Life is full of cunt


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Life is full of cunt

  1. 1. Life Is Full of Cunt Berlin had been good to me for the best of five days until everything turned to shit. I wandered the streets of Friedrichshain, gulping in the raw beauty as I went, met beautiful non-hipsterish bohemians (though this is kind of like the capital of hipsterism in Europe), finally got to see Mala play live at the Berghain, shook hands with the bouncer, got into Bar 25 and consumed significantly more ounces of hard liquor than I usually do in a month. And I'm still uncertain how I feel about recent events. It was a hot and humid Sunday, everything that was worth anything was closed and all there really was to do was admire the street art hand in hand in bottle. Somehow we made it through the day, and as a bonus of sorts I also found that I was, apparently, a medical miracle, as all my friends were glistening with sweat whilst I hardly perspired. Shit was pretty tight, one might say. We decided to take another shot at Bar 25 as it seemed to be our only option and hey, the place is pretty damn cool as long as I can keep my friend Robert out of the river (and away from spiked drinks). The line, as usual, was gargantuan but we didn't mind because what else if not for queuing is a bottle of vodka for? Behind us there was a group of girls, Mexican as it turned out, and worried out of their minds because like everybody, they'd also heard of Bar 25's somewhat difficult door policy. They asked us how to get in, so I spewed out all the knowledge I had gathered from a guy named Ben. You can't be in a big group, you can't be loud, overdressed or ugly. Also, you can't be Spanish. Would the bouncer tell a Mexican from a Spaniard? Only time would tell. My friend Robert was unwavering in his methodology: "When they ask you something, just say "drei" because you are three people. Honestly, man, telling you, man, "drei" is the way forward. The girls took it in and began practicing German numerology. Drei, they said, drei We were feeling pretty confident, having rocked the shit out of Berghain and Bar 25 only a few days earlier. Also, we were dead wasted when we tried the night before, so things were looking good. As it turned out, we didn't get in, because instead of the normal bouncer there was this scrawny fucker with a fluffy hat who sent us packing, and the girls, and the really chilled locals behind them, and the guys behind them, and so on and so forth where it began to seem that nobody besides underage girls could get in. Oh well.
  2. 2. The girls inform us that they're going to some punk rock party god knows where and I want to follow them, but alas, a problem, conveniently named Robert. For some reason this man has only two states of intoxication: not drunk enough, and wasted, and he was leaning towards the latter to put it lightly. I spent the best of 30 minutes pulling him off the railings and away from the alluring Spree. Eventually I manage to tame him enough to get him to lie down on the grass. Keit and I join him. And I don't know what it was, quite possibly the massive dry spill I'd been on, but I decided to ditch them and leave Keit to Robert's mercy. She wasn't too happy about it in the morning as she had to do my job from there on, and she was nowhere near big enough. But who gives a shit right now. Problem no. 2: finding the girls. I knew there was a party, I knew it was in Berlin, I vaguely knew the direction and that was pretty much all I knew. I wandered random sidestreets until I found Group of Potheads no. 77 who pointed me in the right direction (across the street). Problem no. 3: Party's over. That's right, I arrived a minute too late and everything was awash with squatters inflating their mattresses for a good night's slumber. I circled the whole area, which was more reminiscent of a junkyard than a party scene, something I've found to be rather typical of Berlin. Hobo, hobo, hobo, metalhead, punk, hobo, hobo, dog. No girls. But I thought, maybe, just maybe if I walk out of the grounds just this instance, I will find them, and I still don't know why I even cared to bother, but it worked. Imagine my surprise. The girls recognize me immediately, and take me in. I think I was a welcome addition to the group, seeing the bunch of loudmouthed Bavarians tagging along with them. Not bad folk, but kind of like the guys you see at parties going from girl to girl making Star Wars jokes, desperately hoping for a pity fuck. But anyway, I knew why I was there, and I knew who I was there for. Don't take this the wrong way Mexican girl no. 1 and Mexican girl no. 2, if you happen to read this, but Mexican girl no. 3 was infinitely more alluring. I offered to take the group to the amazing little squat area on the corner of Warschauer Strasse, but forgot to take a left at the right point and ended up leading them all to a dead end street by the river instead. There was a plus though, the view was amazing, and as all the other drunkards basked in the glory of the sunset, me and, who had noticeably become my girl, broke away. We talked tidbits, and I wasn't even trying to make a move on her, for some reason it seemed everything would somehow work out in the right direction. I give her a tour of the street art and she's impressed with my English. "Thank you" I say, "I hope it is, since I'm a writer." A line I usually leave for 30+ singles, but this seemed as good an occasion as any. And it's not like I'm lying, I do it for a hobby, and I also make a point to tell her this. For some reason, I thought this girl deserved more than cheap tricks. And I am no conjurer of cheap tricks.
