Suchergebnisse

In der Zukunft zu leben, ohne sich im Moment zu verlieren oder zurückzuschauen, den Tunnel zu verlassen und sich ins Weite zu trauen. Die Stille im Auge des Sturms zu genießen, soll das Umfeld herumschleudern und fliegen, solange ich mit dabei und zusehen darf. Wann hat man etwas erlebt, außer es nimmt ein Teil von dir, ein Geschenk oder eine Last? Vergeht die Zeit wenn man sie aufnimmt, schwindet  die Kraft wenn man sie ausübt, verliert man wenn man probiert? Sehe ich richtig, alles, oder nur Brüche, falls nein, würde ich mir selbst nicht vertrauen, und mich trotzdem in den Fall lassen. Stürzen will ich, bis es mich weder schreckt noch schmerzt, ungewiss ob ich wieder aufstehen werde. Hatte ich denselben Gedanken nicht beim letzten Mal schon? Wie naiv eigentlich, wieso ich mich von irgendwas einschränken lassen soll, wenn ich oft Traum von Erinnerung kaum unterscheiden kann, über meine subjektive Vergangenheit munkle, und den Wald vor den Bäumen nicht sehe. Weg mit allem und jedem, was bleibt mir. Ago, ergo sum, vergiss das Denken. Jeder Gedanke, der mich nicht nicht in die Handlung drückt, ist verschwendete Zeit und Energie. Was bringen mir Jahre an Kopfzerbrechen, was sag ich hier, wie benimm ich mich dort, wo geh ich hin. Völlig unnötig. Lieber schau ich auf das, was direkt vor mir liegt und kümmer mich. Aller Einbildung ist nutzlos und trügend. Verschwendung! Raub!

wthelly  Wth  What the helly?  What?  That’s not wind, it’s gust.   My scarf blew and I froze off.   I slipped and almost fell.   Here to wake me in the morning.   Faring me well on my walk home at night.   Remind me again. Have I felt you before?   With you? I am not familiar.  BOUNCE BOUNCE  Shake it off.   BOUNCE BOUNCE  Across the ledge!  BOUNCE BOUNCE  A ballpark of blue and red.  BOUNCE BOUNCE  Shake it off.   BOUNCE BOUNCE  SHAKE IT OOOOOOOOOOFFFFFFFF  SHAKE IT OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF  This is 100% my IP and you can only use it if you give me loads and loads of money. Thanks, Billie Eilish please reach out.

Last week I spent a whole week in France, with both arrival and departure at the Beauvais airport a 90-minute bus ride away from Paris. There’s three airports around Paris, I believe, and Beauvais airport is probably the least maintained one… Imagine a huge storage hall re-designed with two cafes, security checks, and one large seating are. No AC at 29*C, warm drinks at stupendous prices, and crowds of sweaty people fighting over the electricity sockets. In those moments I realize that my privileged white ass would never survive a terrorist attack. I know terrorists are bad people, on that humid day however, I asked myself why? Being subjected to a knife crime or killed by a gun is one thing, but to have that happen to me after hours of breaking sweat through that one pair of beige pants I am wearing the third day in a row is diabolical. I get it, if I am willing to go as far as hurting another human, I am already leaning off the far left on the apathetic-to-empathic mental spectrum. You want to hurt me, ok, do it after I took a shower and styled my hear, wore my most favourite jacket, put on the new Montale perfume I bought recently. How about after I exit the gym – if I go down, at least it’s with a nice pump. But don’t come over to me preaching pseudo-religious crap while T-boning my ribcage with something sharp. Pick any day of the week, just not the day of my travel please. Therefore, if you ever contemplate on hurting someone else, try to put yourself into their position first? You’re already being selfish, maybe you can spare a tiny fraction of common sense and not hassle tourists on a Beauvais-airport-like experience. It’s not like they choose to take the cheapest airline to the airport furthest away from the city. You think flying economy is a choice?

