconds. The water passed through, though, as it always does, and father made sure to gently press soil against his stem to salvage the damage he caused. The brothers were placed back in their spot and woke up the next morning, when the same brother again stated: “Life do be bitchin’!”. “Tell me about it...” responded the tired one attentively. Why did he spend his whole life questioning, inquiring, doubting, hoping, fearing – just to have his hard work jeopardized by one drunk?

Mindestens zwei Gründe fallen mir auf Anhieb ein, um meine Liebe zur Republik klar zu stellen. Vieles macht sie falsch, einiges ignoriert sie völlig, was sie aber nicht davon abhält, uns gut gesinnt zu sein. Von allen Seiten wird sie beleidigt und die Meinungen spalten sich in den allerkleinsten Angelegenheiten, die sich in allen Gesellschaftsgruppen, Regionen, Straßen, und Heime am Leben halten.

Only dumb people generalize. There’s so much to it. One of my biggest pet peeves is making a statement about a whole race, group, or society, with absolutely no effort made to dig a bit deeper into the topic, desperate on the quest of finding the remaining functional neurons inside your brain. A brain so small that it is completely overwhelmed by the fact that people don’t live as hive-minds, they have feelings, too. Too ignorant to accept that when they are hurt, they feel pain just as we do.  We feel all kinds of emotions, but we still opt to not show them; subdued all of Earth’s races (except orcas) to realize that even among ourselves we hide what we really feel. And then again, you would be silly to think there isn’t a single scenario where you could put THAT label on. You might not know what edge case it is, neither would you dare denying its existence. Alright, now to get to my point. I noticed that the two most recent posts (my Monday Scaries basically) were kind of depressing. Okay, mich juckts nicht mehr in Englisch schreiben. Auf alle Fälle, nein, doch weiter auf Englisch. Sorry, just spaced out for a few seconds. This should have been a post about phone addiction, where I explain to you in very much detail how I feel Social Media (SM) is wasting everyone’s life away. Then, I realized that talking about phone addiction will have me end up in the group of dumb people that generalize. Hence, I decided to start it this way and only narrate my very own personal anecdote, when a moment of reflection struck me: SM knows exactly who I am, what I type, like, hate, engage, avoid, ignore, and now I should go ahead and confirm it in written form? My other pet peeve that drives me mad is when people don’t try enough with language. Not everything is good or bad. Don’t use “angry”, go with “furious”. You almost „died laughing“, are you sure? I firmly believe the only aspects of life I am dissatisfied with solely exist because I haven’t walked along the thought far enough to see its origin. Not everything has to be said right away, why not savor your feelings a bit longer and let the moment speak for itself? Take a step back, wait, and think: You have spent all this time believing, feeling, reacting, talking the same way ever since you remember - why not try something new? Use your senses!