  3. 3. It worked beautifully, not because it got me instant action, but because it opened up a side of her that I had not foreseen. a) she had a passion for writing b) she had amazing taste in books. She likes Latin-American writers, no surprise there, and I know all too well the way forward here. "Oh you mean like Gabriel Garcia Marquez?" "Oh my god, you read Marquez?!" and her face lights up. Bingo. We spend a good 20 minutes discussing Cien años de soledad because what else but Cien años de soledad does anybody read these days. After that it's anything from how do you, or what do you or do you, followed up by smiles, gasps and exaltations of agreement. So what, not only is this girl beautiful but smart as well? And then she has the audacity, the bloody nerve to ask me if I've ever read Camus. Fuck me sideways. Where did this girl come from (Mexico, apparently) and why is she asking me about the single most overwhelming reading experience of my short little pathetic meaningless existence. Skip forward a good half hour, and we arrive at Warschauer street, having also found the other members of the group who were, by then, pushing each other around in trolleys. This region is my favourite part of Berlin, the street art, mostly done by a man named Lake, is like a revolution in itself. The rock climbing area, the skate park, the outdoor cinema, the outdoor theater, the squat houses that look like something even a trainyard would be ashamed of, and the small clubs hidden inside them at certain times of the night, only seen at a certain time past midnight, kind of like the gates of hell - everything about this area is a revolution in itself. And they want to tear it down. But that's another story. We sit down in front of a club of sorts to finish our beer because we can't get in otherwise. We have a somewhat heated debate with a local about homosexuality and whether it is normal or not. My girl gets a bit pissed off at the guy who is telling us, quite blatantly, that it isn't natural, it doesn't happen in nature. Well it does happen in nature, but at least he wasn't being a dick about his lack of knowledge. I guess, what he was desperately trying to say, is that it isn't the norm of orientation, which, percentually, it isn't. He finishes his tirade off beautifully with I'm not saying it's wrong, do what you want, be what you want, fuck who you want...*moment of ponder* just don't be so up in our face about it, you know? And on that bombshell, he disappears into the night. My girl and I get more intimate in discussion, I've been reading her body language for ages, I know where this is going, I'm just wondering when it's going to happen. I like to set the stage, go into it smoothly, but eventually she just jumps me at the corner of an unlit club, to the romantic melodies of Pendulum or god knows what interchangeable drum n bass it was playing. Immediately a very hyper overdrugged mountain of a man runs up to us, cheers along and offers to bring us a couch in case we want to go further. Cheers for the effort, baby boy, but we’ll pass. We leave the club for another drink, and sit back near the locals. We've
  4. 4. been talking effortlessly for a good two hours straight by this time…so we talk some more. This is where the conversation gets personal. We both talk about our past love lives (well, mostly me), how shit it's always been, and how weird it is that we've only known each other for two hours. We both realize this won't be going on for any longer than a few, and we express our hatred for the world and its division of population. I can't remember why but I tell her about the only person I've ever loved, how I never got to be with her, because she was already in a long term relationship. Not one of those fleeting ones, but the real deal. Even if I was twice, triple or quadruple the man I am now, I could never be as good to her as her current boyfriend. I also tell her that this isn't a sad story, it's a happy one, because even though my passions are somewhat restrained, purely knowing that I am capable of such overwhelming emotion gives my life some semblance of purpose. This is also my favourite story that I save for very special people. She doesn't say much to comment, I just know she understands, it's all over her sparkling brown eyes, eyes that could never be mass produced. And she tells me she had something similar with a guy back home, the time old story: boyfriend goes away, she meets somebody wonderful, boyfriend comes back, she knows he's a dick and the other guy is better, but opts for the boyfriend anyway. Did you do it because you thought nobody would ever love you as much as your boyfriend, I ask Her voice breaks as she affirms my assumption, and I notice a tinge of reddening in the eyes. She's breaking down a bit, but kisses me, if not for anything else, then just for the merit of my observation. What was he like, I ask. The guy you met. Like you, she says except, you know, from Mexico City And this hurts. But I offer to help her, because I like her, I like her more than anybody I've ever known for 2-3 hours, months, maybe years or decades. I tell her since she's single now, she should go back and find the guy because this shit doesn't come a- knockin often, and I tell her I will be insanely jealous, but she should do it anyway, because I might be a dreamer, but reality is quite the fucking whore. She laughs a bit and feels better. The conversation lights up as we stroll the skating
