People say when you've uncovered a problem, you have already solved it. I found this saying to be unequivocally wrong.
Recently I uncovered my biggest vice (among all my little ones), which is envy. If you are following me on Facebook you might have come across a quote I posted, it was as follows: It's not that I am not happy if others have success...I am just happier if they don't. This quote completely applies to my life. I find myself struggling to be happy for others - even if their friends, sometimes especially when they are friends. When people I know fail at something, I smirk inside while pretending to feel with them and am secretly relieved that they haven't achieved what they wanted. A couple of years ago, my sister managed to publish two of her poems in one of the biggest German anthologies for poetry and all I felt was embitterment. She told me she even hesitated whether she should tell me or not as she didn't want to upset me (as an aspiring writer it stings a lot when someone else gets published). When people quit their studies, I can't help but feel happy and when people failed big exams back when I was studying, I smiled inwardly. Now, before you throw your laptop away (don't do that, I might not be worth it), here some points which may make you understand better why. First, I only feel happy about other people's failures regarding career choices and the accompanied luxury which can be afforded. I would never smirk if someone told me they had a terrible disease or were at the edge of dying. Secondly, I mostly feel envious if the person has achieved something I have dreamed of achieving for a long time. If some addresses me with "I just managed to throw thirty balls in a row in the basket" I would say "Good job" and mean it. Thirdly, the reason why I feel relieved about others' failures is only because it takes off the pressure of me. If others fail, it matters less that I am failing, too. If they succeed (especially at a younger age), it only makes my failures and shortcomings more conspicuous. So, in the end, I smirk because I just got more time to make something worthwhile with my life - that is the reason. I know the reason doesn't justify the attitude, but, as stated in the beginning, I can see the problem. However, I am not much closer to solving it, so I can say for myself that the previously stated quote isn't true. I can only force myself to smile more believably at other people's success, be more careful what I say around people of whose success I got green with jealousy and try harder to accomplish both my own idea of success and a different attitude. Still, the problem is not solved, it's just termed. If someone goes to the doctor and is diagnosed with stadium 4 cancer - hence, terming the problem - it doesn't mean they are healed from it. However, to stay on the positive side, recognising the problem can help you working on it and that is what I am trying to do...but honestly, who is seriously happy about other people's success?
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From 642 tiny things to write about (San Francisco Writer's Grotto)
You're going to die next week, and you need to destroy a few things before your family finds them. What? I guess everyone has secrets - small or big ones. Though, when thinking about what I would have to hide, I have to realise that it is, in fact, very little I would like to hide. I think I would delete some things on my laptop, my Harry Potter fan fiction, for instance, that I am writing when I am bored or in an obsessive Harry Potter fever. I am not necessarily embarrassed by this (otherwise I wouldn't share it here) but I'd rather no one read it. For once, this kind of writing is just for me - at least for now. I would destroy my diaries, for sure, as they say a lot of things that might hurt people who are dear to me. I usually only write in my diary when I am sad or upset, so my family and friends would get a pretty dark impression of my life. There are also some videos and photos I would erase from my hard drive, if being given the time. When you grow up on a farm with the closest bus twenty minutes away and you get your hands on a camera, the outcome can be quite disturbing. However, if I were to die next week, my concerns were more about sharing some things with people rather than destroying them. I would hand all my manuscripts to my family, begging them to finish at least some of them and trying to publish those which are completed. I would tell people how I feel about them and let them know I love them. I would want to make sure that I have come clean with everything before I depart. From 642 tiny things to write about (San Francisco Writer's Grotto)
First of all, I wanted to say that I have a two-digit number in my stats and couldn't be happier about you nice people reading and following me here on this blog. Thank you! I have about twenty minutes left before I have to resume working, so I thought it would be a perfect time slot for doing one of my writing pages of 642 Tiny Things To Write About. Today the writing is about a situation we all probably fear and secretly mull over what to do. What would you do if you saw your best friend's boyfriend cheat? Some of you might have even found themselves already in a situation like this. The question appears to be whether you want to be the person parting the bad news and also the fear how your friend will react. Of course, we all state that friendship wins over everything, but frankly, it is not really true and I have first-hand-experience on this. You would assume a friend was grateful if you told them their partner was unfaithful, but apparently, some people rather live on with a lie than facing an unpleasant truth. My mum once told me about her childhood best friend Greta and I was surprised, as I had never seen this woman. Innocent child that I still was, I couldn't understand what could possibly tear friendship apart, so I asked what had happened. Well, this Greta's boyfriend was a