Hello, it’s me, And another sleepless night, it’s three (AM) A burning in my chest, it doesn’t go away. Anyways, it’s another Sunday, you guys!!! New Sunday, new me. New Sunday means only one more day until Monday <3 Yes, this is the dream. Hustle it away my WHOLE life. I won’t know when it will pass; it’s only natural to grind life to the ground. Let’s disregard  the poem I decided to stop writing two verses deep and instead use my time now to do what I do best: bitchin‘, naggin‘, and cryin‘ . Images of the transformer dude, who dated Megan Fox sometime during the first few parts of the franchise, keep reappearing in my mind: JUST DO IT! DOOO ITTT! For how long, my boy? Just so the progress moves in the hilariously slow pace of a turtle. BTW, a quick reminder that you are not obliged to read this. If you don’t like it, get outttta here. Have you ever had your whole life upside down where nothing seems to stay in place or breaks away? YESSIR! Did you do everything in your might to help yourself? YESMAM! Are you sure it was enough? AFFIRMATIVESEARGENT! Why are you still such a little bitch, then? It’s not as quick as I thought, KIND SIR! Recently, I have started reading a story of Kurt Vonnegut called „Slaughterhouse-Five“ (S-F), and it was a very refreshing alternative to all the garbage that is considered writing nowadays. Yes, pleeeeeaase, describe to me how the main protagonist is cutting his Mozarella cheese in half while talking to his work colleague. Did the window really just thrust open from the strong outside wind, in the very moment your fictional couple ends the argument about their helpless relationship? Thank you so much for imagining that. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be any way for me to bear the paralyzing weight of silence you’re trying to FUCKING ERASE IN BOOKS AS WELL. The reality I am trying to escape from while reading your garbage piece of work misses the one thing that I can barely hear anymore. Silence. The type that makes you hear your own heart pulsate blood through your body, while you become one with your surroundings emitting collective sounds. Why beat around the bushes? „Ooooh, I am Mr. SoAndSo, and I would like you to meet my wife, this is her, Mrs. SoLaLa“, as the writer points to his wife. „And of course, all of this for our little star, Little Miss RETAWD“, he says, hugging his spoiled, two-legged, three foot tall depiction of himself. „The one thing that inspired me to write my story was my baby girl. Ever since she was born, I would spend night and day feeling superior since I am smarter and stronger than her. You really believe I could shut up even for one second to be in the moment with this tiny ghost?“, he exclaimed proudly. One more human pretending. S-F was such a great read, straight to the point, message received and understood. A surreal premise that sparks a dozen thoughts with every chapter. Kurz und bündig! Only break I needed was to read it. The guy lived so much he forgot to think about others, I wouldn’t be able to explain his escape from society’s fetters of mediocrity otherwise.

Elle Orlando brought up a funny topic in her most recent podcast “The Elle Diablo Show” episode, episode nr. 56 ( https://youtu.be/z0FqhMaQDVI?si=ZuQ7Lv45ooTdKmdx&t=14:54 - I know, writing out links is so outdated man, but this lazy Wix webservice is so ass it can’t even manage proper markdown or I‘m just too stupid to use it) to be precise, where she wondered how Larry David from CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM would handle a day in New York. He would enter the train, she says, and be annoyed with the person having their phone on loud without using headphones – and probably get killed not knowing how crazy random people in NYC can be. I want to continue the thought experiment, since I started watching CURB a week ago and have enjoyed it a lot so far (I reached S01EP8 btw.). What I enjoy about CURB is that every episode revolves around people (sometimes only physically) close to Larry, each representing typical relationships and situations that we all face in our day to day. It’s his wife that is upset about something he did either at the end or beginning of the episode, friends or work colleagues he then spends time with, and a problem he is trying to solve in the midst of everything. Only few interactions are actually story, while most seem more made up in the spur-of-the-moment, making me wonder whether the script comprises “Improvise a discussion about XYZ” and the like only. Alright, enough with the shenanigan! We need a problem: Larry is planning to pitch a new script to Netflix that he named „Jeans aren‘t blue“ where he enacts Levis Strauss‘ rising to the creator of one of the most successful Denim brands in the world today. He was invited to an in-person meeting in their Brooklyn subsidiary, so he booked a room in Bushwick a few stops away along the L. On the day of the meeting, he is already running late and is rushing to the L, which is packed to the fullest. It’s summer and one of the few days that turns public transport into a sauna. He squeezes inside and grabs the main bar, next to a young lady in her early twenties, blasting IG and TikTok reels on loud without headphones on. The reel hasn’t even started yet and she keeps swiping, swiping, watching, and swiping another six times. Larry is obviously annoyed and tries to make the girl understand passive aggressively: “You can’t even ride the train in good-old silence anymore, can you?”, he says while heaving a long sigh. Nothing happens. She goes on and on, and doesn’t bother looking up even once. That should be the primary problem he encounters. However, we are talking about CURB, so it’s lacking a lot more conflict. Imagine the episode starts with him receiving a call from Netflix, urging him to come to the office the next day already, since the people interested in the script don’t have any other slots available in short term. Larry rushes to NYC and checks into the hotel late at night. Larry could not tell from the receptionist’s accent whether the door number was 311 or 211, and tries to read the information off of his room card – with no success. He meets another lady waiting in front of the elevator door who just pressed the second floor. Larry goes ahead and presses “3”, since he is pretty sure it was the third floor and not the second. It takes a good 30 seconds for the door to open, and both of them enter. After a few more looks at the card, he notices the room number written on the lower right corner of the card. The lady is slowly showing signs of nervousness around him, the small space and extremely slow elevator adding to her discomfort. As she exits the elevator, Larry confidently steps out as well, causing her to speed up to her room, with a few looks back to check whether the guy from the elevator is following her. As it so happens, the lady’s room number is 218, further back along the same hall as Larry’s room. Larry makes another left following the hotel signs to his room, when he realizes that the lady started sprinting the second she made the very same turn, and was struggling to open the door to her room. Larry sees that and instinctively shouts out: “HEY, ITS NOT, MY ROOM, ITS RIGHT HERE, IM NOT FOLLOWING YOU”, while the lady shuts her hotel room. Larry goes to sleep. Next, you see him waking up and realizing that he overslept. He rushes to the bathroom, cuts himself shaving a few times, wearing a black worn-out suit, and jogging to the elevator. He meets the very same lady again in front of the door, and tries to explain himself: She shouts “Get away from me, creep!”, and runs down the stairs. TBC