Herr Doktor, mein Telefon macht mich krank. Mir tut es nicht gut. Gehe ich Reisen, sei es mit Familie, Freunden, oder Kollegen, dann freu ich mich schon extrem auf ein bisschen Alleine-Zeit, aber nicht mit meinem Telefon, nein! Das pickt mir nämlich nicht nur in meiner rechten Hosentasche, sondern auch auf der Seele, wo ich mittlerweile von einer Allergie befallen worden bin, die mir wiederholt zuckend meine Brustmuskeln zum Spannen bringt, sobald sich der kleinste Gedanke über dieses Stück Metall in mein Gedächtnis schleicht. Ich will meine Freunde in einem neuen Lokal besuchen, mach die App auf und wähle den schnellsten Weg zum Zielort. Eine Entscheidung wurde nicht getroffen; mich hat keiner gefragt, wie ich dort hinwill. Ich habe bewusst “schleicht” verwendet, weil ich mich nicht erinnere, je irgendetwas von meinem Telefon bekommen zu haben. Nichts. Meine Zeit hat es mir verschlungen und mich als Produkt an Großkonzerne perverser Menschen geworben. Sollte mein Telefon nicht ein Zweck zum Sinn sein - und nicht umgekehrt? So stark ich mich Dir zeige, bin ich bei meinem süßen, leistungsstarken iPhone 16 ein ganz anderer Mensch. Letzte Nacht war es doch wieder eine Zeitverschwendung! Aber ich versteh’s, du kannst mich ja nicht jede Sekunde in meinem Leben unterhalten, es bin doch Ich, der einiges mehr an Verständnis aufbringen muss, um dich nicht zu verärgern. Tut mir leid. Wer bin ich schon, um mit dir über weniger Stunden in meinem Leben zu hageln. Mit viel Um und ohne Aber. Erbärmlich. Boah, ist der Sonnenuntergang schön SCHNELL DAS HANDY RAUS SONST IST DER MOMENT VERLOREN. Da wird mein Chef stolz auf mich sein. Wieso? Na weil ich mir die ganze Energie spare, und mir das seichte Teilen meiner Erfahrung die Mitmenschen zu unzufriedenen Kunden Rollen wechseln lässt. Es spricht mir nicht Gutes zu, und da wir nicht in derselben Welt sind, ist es entweder das Telefon oder Ich. So klein muss ich sein, wenn mir der Daumen am Display und die restlichen vier Finger sorgfältig um die Rückseite gefestigt als Berührung ausreicht. Naja, ich werde hier nicht den Teufel an die Wand malen. Brauchbar ist es ja. Den einen oder anderen Schub an Glücksgefühlen hat es mir auch geschenkt. Mir nimmt es die Worte. Äääah. Schon wieder gezuckt. Schon wieder das Handy in äußerst befriedigender Stimmung im anderen Zimmer geschlossen aufs Bett geworfen, um meine als Romeo gezogene, kalte Wange meiner Juliet des einundzwanzigsten Jahrhunderts im Sommernachtstraum einer neuen Antike zu zeigen. Na hawidere, zwei Stunden ohne Telefon und ich schwell sprachlich stärker als nach einem Bienenstich. Übrigens, die Biene nimmt sich das Leben, um dir mit aller Lebensenergie schmerzen zu verursachen. Die weiß nicht mal von deinem Schmerz, kann sich in ihren letzten Sekunden keine Erinnerungen vorspielen, sondern genügt sich nur mit dem Gedanken. Der Stich. Ein Aufschrei. Kinder weinen; da reichts, wenn du die Eltern stichst. Tagelanges Wehleiden. Wie viele Gespräche sie damit starten würde? Wenn ich die Zunge steche, lass ich den Staat auch noch zahlen dafür!

The day-to-day guarantees we take for granted – be it as regulated as the commute to work – are built on an infinite amount of energy. Life, rather. I wonder how difficult one of a millionaire dare be, may I live to see the day where I meet some, for just a quick peek, to confirm what I will never know unless I see it for myself. I am all for arresting criminals, but hey, we are in 2025, what kind of criminality is more pressing today?   Is this guy bothering you, mam?   Well HEREEEEE KAPOW PEOW .   Every man conspicuous of committing bratery (i made this word up) – the formula of which I have not yet figured out yet (it should be relative to the age and circumstances) - undergoes genetic sequencing, until we find THE B-R-A-T gene that singles them out from the rest.  What I would really need to know is how time is relative, it’s been bugging me. Another great idea of mine involves relativity. Often it feels to me that we try to solve nature’s complex problems with logic and numbers, when our beautiful research in physics clearly shows that it doesn’t obey those forms. In my twenty seven years of life have I never experienced a bug in hardware or software more often then I do now that ChatGPT is here. A greedy management combined with the relentless obsession of squeezing every penny out of their product, instead of repositioning and doing what people have done before us: look into the future. The fact that Microsoft Outlook is still too stupid to not completely manage my calendar schedule is beyond me. It knows exactly when I work, when I have my period (yes, men can feel, too), or when I am extremely motivated. Why on earth do I then have to, for every single meeting or event, ask my colleague or friend or family if they have time and if I have time and if we both have time together, when all I really want my stupid devices to do is to make my life easier and not restrict it further. Time is relative, right. If you are squeezed in a train for thirty minutes or you get to sit down to read in the meantime, will it destine how fast you will leap during your ride?  What can we trust from our past, anyways? Have you ever looked at something and thought: wasn’t it different before?

