Zitater (31)

Hues de gesinn datt se am Cactus d’Wäschmëttel an der Reklamm hunn? // We’re an odd group. R. is sort of naive and loves everything, Thierry just hates everything, and I’m somewhere in the middle. // This is Thierry. He’s my stalker. // Just lie back and think of Thatcher. // Joël, du wees dach, dass den Thierry RTL aus der selwechter Ursaach brauch wei ech YouTube Kommentaren: onheemlechen Menschenhass! // Entweder hues de e gudden Dealer oder du gesäis einfach just op all Foto stoned aus. // WHERE IS YOUR BEARD?! // Ech géif gär wëssen wat hannert där rouder Dier verstoppt ass… a firwat dee Béier nach bal voll ass. // Ech weess ni wat West Wing ass a wat Realitéit ass. // Also, 61cm sinn 2 Nanosekonnen vu Liichtdistanz am Vakuum, respektiv 558Hz wann et Wellelängt wier. Sou kann ee sech wéinstens eppes virstellen. // In case your girlfriend finds a note in her jacket and freaks out: it was me. // Are you sure I can’t rub you in parsnips? // Do you scream during sex? // You know, it’s kind of upsetting when your stalker’s cheating on you. // Bite the pillow, David. // Ech fillen mech wéi ee mexikaneschen Drug-Lord. // Sou, ech ginn saufen! Wann mer eis net mei gesinn, Thierry du kriss den Fernseh!

How To Carry A Friend

to Ali

I’ve compartmentalized all the sadness,
there is too much to consume it all at once.
Nervous possible futures dancing on my tongue
make me stutter air
as the scream inside me grows and bursts
my lungs because for now, still, there is
more fear outside than pain inside.
Introductions, powerfully meaningless,
somewhere too far away from everything that was,
over a piece of ginger cake and a Newcastle Brown –
moments of deafening silence thundering over us.
Echoes of strawberries for a pound,
blueberries for a pound,
small children carried on shoulders in awe of
the city life
around them that goes
on and on,
so many smiles, so many worries,
encapsulated in the minds of all these people
and I wonder if one of them ever or now shares
this panic of having been left behind,
forgotten like the daffodils of last year,
rendered as absurd as birthday wishes
on the Facebook wall of a dead man.

The curtains close, the music plays on,
all the white roses burn.

Sou. Genau sou.

I was at the University of Birmingham studying English – a full life that was completely safe. I spent most of my time directing plays in my spare time, which is what I really wanted to do. (…) And yes, you can do that, it’s one of those things that you won’t get an advert for, you actually have to do that yourself. It’s dead easy to do that at school or at university, because there are rooms that you’re entitled to use, and there are loads of like-minded people hanging about with the same amount of time on their hands and you can put stuff on relatively easily.
Once you get out into the real world, after university, and that black year of horror that nobody tells you about… It’s an appalling year, the year after university, and nobody ever gets warned about this, but it’s horrendous. And all of the stuff that was just kinda open to you is gone. The minute you throw that mortarboard in the air at graduation, it’s all gone.

Chris Addison

Glécklech sinn

Cocktails

Réckblécker schreiwt een anscheinend an der Regel Enn Dezember oder Ufank Januar, hunn ech mer soen gelooss. Dëst Joer ass no mengem Kalenner – där hunn ech dank menger Mamm endlech een mat ville schéine Fotoen drop – kaum zwee Méint al an et fillt sech trotzdem un ewéi wann et schon erëm misst op Silvester duergoen.
Déi lescht Wochen waren eng Achterbunnfahrt, an villes dovunner géing ech gären vergiessen; woubäi dat eng Ligen ass, well et gëtt bekanntlech kee Gléck ouni Ongléck, an ech sinn zanter dësem Weekend zimlech glécklech. Et gëtt villes, wat (nach) net an der Rei ass (ass jemools alles an der Rei?), mä ech hunn zanter dräi Deeg permanent ee Laachen am Gesiicht an et goufe Momenter wou ech net méi wousst wéi et sech ufillt frou ze sinn. Ech hunn de Weekend mat dräi Mënschen verbruecht, déi mir onvirstellbar wichteg sinn – an eng Persoun dovunner hat ech zanter dräi Joer net gesinn, well mer vill Stonnen Fliger vun eneen ewech liewen. Ech hunn I love you héieren an ech hunn I love you gesot, an et ass laang hier, dass déi Wierder a mengem Liewen gefall sinn well dat Wierder sinn, mat deenen een net einfach esou ronderem sech geheit an déi een awer méi brauch wéi all déi aner Wierder.
Ech hunn geléiert, dass dat heiten wierklech mäin Doheem ass, well hei déi Frënn sinn déi mer och déi Froen stellen déi wéi dinn, well se wëssen dass ech se muss héieren – an ech krut vill Froen gestallt déi verdammt wéi gedoen hunn, mä d’Änwerten déi ech fonnt hunn hu mech all weiderbruecht.
Ech weess net, wouhinner et vun hei aus weidergeet. Et gi vill Saachen an der noer Zukunft, déi mer Angscht maachen. Mä et geet biergop, an ech ginn de Wee net eleng – dat ass alles wat zielt.