jerk and hit on my mum when they were studying together (or something similar like this). However, the boyfriend - having been rejected - told Greta my mum had hit on him and not the other way around. And whom would Greta believe? A woman she had known all her life and who was her best friend, or a man she had only just met? Yeah, you are right. She chose the jerk and ended up marrying him. A similar situation once happened to me. I had a friend in High School and she always had boyfriends. I don't know where she got them from so quickly, but I can conclude that all of her boyfriends were idiots - but hey, some choose quantity over quality. Her then boyfriend was, however, a really particular kind of idiot. He dealed with drugs, was pretty unattractive and still managed to keep a firm hand on my friend. One night, on my friend's birthday, in fact, we were all pretty tipsy and a friend offered to drive me home. As he had to go to the loo, I was leaning against the club foyer's wall - trying not to vomit. Suddenly, my friend's boyfriend popped out and leant against the wall, too. He said he had enjoyed the evening a lot and was wondering whether we could meet at some point. Drowsily, I smiled at him and assured we could certainly do that - me, him and my friend, of course. To that, he leant in closer and stroked back on of my hair streaks. "Actually, I meant only you and me", he said and smiled smugly before the other friend turned up and drove me home. I mulled over whether to tell my friend, but in the end did; she, however, only reacted with a strange expression and the topic was never approached again - plausible deniability, I guess. Still, I would tell my friend because that is what you have to do as a best friend. The task also says which would be the first three things I would do, if I saw it happen. 1) stand there, gaping at this jerk. 2) Taking my phone out and take a picture 3) Slowly sneak away and hope he didn't see me. First of all, who are the 53 people reading this? My family is not that big. So, whoever you are, thank you very much for staying with me and keeping updated with how I am doing and what with whom.
Secondly, this is going to be quite a report, so you should probably take your time reading this and be prepared for both reports about my experiences in London and notes about British people and their habits. It is going to be divided into two parts (this are remnants from University, always divide your speech into parts - God I wish I could stop hearing their voices...). Part 1: Recounting the past events of the week. Part 2: Some Insights on English Life and how they behave As for my last weekend, I went to see the Eurovision Song Contest at a bar together with some old and new friends. I don't know whether you watched the event, but if you haven't, be assured you haven't missed much. Years and years ago, the Contest circled around embarrassing, but highly entertaining, pieces of music that were given clear distinction to their respective countries. You would watch for the sake of vicarious embarrassment and to see a multi-shaded representation of the music industry. Now, however, the contest has succumbed to the pop industry, each "artist" presenting a same-sounding pop kerfuffle, presented in the English language. Don't get me wrong, I love English and English songs, but this is not what the ESC should be about...but then, Azerbaijan and Australia were contesting, so what are we talking about here anyway... Before we went to the Roxy - the bar in which we watched the ESC - I, N and her boyfriend (henceforth called M) met in Shoreditch, Brick Lane for dinner. Shoreditch is a great place for two things: amazing street art and getting raped. Seriously, I was quite frightened when I wandered about the streets on my own (M and N were late, we can only guess why...) and was wearing my posh heels and coat, and was therefore definitely slightly overdressed for that kind of area. Although, to defend Shoreditch, there were all kinds of cool, street-arty people running around and in hindsight I am pretty sure I could have run around naked and no one would have cared (not even the potential rapist). I killed time by wandering up and down Brick Lane and found some cool stores like the chocolate shop (see pics) or a 50's clothes store which had amazing bags and dresses. You might generally be wondering why we chose Shoreditch to have dinner, but it has a simple reason. We had dinner at the Cereal Killer Café, an establishment dedicated to the many wondrous tastes of every cereal you could find on the planet. It was truly amazing! It was not much bigger than a normal single room, but squashed with shelves overflowing with boxes and boxes of different cereals. Additionally, there were 30 different milk types to choose from (from whole, semi-skimmed and skimmed, to strawberry, chocolate and bubblegum milk). I know, cereals are no proper dinner, but it all looked so good and I am mid-twenties so if I want to make stupid decisions, I should do it now. I had a cereal mixture called "The Luckiest Charm", which consisted of the cereals "Lucky Charms" and had added marshmallows in it. It was really nice and wonderfully unhealthy. I can only recommend it, though I guess everything in there is pretty awesome (except from the healthy stuff). After our unlikely dinner, we set off for the Roxy bar where we met some of M's friends. They were funny people and we had fun watching the ESC in front of a big screen. The best part of the ESC, however, and here we come back to my rant, was the song performed by Mans and Petra Mede (the presenters) "Love, Love, Peace, Peace" mocking the traditional ingredients of a ESC song. In case you haven't watched it, here is the youtube link and you should definitely do so, as it was hilarious and certainly the most entertaining song of the evening: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMgW54HBOS0 Apart from that, my week was pretty uneventful, though I couldn't help but