My table is round and can extend into a six-people sized surface if necessary. It’s only job is to look aesthetic, stand there, and act as a placing area for keys, food, and dishes. Never have I demanded money from it for staying inside my apartment; instead I clean it every day, polish it with oil every now and then, and receive complements from my friends and family for it. What a nice table! It can extend so smoothly! That’s all. Does it need to go to work, move, breathe? Trees convinced us that they would be of much better use if we shaped them and kept them warm and cozy in our homes, and that the outside is just too cold in winters and moist on rainy days. I wouldn’t use them as backpacks by placing my laptop, keyboard and mouse, and my charger on it to lift it to the train station. Neither would I talk to it or expect it to comfort me when I am not feeling well. If I didn‘t like how it looks, I wouldn’t blame the table for it, but the designer for doing a bad job. If it broke or got scratches, I would accuse anyone but itself, and might buy myself a better one once I had more money. Never would I walk up to the fucking table and cast my own anger and frustration on it’s inability to meet up to my expectation – only a lunatic would do that. Trees aren’t even racist! If you grew into a fir tree, noone would suggest bottoming their living room with you. Instead, you would be chopped from the bottom, taken into a comfy home, and decorated with fancy ornaments as a christmas celebration. If your wood is not strong enough to be shaped into solid wood furniture, you will be pressed into veneered shapes. Unless people pay for the designer, it’s unlikely that you would be sold at an unusually high price – making you a great sell for people with lower income. How glad you will make the undergraduate student that finally gets to experience freedom and independence in their first studio apartment? Does that make a happy life? Do trees long for more? Are they aware of their limits? Are they sad about it? Do trees wish they could fly or chew? I wish I knew what I am, so people would fucking stop expecting me to do things I am not capable of doing. Sometimes I feel like a table, but the kind that gets forced into running to the office and solving complex problems. How crazy would my counterpart feel if they knew I am actually a table. Let me fucking sit in my cozy home and do what I’m supposed to do. The frustrating thing about it is I don’t know what I am. How the fuck am I supposed to figure it out if I keep myself busy 24/7 on every fucking second of my day.

Hi, i have to do night shifts at work. I‘m tired so no post today. If you‘re reading this by next week, I‘ll buy you a drink.

