Sweat tastes good

It’s a matter of attitude, it’s all how you see things, then they become something specific. The weak, WEAK, thing is that everybody wants to be so cool. What’s so fucking amazing about being cool and unique? We’re so many, who gives a shit. We all are, we all are not. Last night there was this asshole, I’ve met him through some dark music-oriented event or something, I said hello and asked what he was actually doing in life, not that I cared that much. He said he was playing music, djing, about once or twice a year. You boy wanna make it sound like YOU’RE SO COOL YOU ONLY PLAY ONCE A YEAR. I’m not sure you really do that in life, boy. I asked what music, he said “a bit of everything”, I said that didn’t mean much, but then again, I didn’t really care. Then there’s the spanish girl. God it took me ten attempts to understand the work “e r o t i c”. Did I find erotic men dancing in underwear? Then the topic became “flaccid penises”. There’s nothing really wrong with that, but I guess usually is considered not so “manly”, and everybody wanna be a perfect show-off, which means if you’ve to be naked, you’ve to be “well structured”, which is very boring indeed. Then I met this australian guy who had a custom design shop where he basically sold t-shirts. I don’t usually care about how people live, but I asked if it went well, yes “incredibly well”. He was very glad to have left Kreuzberg. He now lives in Wedding and we started talking about a place I love with all my heart there, “Tango Loft”. I worked there for a short time and I’m so glad I’ve met such beautiful people. If you wanna have a taste of beauty, among lilium and candles, go there.

I guess I’ve to spray some antispetic on my nipples. They are insensitive. This means I’ve to keep an eye on them if you pull them or something, you may even rip them off, without me noticing. Licking them is only for your own pleasure, and I always feel a bit strange. The best result you can get is infecting them. Anyway I do keep them clean, so it’s fine, if I wouldn’t do it everyday I’d have a little tit right now. Moreover your boyfriend or lover or whatever is getting back and I have no contract with any of you, but I perceive he is not enjoying the view.

I had a really long talk with this norwegian guy. He’s actually supported from his country to create art, which is mostly painting. He takes pictures of very spontaneous moments (you wake up in the morning or something) and then he paints them, making all of that a bit less “natural”. The grandma was sicilian and she was called Teresa. I had to tell him I had watched a documentary about Maria Theresia, lovely Holy Empress, fighting Friedrich II. In such circumstances, like 9am with a guy in underwear, I may even discuss which is the best way to cook pumpkin. I’m a MASTER in good-talk-in-the-wrong-moment. While fucking I may even ask you why you divorced. Not saying I haven’t done it yet.

At the end of it all, it was a really boring night. It started with a guy asking me if I had drugs and it ended up with the same guy at the Garderobe asking me if I had had fun. The most funny thing was to see these people dressing in the courtyard, all going back to “ordinary life”. In fact I don’t understand why people need cages and labels to feel free.

It’s alright baby, you’re only choking.

Control, selfcontrol, it’s all bullshit I don’t even wanna write about. I’ve wrote so much about all of this shit when I was a boy, and it never brought anything helpful. I guess I’ve been writing the same bullshit , again and again, as if it were any rehabilitation formula I’ve been prescribed, I’ve wrote about the shit that filled my body up until I felt like choking and I’ve been so diligently told myself that I had to find a good healthy solution to all that shit. Something like painting your bedroom walls light blue, shading into grey you know, it’s  a good colour,  I do advice you that one, but don’t dress me up like a princess. Well then, nothing worked out and I just gave up my medicine, no more writing.

I must confess I feel like writing pointed out a few things I wanted to know, if I could read about them, I would know them better,  the absence of means cut out way too much. So here I come again, writing bullshit, imposing myself to have that selfcontrol I never had. As I am writing this, I do smile, and it’s rather a sneer. I do pity myself. Still I don’t give a shit, everything sucks, and I don’t want to discuss this with my friends, what for? Oh yes, I’d get advices, but you know what?, I just get pissed off.

I decided to do this whole shameful thing online because I’m the kind of person who constantly takes notes, I am actually compulsive, I have many agendas and such books I fill with whatever, and I’ve got notes on my desk here and in my jeans’ pockets and in my backpack. I don’t even look at them afterwards. This shit I’m doing now sounds more like a one-night-stand, just throw everything into the fucking loo then.

I do flush now.

Il controllo, l’autocontrollo, tutte stronzate di cui non voglio nemmeno scrivere, di cui ho scritto talmente tante volte quando ero ragazzino e non è mai servito a niente. Ho sempre utilizzato la scrittura come una forma di disintossicazione, scrivere circa la merda che mi soffica e ribadirmi i soliti “buoni propositi” pastello… stronzate senza nemmeno la puzza di merda. Allora ho smesso di scrivere. Ho smesso di preoccuparmi, perché tutto quello che mi sono sempre imposto di fare e di non fare, non è mai andato in porto.

Tuttavia ho come l’impressione che non scrivendo tendo ad ignorare completamente tante cose che invece non voglio considerare futili. E allora scrivo di nuovo e fingo di avere controllo. E impongo a me stesso quell’autocontrollo che a volte mi manca. Già mentre lo scrivo sorrido, ed è un ghigno. Mi faccio pena. E non me ne frega nulla, perché fa tutto schifo, e non me ne frega di parlarne con gli amici e di ricevere suggerimenti e consigli e sai cosa, mi incazzo e basta.

Scelgo il supporto virtuale perché prendo continuamente appunti, sono compulsivo, ho diverse agende e fogli sparsi ovuqnue, negli zaini, nelle tasche di giubbotti e pantaloni. E allora così è una botta e via. Tutto nel cesso.

Tiro l’acqua.

Ich bin kein Künstler, ich bin ein Arschloch.