Untying the type of emotional knot we are experiencing with today’s patient will require strategically placed visions to the eye periphery preceded by a reduction in sensory stimulations to increase the probability of recognition. We will start with a word, then an image, and allude it to the physical – what already existed. The training data shows that, wait, what is this, Jamie? I am sorry, mam, there seems to be a problem? You were instructed to conduct simulations; you reduced your submission to “They just start feeling better” - what scientific literature did you base this on – Netflix? We ran simulations to see which instructions lead to state-of-the-art results, and concluded that explaining the symptoms in plain English significantly improved recognition and cut the occurrence of observance in half. Did the symptom backtracking succeed in the end? No. We are able to partially re-construct mind webs, the intrusive thought patterns are disrupting the process, nonetheless. We will have to strengthen the cognitive membranes holding the web and re-do tests next week. Which gives us five working days to heal the patient, or we will need to provide a refund – I will make sure to take it off your paycheck. We couldn’t have anticipated that it could weaken the memory links among nodes so drastically that four out of every five attempts at synapsis-docking failed – two to three orders of magnitude higher than the average person. Fuel him up with more dopamine! Since when did our agents loose the ability to handle, let me see for myself, yes, a mere 8303 data points. We tried adding data points from other memories, but the low adhesiveness impedes our work. Finding a suitable candidate could take months, even years.

Ich hatte vor einigen Wochen das Vergnügen, Akin’s Traum, die Burgtheater Vorführung von Akın Emanuel Şipal, mittig in der rechten Paterre am Parkett sitzend genießen zu dürfen. Siehe: https://www.burgtheater.at/produktionen/akins-traum .   Begleiten tut uns das Schauspiel Köln in eine Reise durch das Osmanische Reich, beginnend mit Osman dem Ersten, jenen, den eines Nachts ein Traum mit einer sich wie ein gigantischer Baum über Grenzen streckenden und um die im Schatten badenden Einwohner von der Hitze zu schützenden Vorstellung einer Nation aufsuchte.   Das Stück betont eine positive Zuneigung gegenüber den Idealen solcher Vorstellung, die als Schultern zu betrachten sind, auf denen wir stehen; besteht dennoch wiederkehrend in ausführlichem Ausdruck auf die irrsinnigen Entscheidungen, dem im Laufe der zumeist in absoluter Monarchie regiertem Reich zuzustehen sind.   Besonders bewegend war der ständige Konflikt des Hauptdarstellers, der sich als junger Türke in seiner schicksalhaften Beauftragtheit begrenzt fühlte, und sich auf eine Reise in seine jahrhundertspannenden Geschichte begibt, um sich in einem neuen Kapitel, in einem heute ähnlichem Bemühen, unserem Europa, zu entfalten. Zusammen mit der Dramaturgie der Frau Lea Goebel und Regie von Stefan Bachman, hüpfte die Stimmung von Ernst auf Witz, von Scham auf Gesang, von Trauer zu Hoffnung, und zu guter Letzt Wut.

Ziiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeh Zieh. Noch ein Stück nach oben. Stopp! Das ist doch bei weitem nicht fest genug, wie soll das bitte der Spannung Stand halten? Kling dich vorne ein, dann ist der Klang umso schöner, und das Knistern wird sich in einen in alle Richtungen verbreitenden Knall bauschen. Nicht in die Mitte, sondern an die Grenze, am Rand ist es mir am liebsten, das kann aber von einer Person zur anderen unterschiedlich sein… Ich würds lieber fest halten und es dann durch meine Finger gleiten lassen. Lieber nicht in diesem Durcheinander, ich kann mich bei dem Lärm kaum konzentrieren. Wundert mich nicht, wenn du es viel zu schnell nach vorne drückst. Es anzuhauchen hätte bei weitem gereicht, außer du willst es schnell hinter dir bringen. Das kann ich schwer einschätzen, wenn ich selbst noch nie geschlitten bin. Aber gut, ich versuch’s. Mit viel Ruhe vergeben dir diese Dinger auch kleine Fehler, solang du nicht zu fest anreißt. Der Mitbewohner in meiner WG kennt einen, den es sein Bein komplett zerfetzt hat, ihn somit mit für Lebzeiten andauerende Scheußlichkeiten geprägt. Dann soll er doch mit einem Fuß weiterlaufen, kann man die nicht heute schon nachwachsen lassen? Da gab’s doch Generationen an Bemühungen. 23 Wochen zu warten, aber nicht zu wissen, wann es endet? Bei dir geht’s entweder um dich. Schau vielleicht nicht ständig auf dich selbst, dann wirst ein paar flüchtige Anblicke erleben dürfen. Hast es schonmal freihändig probiert? Du springst quasi wie ein Penguin in die Luft, bis sich der Faden löst. Bei mir hebt das nicht mal mit vollster Konzentration ordentlich ab, geschweige denn mit Spielerein. Sei nicht so ein ständig Engstirniger, deiner Zornfalte wirst mit dem keinen Gfallen tun.

Becoming an adult is like studying law. Oh, dear. Just step out of your own head for a second, please. We move on! I know my way. You have never even been along this road before, have you? The sun is setting west, right? The guy passing us before said we should head east for another hour. Hasn’t it been two already? My leg keeps cramping; I am tired. I will go for a smoke, it’s probably around eight already and I still haven’t had one yet. As long as it keeps you going. Your leg wouldn’t cramp up if you used my cigarette breaks to stretch, you know. Alright, I will go inside the store to grab a drink, do you want anything? Thanks. You wouldn’t have said that if Cheril was around. Go ahead and dictate their work; I am sure they would love that! I am bored. I can’t believe that we are allowed to do this in our free time. How long have you been telling stories for? Two years. Stop next to the street here. Shut the door quietly when you leave. Why were we not allowed to bring anything in the first place? They can sense you long before you get close to them. If you really want to see them, you will want to get the odor off your head and clothes. Now follow me and be quiet. Why does it look so weird? It’s bloated as hell. And I thought you were the only one acting like a crow in the morning. Enough, or they will notice us! If they don’t like the smell, why do they keep peaking inside? Do you tease for a living? The motion I must be in to keep up with you is nefariously slow. If these hedges were trimmed every now and then, I wouldn’t need to maneuver my steps around you.   I love the picture you are painting. A world without douche bags and wallets. What is more beautiful than seeing someone try? I would call it surviving at best. More power to you. That sounds pretty adulty. Which is what you will have to behave like if you intend on continuing the show. I will figure that out later. What’s next?

Chapter 1: the fall. A dull thump is all Allen heard in the very moment every parent fears the most happening to their newborn baby, followed by a high-pitched screech collectively recognized in the animal kingdom as the final attempt to draw from all available energy and signal that danger was imminent. For an outsider, it couldn’t have been more than a few moments, but to him, time stopped. No matter how much he tried, he could not move an inch from the hallway floor that he had just slipped on. Was his daughter's future forever ruined? His heart had never pounded faster, and his dizziness completely overwhelmed him, making him draw a blank page on what he had read and mentally gone through as preparation for such an incident. The flood of blame and shame lingering on every corner of the path of his thoughts left him momentarily paralyzed.   “What happened?” said a familiar voice in a firm tone.   “I, I, I don’t know.” is all that Allen could muster to say, scarcely audible, since the screaming has filled the whole room with a noise pitch that probably tore part of his eardrum. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to explain the surge of headache and his struggle not to fall unconscious to the ground. Adrenaline is said to help mothers lift cars off their children; to him, it felt like he was crushed by a truck.   “Try calming down and explaining to me how you got here,” asserted the same female voice again.   “I was about to go and change Diana’s diaper and forgot to bring the baby powder from the living room. On my way back, I slipped on one of her toys and she fell with me.”, narrated Allen. He could tell that he was slowly coming back to his senses.   