  5. 5. grounds together. At some point we are met by a guy named Gregor, who is quite obviously used to life in this area. With Gregor we get to talking about normal things (or as normal as they get in Berlin) again. And my girl, Valentina is her name, turns the conversation around to something beautiful. I have a lot of strange dreams, she says. always wanted to drink with a midget, get all drunk with a midget, and I did it, I actually did it, I got drunk with a midget in London. And this still makes me laugh even though right now laughter seems almost impossible. How many girls actually say that or think that? Do all girls want to drink with midgets? Because I hope they do. When she said that, I thought fuck it, fuck it all, I am finding the shiniest stone on the ground and popping the question, I don't ever want to lose the girl who drinks with midgets. But I decided it was a useless endeavor. Gregor starts bothering strangers for fags, and my girl informs me that it is, in fact, veering towards 10 AM, and she has to go find her friends before her plane leaves for fucking Florence or Paris or wherever the fuck she’s leaving me for. We say good bye to Gregor, ask him for his contact information, but forget it. And as if this isn't bad enough, the story just gets a lot worse from here. Does anybody know the movie Chungking Express? Of course you do, everybody should know that movie. It is also, without a doubt, my favourite movie, something I've watched over and over through thick and thin and completely integrated into my life. California Dreaming. Just nothing but California Dreaming. And as my girl writes down her contact information, a couple of books and movies I should get, and as I write only one thing, the only thing I could write, which is Chungking Express, a street performer calmly arrives, sits down, and all of the sudden it's California Dreaming. FUCKING Cali Dreaming. Is this how I'm meant to say good bye to the most amazing thing I've ever met? To the soundtrack of that mockery of life that just comes out and fucks you in the ass
  6. 6. with a moment yanked straight from your fondest memories, as if.. to emphasize how good you will never have it again. Yes, this is exactly how you're meant to say good bye to the most amazing thing you've ever met. The sentence "you are a very remarkable person in my life" is uttered in the sexiest voice to accent combo I know. She promises to do as I told her, I remind her it will drive me crazy, and she laughs. We kiss good bye so long she almost misses her train and gets hit by the door on her way in, then laughs for a second, and waves a hand I will never hold again. Alas, this is the way the world fucks you. Not with a bang, but a whimper. I'm totally lost. What the hell just happened? To top it off, it's 10 AM, I'm miles from the hostel and I'm drunker than the 95% of people walking to work. I decide to go back to the street musician, I figure asking him to play the blues would be a good idea, but he's already going full blast with she takes...just like a woman, yes she does, she aches...just like a woman, yes she does, she makes love, just like a woman, yes she does, but she a little girl. Fuck you too, street musician, I love you so much. I sit down next to him and sing along. I tell him I was there a second ago with somebody beautiful, and am so no more. Yeah well, that's what happens in life, man he says and finishes packing up his things. So where are you going now that you've finished playing I ask who I by then consider God. To Paris as they say and he walks off. I don't blame him, I wouldn't have wanted to hear about my woes either. I take the U-Bahn home, and I don't even know my name anymore. What just happened makes everything seem irrelevant. I start talking to a random Turkish guy on the way out of the train station. I become that guy. "Mondays, man, I’m telling you"
  7. 7. He nods nervously and shoots off like a speeding bullet. I get back to the hostel and look around me. Everybody's sleeping. I rip a few sheets of toilet paper, and automagically, the line "life is full of cunt" makes its way onto the soft fabric, signed lovingly with "btw, check out at 12". I briefly consider jumping out of the window, but figure the drop wouldn't be high enough for any mortal damage, and besides that there was an unrelenting pulsation deep in my heart that told me life as I had never known it before was only about to begin.