Several months ago, I got a credit card. It was a good thing, because it got me where I am now. I had no financial wiggle room at the time, and just taking what I needed felt fantastic and freeing. But with next to no income, the spending there would not remain within the confines of a 500-euro-space, as I told myself in the beginning so I would always make the payments with ease.
No, I hit the 2,000-euro limit after a couple of months and was thus paying €200 on top of the almost same amount for a loan I had taken out for my ex some four years before. My “income” — unemployment — was capped at €800. Now, just buying food usually took me into negative territory, but there were also bills, naturally, especially the recurring ones for all my business dreams I racked up when I was feeling free and unstoppable. …
Too often, I catch myself imagining the future as two-dimensional. A cartoon; a children’s book version of reality where everyone has a permanent smile etched on their face, nobody gets tired, everyone is happy.
We’ve been fed the illusion that when we arrive at certain places and achieve specific things, the world will be perfect and our lives will finally be right and, well, at least our own lives will be right because the thing that we don’t have now, we will have then if we do so and such for long enough, if we make x money, if we buy that thing and get the job and find the house and have the person and the baby and the generally chill vibes because everything will be right. …
I used to resent people who spoke of things they were saying or writing as downloads. Why not just say thoughts or ideas? But the truth is, I’ve been having downloads all the time for years without realizing it.
And I don’t think it matters where I think or say they come from, what matters is that I understand they are not mine to begin with, they are coming into the world through me.
Just a few days ago, I committed to writing down and then actually sharing anything that enters my mind that feels like it needs to get out into the world. …
A good book is not just a good book.
A good book becomes a great book when it accommodates the reader.
You may think your job is done with the writing, and that’s all you need. It’s true — as a writer, that should be your job.
But in self-publishing, you need more than good writing.
Sure, you could just “get the job done”. That’s what many writers do.
They think putting text on a page is all they need to do. Just place it there, black and white, words on paper, that’s all we need. Typesetting? …
It’s ten-twenty PM. You just had a nice, good, full-body cry for no good reason on the bathroom floor. The kind that makes you feel your abs. Your mind knows what this is about, it’s just some old shit getting swept up to the surface so you can feel it one last time. Let it go, this is a good thing. The heaving hurts a little bit. You think about all the crying you’ve done since your son was conceived — four years ago. You think about how its quality has evolved. It’s visceral now. Guttural. It comes from a place deeper than you previously thought existed. …
74 half-finished drafts waiting for completion. Even more fragments of stories waiting to be threaded into their true purpose, or anything at all. I don’t know if this is a lot or comparatively little, it doesn’t matter. I can’t concentrate. My mind is scurrying between tasks and stories and levels of thought of equal magnitude like a sad puppy on coke. Lost, looking for home.
I ate two bags of chips. They were small bags of chips, but I was watching a movie while I ate. …
It feels like the ultimate sin and sign at once, to be a millennial and publish this piece. Who am I to complain? I had an upper-middle-class upbringing. I currently live rent-free in my late grandparents’ home, with an en-suite bathroom at that.
Yes, even writing about me, about this, my personal, ultimately self-made jail, is so icky I want to barf into my… you know what? I don’t have any “millennial things” to puke into. Because I am broke as fuck. My account hasn’t shown a positive balance in months: I’m twenty-eight years old and I have never earned enough money to keep myself afloat. I am also the single parent of a three-year-old. Since my son was born, I have been living on government subsidies. …
I’m a 28-year-old single mother on welfare. My kid is turning three soon and a spot in kindergarten is nowhere in sight.
In Germany, this is just the way it is, and has been for years: if parents don’t bust their asses leeching up to twenty different facilities when or even before the child is born, they can basically kiss all hopes of preschool goodbye.
I knew this. At least, I was aware. But I didn’t do what they said I should. I thought I’d rely on my previous “experience” in “just kinda winging it when the time comes”.
Obviously, this hasn’t been working too well. …
My mother is an avid believer in homeopathy. I grew up almost entirely unmedicated, with glucose-based Arnica tablets and Belladonna globules standing in for real pills.
These two, I recall, she employed for anything and everything. Grazed knee? Arnica. Flu? Belladonna. Nosebleed? Arnica. Scarlet fever? Belladonna. I can’t say they worked, can’t say they didn’t.
I’ve since come to view homeopathy with a critical eye, seeing its benefits mostly in the fact that I can soothe my kid with a fake sugar tablet when he’s suffered “grave” injuries.
But one aspect my mother used to stress about it has been infinitely useful in every single phase of growth, healing, or letting go, whether consciously or completely unprepared. …
You walked into the classroom and I was instantly peeved. Who does he think he is? Why is he smiling? How does he have friends already? What’s he laughing about all the time? The more energy I wasted hating you for no reason, the less I had left to focus on more important things. School, all my extracurricular music, anything but you.
Remember when you were young?
You shone like the sun
Shine on, you crazy diamond
Now there’s a look in your eyes
Like black holes in the sky
Shine on, you crazy diamond
My youth was spent in a dream. Just like my childhood, every waking moment felt more surreal than the actual, ominous dreams that punctured my restless sleep. …