A few seconds of silence, until he was met with “Do you know whether she fell on her head?”, when his face rushed red as he started screaming: “Why the hell do you keep asking me these questions, shouldn’t we worry about the crying infant first? What am I supposed to do?” wailed the desperate father cluelessly, as he was reaching down to his baby daughter, lifting her into his arms, pressing her gently onto his body, and rocking side to side.   “You need to take her to the hospital immediately”, she said.   “Thank you, Sherlock, how about you make yourself useful and call the ambulance for me?”, he said desperately - both his hands were tightly pressed against his infant daughter now in hopes that her crying would stop.   “They will be here in ten minutes, please walk down the stairs and wait for them there”, she advised.   “What do you mean? It’s minus seven degrees outside. If I take her out like this, she will freeze to death by the time the ambulance is here. Also, how am I supposed to get dressed and pack necessities if you are here sitting on your bottom and not helping?” he exclaimed.  With no time to spare, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He did have an emergency bag ready for such cases; he just had to reach back in the bedroom closet to get it. He threw his wallet and keys inside, got dressed, and they left. The commotion had led neighbors to curiously peek outside their apartments and stare at the restless family rushing down the stairs and into the ambulance trunk.   “We need you to provide us with your daughter's health insurance card to react fast once we reach the hospital,” said the paramedic.   “You can reach for it in my satchel,” insisted Allen.   “Sir, by law we cannot. You are required to have the health insurance card of your daughter scanned so we can react fast once we reach the hospital”, repeated the paramedic. As silly as it may have sounded to him, he fixed Diana to his left and pressed her firmly against his belly, while simultaneously reaching into the wallet inside his bag to fish out the card and clamp it between his palm and the scanning device to the right of him. The repeated turns and breaks made by the driver rendered the card valid only after the third attempt, which was met with a deep sigh of relief from Allen.   “What’s going to happen next?” he asked, visibly distraught. Diana’s crying abated in the car, though her body was trembling. Her father’s lullabies had a soothing effect on her shock, and her cramped hands and feet had loosened up slightly. A pediatrician was waiting in the emergency room to examine the infant for concussions and visible injuries, the paramedic explained. “Afterwards”, he resumed, “she would be placed into special machinery to screen for internal injuries to organs and bones, followed by a brain scan to assess damage to cognitive functions”. Having just arrived, the ambulance door was opened from the outside, and the baby was gently placed into a portable baby pod. Just as Allen followed them into the hospital, he was instructed by security to register first at the reception. Without valid identification, he wouldn’t be able to accompany his daughter to the examination room. At the desk, the receptionist handed him a tablet and asked him to register. Allan barely managed to type his name and personal information; his fingers were still shaking from the tremor that had spread to his extremities.    When submitting the form, an error message popped up on the screen. “I am receiving an internal error. Is that normal?” he wondered. “No, sir, may I see?” the lady inquired. “Very unusual, please try it once more.”, she insisted. “I am sorry, but my six-month-old daughter is being examined right now, and I need to be next to her”, claimed the father. “Without proper registration, the law states that we cannot admit you as the guardian of your daughter, who – from what I can see in the system – was already registered ten minutes ago on the way to the hospital. Please, try it again.”, she demanded. Allan reloaded the form, entered his personal data again, but the error reappeared. Worried about how long it had been taking already, he quickly tried it two more times. No success. “It is not working! What the hell of a system are you operating here?” he screamed. “I can offer to reboot the system. An alternative, however, would be to write down your information by hand, and we will scan and enter it into the system later.”, she proposed. “I never learned how to write; we only studied on keyboards in school”. He couldn’t believe the absurdity of the situation and remembered the dinner discussions his parents had long after the state passed the “Digitalization Act”, which ruled that children born after 2034 would no longer require handwriting, which led to writing classes being replaced with touch-typing exercises on a keyboard instead. Had he listened to his father and paid more attention to his advice in the evening sessions when they were trying to teach him themselves, but gave up because he was crying and screaming stubbornly. He hated writing; it was an unnatural motion his fingers weren’t used to early on in his childhood. The idea of pressing a wooden stick between index finger and thumb to smear symbols on another piece of wood didn’t resonate with him, when he could simply speak to his metal buddy and get any answer immediately.   