Short-Story: A lesson in being yourself

It’s precisely 8:27pm when I am escorted out of the restaurant. I’m calling it: this is the last blind date I’ll ever have. Reluctantly I remove the contact lenses and fake beard as I walk to my car. It was all a very bad idea from the get-go: asking my friend to set me up with one of her friends, making sure she made me look like the biggest catch the world could offer, and finally actually attempting to be that person.

There is a fatal flaw in blind dates: no one wants to go out with a person who has to rely on blind dates, but when the person that sets you up tells the date that you’re a little less broke than you are, but a lot more muscular and intelligent, there might be a problem. And tells her about a beard I couldn’t grow if I tried.

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Short-Story: Talking to 16-year-old me

I often wonder what I would say to 16-year-old me if I ever got a time-machine. What genius advice I would give to myself in order to avoid the mistakes I have made. Then, of course, I wonder how that would mess with the timelines and if there was a risk of obliterating the entire reality of the timeline in which I got to use the time-machine. Anyway, the conversation, as it plays out it my mind, goes a little something like this:

Me@16: Who the hell are you?

Me@26: I’m you, from the year 2020.

Me@16: Wow.

Me@26: Yeah, it’s pretty impressive, I mean –

Me@16: – no I mean your – my hairline has receded incredibly. Are we going bald?

Me@26: That’s not the point. I literally time-travelled here and THAT is what you have to say?

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Short-Story: Theories of advanced escapism

„You’re quiet tonight“, I said to my date, a no longer in use keyboard piano with a wig and a leather jacket that strangely looked better on it than it did on me. Clearly, I have gone off the deep end. I’ve gone mad. Bananas. Nuts. Crazy. I’ve lost it.

Being in isolation should be perfect. There is really not that much of a difference to how much contact I have to people otherwise.

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Short-Story: Lessons for the Lockdown

Well, it appears we are going to be at home for a while. What a great opportunity to give out some advice on the Corona-topic. I might tell you right now that this in no way reflects science or the official health-advice. It’s pure nonsense to distract you. Which is not working since I am talking about the topic I was supposed to distract you from. Shit. It’s like saying: „Hey Tom, forget about Emma, let’s talk about something else, like how great the guy looks Emma is currently dating.“

What I was trying to say is: there is a lot of misinformation going around. Like how you can do things to immunize you against the virus. Drink alcohol, eat garlic, snort cocaine and excessive masturbation. To me, that’s a Wednesday. Oh shit, tomorrow is Wednesday. Better go get and score some garlic real quick.

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Short-Story: Harry Hopeless, DJ

The extraordinarily hopeful fairytale of Harry Hopeless, DJ by profession

It was an evening like any other for Harry. Flickering lights and loud noises set the scene, as he observed the ecstatic crowd motionlessly. Why he had become a DJ – that was a question he was asked very often, after all, everyone was a marketing expert these days and wanted to give a nifty piece of advice.

While his real name was James Croe, he had been looking for a „cool stage-name“ for his DJ career and finally decided on Harry Hopeless. A childhood friend, who had tried in vain to talk him out of this idea, had explained that he was killing everyone’s mood with this. Indeed, the slogan that appeared under Harry’s name on his website didn’t give much hope either: The name is the game. And the game sucks, too.

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Das außerordentlich hoffnungsvolle Märchen des Horst ohne Hoffnung, DJ von Beruf

Es war ein Abend wie jeder andere. Während flackernde Lichter und laute Bässe die Menschen in Bewegung brachten, beobachtete Horst das Geschehen regungslos. Warum er DJ geworden war – diese Frage stellte man ihm sehr oft, schließlich war mittlerweile jeder ein Marketing-Experte und wollte ihm Tipps geben. 

Hatte er mit bürgerlichem Namen noch Jack Blitz geheißen, hatte er für seine DJ-Laufbahn einen coolen Namen gesucht und sich letztlich für Horst ohne Hoffnung entschieden. Das ziehe die Menschen runter, so ein Jugendfreund, der ihm vergeblich versucht hatte, diese Idee auszureden. Der Zusatz, der auf seiner Website unter dem Namen stand, machte auch nicht viel Hoffnung: Der Name ist Programm. Und das Programm ist auch scheiße. 

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