Der Herr Glattauer hat mir mit seinen Werken auch trotz meinem in wenigen Tagen vollendeten 26 Lebensjahr schon viel Freude bereitet. Meine Eltern und deren Vorfahren hatten es mit Krieg, Flucht, und Armut leicht; ich durfte mich Dank meinem Privileg, ein zu 1998 in Österreich geborenes Kind zu sein, um meine Zukunft ohne existenzielle Verlustängste scheren - abgesehen von meinem Handy, das mir als an der Generation Z grenzender junger Mann das Leben aus der Seele (eigentlich auch die Seele aus dem Leben) zu zerren versucht. Wenn es bei meinen Zuständen dann noch eine Menschenseele schafft, mich weg von der scheinbaren Überwältigung punkto Lebendigkeit zu führen, lässt mich mein Körper durch Gänsehaut und Glückshormonen zeitbedingt seine Dankbarkeit verspüren. Ein kleines Hin und Her mit einem Freund, dessen Gegenwart ich selten genießen darf. Gelesen habe ich sie noch nicht alle, zu Schrifte kommt mir „Die Spürst Du Nicht“, und nach kurzer Internetrecherche schließt sich der Gedanke mit „Alle Sieben Wellen“ und „Ewig Dein“. Bei seinem neuesten Werk „In Einem Zug“ war sofort klar, dass meine fehlende Lebenslust sowie bei den im Vorsatz erwähnten Büchern nicht stückchenweise, sondern tagelang in ihre Schranken gemartert wird, und ich mit erfreuender Aufmerksamkeit sogleich da sein und die durch Glattauer’s Erzählungen geführte Gedankenwanderung woandershin begleiten darf. Ich bin ja keins mehr, aber fühlen tue ich mich immer noch wie ein Kind, wenn ich von anderen an meiner Hand genommen werde und mir Einblick in ihr Leben durch deren Augen gewährt wird. Eine Einladung zu ihren Geschichten und deren Einzelheiten, die man am besten noch gemeinsam findet und sie zu Gemeinsamkeiten bündelt, um danach möglicherweise zusammen Erlebnisse zu teilen (Kleiner Einschub: hier fehlt mir noch was, werde in Zukunft meinen Gedankengang weiterführen, bin noch nicht fertig!). Was ihn zum Schreiben bewegt? Lies es selber nach. Verstanden habe ich einen Teil nicht, und zwar beschreibt er gutes Schreiben wie folgt: „Denn wenn man schreibt, wenn man richtig gut schreiben will, setzt man sich immer intensiv und kritisch mit der Zufriedenheit auseinander. Entweder sie fehlt einem, dann jagt man ihr nach. Oder man kennt sie und setzt sich über sie hinweg. Oder man hat sie, aber man gibt sich mit ihr nicht zufrieden.“ Erstes und Letzteres sind Natur Mensch: Hab ich was nicht, will ich es; hab ich es, will ich es nicht – wann aber kenne ich sie (die Zufriedenheit) und setze mich über sie hinweg? Sprachlich werden meine wenigen Gehirnzellen schon überfordert. Kann ich  etwas kennen, es aber nicht gleich besitzen? Ist es nicht das Erkennen, dass unser Interesse weckt, und es das Kennen wieder schleichend wegdrängt? Wie setze ich mich über etwas hinweg? „Setz dich über den Sessel hinweg“ würde für mich bedeuten, dass ich über den Sessel steige und mir einen anderen suche, auch wenn der Erste vollkommen in Ordnung ist, vielleicht weil er für jemand anderen gedacht ist? Setze ich mich also über meine eigenen Zufriedenheiten hinweg, würde ich sie sehen, auf sie zugehen, über sie „steigen“, und mir woanders einen Platz zum Sitzen suchen, wäre aber immer noch in ihrer Nähe, sonst hätte Herr Glattauer „hinfort“ verwendet. Bemächtige ich mich damit selbst, wenn ich eingestehe, nichts in dieser Welt „haben“ zu können? Würde ich mir damit die Sehnsucht und ihre nach dem Haben eintretenden Fluchtgedanken im Job, in der Beziehung, der Freundschaft, oder dem Eigentum sparen? Funktionieren tut es – denke ich – nur basierend auf Gegenseitigkeit, weil es das fehlende Vertrauen in unseren Mitmenschen ist, die uns zum Haben nötigt und uns die Freude raubt. Oke an meinem letzten Satz will ich noch pfeilen, und meinen Gedankengang ein anderes Mal weiterführen.