But that didn’t matter much to him, or did it? Why should he feel shame for a system that did not prepare him for such a situation, but slowly disarmed him of every ounce of critical thought that was ready to be had, had he just looked more closely into himself. All he felt was anger at everyone who joined in watching him, desperately trying to argue his case.   Please, it will take at least ten minutes for anyone I know to come and sign the sheet for me, but I need to see my baby now! he exclaimed.   Should’ve known better, fool. replied a person he did not recognize.  Must be a stranger, spoke Allen to himself.   What do you mean by stranger, you weirdo? Keep your thoughts to yourself! shouted another one.  It couldn’t have been his fault; if that damn system was not working and kept rebooting, it’s the hospital's fault for not providing enough security and redundancy to their own system. he thought to himself. The only thing he wants is to stay close to his only piece of life and avoid losing any future chance of a joyful moment free of worries and fears; instead, he must fear missing whatever was left between them. He has heard of cases where babies had to stay for weeks on to monitor for damages that would occur long after an incident happened.   Instead of watching me, why is no one willing to help me out? He wailed at his surroundings.   You are not worth it; you’re just going to pull us down with you! is the first response he received to his surprise.  All I am asking is for someone to help me fill out my name on the paper sheet. I will compensate you for your time, please! cried Allan in wane.   James, man, hey, it’s me, Allan. Look, I had an incident today with my baby daughter, and I can’t see her unless someone enters my personal information written by hand. he spoke on his phone. It was his work colleague that came up when he tried to think of one person that would be able and willing to help.   i might be tripping but this Wix service seems to be super buggy. i really don't like it, and I am thinking to just stop pretending like I don't do IT for a living and just code out my own fucking blog page. AHHHEHIEHI, that's me retching in case you were wondering. quick insertion end>  An hour later, James arrived at the hospital in work attire.   “Is she doing okay?” he asked.   “I don’t know, man, they won’t let me see her. Thank you for coming, you are my lifesaver,” said Allen.   “I’ll have to get home to Jannet right after, but if you need anything else, just drop me a message. I will make sure to have my notifications on loud,” assured James while he was filing the input form.   “You’re too kind, thank you. I will go as well and see my daughter. Thank you so much again. Please send my regards to Jannet,” said the relieved father as he scribbled a signature he had not used in decades.   He walked past the reception and followed the secretary's instructions: Up the elevator to floor number three, then a right turn into the intensive care unit along the hallway; the infant station would be to the left in sector E. He did as he was told and was searching through a glass wall for his daughter in a room of incubated infants.   “Are you Mr. Glasburry?” asked the Doctor in charge.   “Yes, how is she doing?” responded the nervous dad. He identified her in the opposite corner and saw her sleeping.   “Diana has no broken bones or internal injuries. The brain scans did not show any unusual patterns. We sedated her slightly to calm her from the shock that she experienced from the fall. You will be able to take her home by the end of the week. You can see her during visiting hours until then,” comforted the doctor.   Injuring himself and his daughter on a Tuesday evening was certainly not part of his plans, and he could feel the toll it had taken on his energy levels. His bones were sore, his body was tired. He stood outside the room for another hour and observed his daughter sleeping. It occurred to him that his work was unfinished since he left home around 3 pm, which led him to request a cab and drive home. There would still be time to see her tomorrow after some rest. Chapter 2: the beginning. “Go ahead inside, children”, hushed Ms. Faunt at the two dozen primary sch ool children running into their very first and own classroom.   “When I was your age, we had more enthusiasm to study,” she gently guided the remaining, shy children to their seats. The sheer sadness that came with her occupation rose to mind, which led her shaking off her doubts and start the class with the excitement she remembered her teacher have.  “Alright, children. I know many of you cannot wait to try out the school equipment, but before you get to use them, we will first teach you how they work. It is important to us that you realize that you are enough and don’t need Agents to feel joy in your life.”, no matter how much she tried to rationalize her life, it sent shivers down her spine to regurgitate the misleading practices of the government. What was all her study worth if after years of teaching, a single governmental reform would destroy the essence of what was considered schooling once.   “Ms. Faunt, Allan turned the Agent on!” shouted little Raley on the other corner of the rectangle-shaped order of tables.   “Mr. Glassbury, I warn you once and for all. You are not to be toying around with your Agent.” said Ms. Faunt, boiling over the edge of the table.

