Zippo Loses Fuel Quickly

visit, a curse, a red cloth

A woman had joined me. Before, I had once been entirely happy, but there was this common weekend me and us down completely by the rest
Instead up to me I absolutely had to pick up from Central Station. I hate this shitty but the mainline station, no one is because it is in the desert and the common, glass and steel become wet dream of Mr Schröder, Mehdorn and Albert Speer represents. Tempelhof is a damn about it, and even the disgusting Potsdamer Platz was only the prelude to this total abomination. A steel beam falls to Knut. Sorry. Not. Germania 2000, we come to the home realm. Reich would be in a home to me prefer, but on the level of care I can wait a long time.
evening they dragged me to a concert. I hate concerts. In general, music. I had given her a hundred times that I like to hear nothing, silence. But here now: the absence of everything beautiful. Verrockte art students, without washing her hair over ear, and without a groove, both before and on the stage. Not to distinguish who spends his money and what it is pocketed. The total uniformity within the target, strained individuation. Hitler Youth, here I come!
Then they wanted to cook. With me! With me is not cooked. My kitchen is a showpiece, not ready for that has become Project by Martin Kippenberger. Pots and pans, inch-thick as pre-Christmas with powdered sugar from soft maternal house dust covered, are only for pure fun in the cupboards. Me dirty the whole place, the mood anyway. The stench of the mixed, not enjoyed glutton I will probably have to endure for weeks, despite Dauerlüftens into the Berlin summer air.
night she lay beside me in bed, sweating heavily and rattled my ears full of messy. Not even for an adult snoring it was enough in this warm person. I felt like a Milanese salami, which was thrown into a cold, drafty hallway.
When she finally verschwand, war ich erleichtert und trat ihr zum Dank für die Abreise auf der Feuertreppe von hinten mit Schmackes ins Kreuz. Auf die Idee, ihr auch noch das Paket mit ihrem vermaledeiten Rotbuschtee an den Kopf zu pfeffern, kam ich leider erst, als sie bereits wieder tief im Westen versunken war.