I happen to have the most organized wife on this planet. You think we work for forty and study twenty hours a week while maintaining a healthy lifestyle full of workouts and sport events that are only possible because we cook our own food since otherwise we wouldn’t have the energy to go on thirty-two vacations spread across the year’s holidays, do we? „Babe, do you have plans on October 12th next year?“, she asks. What am I supposed to respond to that, should I check my calendar first? „I booked a six week long skiing trip in Sweden that takes you throw the Hollows of Fjörngebur but since we have exams in November and January and project deliveries by March it would simply make more sense that we split the trip into sixteen individual weekends with bridge-days on Thursdays so we save one holiday per weekend in the next three to four years and could use those in exam season… mmhhh… so yeah I did the bookings on Booking.com already you just have to wire me thirteenthousandsixhundredandfive Euros onto our shared banking account and no worries I am covering the costs so considering the fact that I really don’t need that money straight away, you could just transfer it to me monthly to save for that Japan trip I have planned for our tenth anniversy in two years for which I have already ordered you a new suite and AS LUCKY AS I AM I COULDN’T find any clothes appropriate for the occasion so I went to Paris last weekend with Marla to shop for a new bag and YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHOM I HAVE MET there… You know Mark from Marketing? His sister’s cousin is Ashley’s mother’s mechanic! He had told me they have a shoot in May seventeen months ago, so I used the chance to accompany Rachel and shop a bit for myself.“. Who is Mark? Rachel? Never heard of them before. Ashley is the colleague at work I guess, the one she invited to their girls-only book club at work which she launched after she heard that we have one at work as well so she went off to create one in and out of work.

Everyone’s unique, right? We all have interests in certain music, sport, and cultivate relationships with people that other’s wouldn’t necessarily. Most of us wake up every day and have something in them that gets them out of bed, into their work attire, outside of the apartment or house, and to work. If you’re as lucky as I am, the last part is not mandatory thanks to Corona and new Home Office regulations at my company. The last week wasn’t so funny, nonetheless. I had to implement a new feature for one of our customers, and its safe to say that it is the most complicated piece of software I have ever developed. Fuck meeee it was soooo difficult that it took me months of research, weeks to write out the requirements, help of several colleagues regarding the implementation, and finally a whole week - the last five nights, to be precise – for testing and adjustments. I say nights, because testing it required me to destroy a bunch of clusters and I can’t do that if people want to use them during the day. Doing night shifts in IT is very unusual, but it was exciting to me though, because it means my change has so much impact that it affects a large number of my colleagues? Besides, I won’t deny myself a night of listening to Chris Cornell, sipping Red Bulls with good conscience  (yk, I have to stay awake), and regular cigarette breaks on my beautiful balcony. Thanks to my apartment cornering south-east, I get to enjoy the gentle rise of the sun at dawn – a smooth shift into a new day. Tired and reaching the end of my time window for testing, I did wonder why I would do that. What is it all for? For the company? HELL NAH. For money? FFFFFUCK NO. Ok maybe a bit. I guess what makes me move a finger (In German you use „einen Finger rühren“ to describe the smallest action that you would take for someone or something) is for my friends and family, not really for myself to be honest. The most challenging thing in my day to day is to be selfish, i.e. to do something that only benefits me. It’s how I am wired and it puts me in a dicey position, because I need people around me that will help me do things that benefit me – basically on a „one hand washes the other“ basis. I would do anything for my loved ones; whether or not my counterpart returns the favor dictates if I will be frustrated doing so or not. It’s one way to live my life, not sure whether it’s the best way to go about it.

Old people taking too long in grocery stores Loud babies and children on planes Regarding point one, I propose additional security at every grocery store that frisk the eldery for coins; no card payment, no entry. You talk too much to the cashier, too long to pack your things? You get escorted out of the store. For point two, it would require a redefinition of what we consider „baggage“. If we were to classify loud minions as additional travel baggage, we could store them together wirh everyone’s luggage in the designated storage compartment of the plane. Anyways, thanks for reading. I pierced my ear yesterday, 2nd of July 2025, for the first time in my life. I went for an industrial, and I love it so much. I don’t have the bar yet since the two piercings need time to heal before I connect them. I knew I was in good hands when the piercer, Nella, said she likes to stab people for money – I kind of envy her for that.