2025 was great. I wrote a bunch and explored everything that I set out to.  Nonetheless, it has come to my attention that my writing is nowhere near where I would want it to be, which is totally fine but going beyond anything that I am used to already will be a bit difficult without my own tool shed. Therefore, the weekly intervals remain as they are, and we will see during 2026 whether any specific ideas come up. Three stories - “mental retardation”, “Larry David in New York”, and “Das Schaf und der Papagei” - would be viable candidates to test more with in the upcoming months. I haven’t been able to “create” characters yet; a lot of it feels forced, and you could probably scrap 90% of the word salad I tried to create. Then I learned that writing a story requires you to build a “collection” of characters and emotions you let develop throughout the plot, which means that I could theoretically pick every single blog post and build characters around them. Part of my frustration stems from Instagram and my Wix Blog page, first and foremost. It is very difficult to convey my emotions when writing is certainly not the only way I use to express it. On the other hand, I have no interest in exposing my intellectual property on a monopoly such as Meta. I have been playing with the idea to develop my very own “social media”, and before you say anything…. It would make sense to combine both, my frustration with sharing my ideas and the missing tool shed. Imagine a social media platform where you KNOW FOR A CUSSING FACT that they are not selling your personal data to any shithole company that is trying to make you more stupid by the second. I was recommended a book by Richard David Precht, “Freiheit für Alle”, where he argues that with increasing interest of replacing the dull tasks that we encounter in our day to day with AI, a new space of jobs and opportunities will develop. He argues that, like in the industrialization, many never had to worry about lifting incredibly heavy things or being exposed to dirty or dangerous conditions again. And this brings me into a very precarious situation. Whenever I get approached on my way to work - by a plethora of people: the rich that think I am supposed to hand out instructions to, the dopes that think laying an arm around my shoulder is supposed to make me feel better, or the ever evolving beggars on the floor – one group makes me furiously angry. It’s the ones that think doing the bare minimum and asking others to do the work for you is the way to start into your day. And here I have been patiently waiting like Fifty to pick the tiny little project I can center my tool shed around. It could be that it’s the one, but I am not fully convinced. Have you ever had an idea that you kept to yourself, because it is something totally plausible to you and would require little to no effort and could push you into eternal hedonism? I have had a few. Some more complex, some less complex, but one or two are a matter of motion. Like my very cute and sassy blog, for example, where I have had some very cool thoughts that I am super, super proud of. To mention a few:. So, anyways. I hate nuking an ant farm. Or making a mountain out of a molehill. The social media idea I coined “dontmugmepls”. It should elucidate the sheer incapacity that larger corporations have failed to protect with their workers and users, or both. Take Mr. Prechts arguments at hand for a moment. YouTube has launched a “Thanks” button that enables viewers to directly support their creators. And let’s imagine, I have a hobby of drawing and recording the pencil strokes for ASMR listeners around the world, why shouldn’t I be able to invest more time into my passion assuming that there is a sufficiently supportive platform that prioritizes the creator’s interests? There is so many things that piss me off about Instagram. I am born in 1998, on the border of Gen Z, and no, I stopped using SnapChat and I am so sad that I did. I never found the connection again, I will forever miss you baby. The thing is that Instagram is so bloated. You can’t recommend me the most racist shit ever, top it off with two dusty children getting murked by snipers, and a BetterHelp ad right after. Where do we bind the needle? Should I let Microsoft Word drive my car in ten years? I really like my job! It’s difficult to disillusion myself spending an additional amount in my spare time on overhead, nonetheless. I realize it is leisure. What I would need is a very huge house, it shouldn’t be too big so it’s scary and you have to wonder whether someone is going to break in. And then, you just take one room at a time and decorate it with whatever hobby you would like to connect it with. One room only for making music. Another with a comfy couch to think. A third to paint. A fourth to work. And now, imagine there is a human out there that wants to play the exact same music as you. Instead of showing you how to play the guitar, she plays it for you. Wouldn’t it make more sense if social media brought people closer to you that run the same schedule? What the hell do I care if petty people hurt each other, I would like to have a place to relax with peace and calm. What was the Social Media activity tab back then, anyways? Watching Kim Kardashian like a post by Justin Bieber? If I want to see what Kim Kardashian is up to, I would very much like to do that anonymously, and not on a device that has my Apple wallet and forty-four thousand images and videos. How would you go about re-creating a whole technology - a new “Social Media”? It should start with a mission statement, something in the line of: We acknowledge that the surge of investments in information technology have redefined the borders of our understanding, which is why - we at DontMugMePls - chase to subjectify humans instead of objectifying their performance. The soothing effects of our ecosystem shall have a calming effect on the user, instead of injecting dopamine needles into their eyes. Yeah, but that’s just too vague. It does, however, bring me to my first problem. I want to get away from the phone. No fiber in my body understands the concept of a phone nowadays. Do I want my face scanned 24/7 just to take a picture while I take a walk? I think Social Media, in my very own naive future, will not happen on a phone. It won’t happen on a new fancy device either. It will become obsolete. My idea should happen on a laptop. The first reason is obviously because I think phones have just become too dangerous to store your information anymore. Secondly, a laptop would make it a lot easier to make music, study, write, record, game, and what not. The other reason is that some humans simply shouldn’t have the option to interact with you. The point is now, how paranoid should I be about sharing the info. I could, theoretically, spend one hour a week – as I have been doing for forty-four weeks consecutively already (huge flex) to write – and code out the whole thing until next year. The result of that would be a cool prototype to show you by the end of the year, but only boring weekly written posts. Another option would be to gradually migrate my blog page into my idea. That would be a lot more fun, it would take considerably more time, however. One would be me building a tiny little tool shed in my apartment, and with the other I tell you I hammered thrice and still didn’t hit the nail right. The first would be more enjoyable, but the second sounds more fun. As you can see, I am clearly messing with you because I am already doing what I like, writing!!!! I think that sums it up. Big is always better.

Intro Lemme‘ show em‘ ( METRO DROP SOME MORE DIGGAH ) Verse 1 A ring on my baddie ( gorgeus ) How ‘bout I be only her daddy ( the whole day ) Go out and get those flowers ( for roses I pay ) Pull out a ring and marry her ( u know that she slays ) The shit gett’n mackabree ( u meant macabre? ) Treatin‘ her like a real men, petrinent ( pertinent? That’s hard ) Pushin‘ to the end of the mattrec ( mattress, close but fire! ) Spoonin‘ her big time small spawn style ( small spoon, alright ) Drinkin‘ that cappuchino, that latté, that cortado ( with milk, no lean ) Eatin‘ that chicken, that salmon, that salad ( lean, but different ) Workin‘ those thighs, those calves, those glutes ( no arms, no chest ) Sleepin‘ nine, ten, or more hours every night ( on a soft bed ) My producer my boy ( METRO ) If he want Imma give him that beat ( On them cheeks ) His waste I play with like a toy ( my barbie ) Get in a cage with his Mike like Roy ( Jones Jr. ) Chorus / Hook ----------------------------------------------------------------- I have to say… I initially didn’t expect song-writing to be this difficult. Jokes aside, Future is an amazing rapper; I like his music and energy. I took inspiration from his DS2 album from 2015, and would like to continue with the chorus in the future. Probably on him driving simple cars, working a 9 to 5, wearing Casio watches, obeying the law, AND ALWAYS CHASING THE BITCH AND NOT THE CHECK. As always, all rights concerning my work belong to me, no matter how shitty the text is; mind you I only use an afternoon/evening AFTER A FULL EFFIN’ WORKDAY to write this stuff. Thanks again for reading it, I appreciate it lots and lots <3  ----------------------------------------------------------------- CONTINUING [Chorus / Hook] If she wants me to push, I will With Khalifa I smoke cush, free will Once I turn your face to mush, be ill To the police I say „Hush“, speak braille Reach my hood in a rush, no tail Spread the kilos of hash, holy grail Have my wifeys count my cash, happy tale Send your ass flying to Nash, ville     [Verse 2] Every time I step in to my car, The Twingo 2009 with GNARly lines, Wrist on the wheel my Casio shines, Barely make it to my job by nine, My nine to five from day to night.   Office job in the bank alright, Fast food makes my pants be tight, Home Office three days a week I might, Make it a forth on FRIDay, If they ask where I was; on a ride.   My car I sold to take the train and bus, Climate change is real so I don‘t fuss, Bitch slap Trump‘s hoe: Elon Musk, How the only retard govern us, ‘kay, Recycle my trash like it’s a HUStle.   Invite Lila to our studio, Give her a Knick and have him go through to you, The burkin‘ bag for his wife and the rolex new for ya, Luigi we free, no matter he killed that CEO, 100k in cash so he can spend nights on C E Os.   [Chorus / Hook] If she wants me to push, I will With Khalifa I smoke cush, free will Once I turn your face to mush, be ill To the police I say „Hush“, speak braille Reach my hood in a rush, no tail Spread the kilos of hash, holy grail Have my wifeys count my cash, happy tale Send your ass flying to Nash, ville   [Outro] Bitch please, I told you I ain‘t finished, Sensational, another one out on Thursday, At 7pm, right at my bed time, Thanks for reading, you’re the coolest. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Why I would imagine a dyslexic version of Future that does so many average things, but never did I make him seem insecure or doubtful of himself? That’s because I don’t want my version of his to portray any such feelings. Future raps about things that thousands of rappers have before him, and will continue to after him, but the belief in his own abilities is what makes his music and personality unique. Who cares if millions before you have done it; can you do it in a way that complements the ones before, and inspires the ones after you? Future , You're the man .