noticing a couple of peculiar things about British people. The weather - as English weather should be - was very unpredictable lately and although we had some lovely pre-summerly days during the past weeks, they were nicely mixed up with cold, rainy, soggy days. However, British men couldn't care less - they would still be wearing shorts. I have the feeling, British people (especially men) get their shorts out with the first nice day and then stick with them: "who cares whether it's snowing again. It's spring now, so I am going to wear shorts, suck it up". On the other side, they might be trained for that at school. My protégé changed to her summer uniform after the first nice week of sunshine. Soon after, however, there was a cold episode of weather and all the little girls were freezing in the yard. Would have anyone considered giving them tights or warm jumpers? No, once it is summer, the British stick to their summer clothes - come rain, come shine. The other thing are the sandwiches. I know the British LOVE their sandwiches. If it was possible to eat soup in sandwich form, they would do it. Some of them eat them every lunchtime and although I am a general fan of sandwiches, too, I could never eat them every day for lunch - apparently, the British can. Queuing, is something the British are famous for, I believe. George Mikes once said: "An Englishman, even if he is alone, forms an orderly queue of one", which I have discovered to be true. However, someone else once said (and I couldn't be bothered to look up who) that the British only queue because otherwise they would rip each other apart. A notion which I could also imagine to be true. But this text is not about the British queuing; it is about me disrupting the order of their queuing and getting a strange satisfaction out of it. I was raised in Austria - a country in which you don't queue but shove your way elbow-style to the front. In Austria, when you exit a bus, there is a wall of people standing who want to get inside; at a bar you don't hesitantly wait, but snap your fingers until you have the barkeeper's attention or just shout your order across the bar. I, personally, like queuing inasmuch because I have a very high regard for justice. Being a painstakingly nice person, I wouldn't elbow or jump the queue, so I am relieved if there is some sort of system which guides me through the jungle. Furthermore, I have the bad luck to always queue where the cashier is the slowest sloth on earth and with proper queuing, this injustice is more unlikely to happen. However, the other day I jumped the queue and initially it was actually an accident, but soon became a fun leisure sport. There were people literally queuing at the bus station and I, being preoccupied by my phone, went all the way up to the bus station sign to await the bus. First, they started shifting, then harrumphing, but as soon as I looked up, their faces turned in the other direction or smiled coyly at me. When I realised what was going on, I smirked and remained where I was, just as a social experiment. When the bus came, they looked at me in a kind of begging way not to disrupt their order. I did. I boarded the bus, snatched the best seat and smirked cheekily when the others passed. I know it is wrong, but, hell, there are only so little indulgences in life! Another piece of the book 642 Tiny Things To Write About.
At a banquet in Kazakhstan, you are greeted as a guest of honour and served the traditional sheep's eyeball. Respectfully, you decline. You are then offered the sheep's tongue, instead. What's your excuse this time? Pretty simple. I would say "I am gluten intolerant", as no one has any clue what gluten is. Let's do another one... You live in a cloud. Give three tips for how not to fall off. 1. Don't go too close to the edges (corners, circles...whatever...rim) 2. Do not jump too boisterously as the cloud will sink in and you might drop through it. 3. Make sure you are always in the thickest part of the cloud to avoid the unfortunate event of a hole emerging and you being too close. First of all, my Internet sucks! I assume you wonder whether I thought this piece of information to be important enough to share with you, but it delayed my keeping up with my posts on this very blog (the question now is only what was my excuse before that...) and this has been going on now for some weeks and it is making me increasingly furious. I am sure many of you have already experienced this specific kind of rage when you watch this stupid loop turn and turn and turn, loading something, and fantasize what horrible things you're going to do with your laptop as soon as you've got a new one (I kind of always feel sorry when that day arrives, it's a classic prime example of "I hate something but as soon as I am over with it, I couldn't care less"). After two minutes of circling, I usually throw my hands on my laptop in deep frustration whereas my laptop lets out an ominous PEEEEEP and shuts down. When I then switch it on again, it decides that it NOW has to do like a million updates. Circling. Circling. Circling...
Anyway, enough of my stupid computer and internet to something that makes me even more furious: Photo shoots where you have to pay for each picture. But let me start at the beginning. As already mentioned (at least I think I have), N and I went to a photo shoot on Saturday. We had been cornered by a young, dynamic man on the street weeks previously who talked us into buying such a voucher thing for GK in South Kensington (30 Pounds instead of 500 or something...sounded like a good deal). In general, I never sign up for things on the street and usually have a healthy, suspicious attitude towards other people; however, N seemed really keen on going (yeah, blame it on the friend, always comes good) and so I agreed, too. After we had signed up, it happened what was bound to happen. These people called me in a ten-minute-rhythm to remind me that I should make an appointment for this thingy and mechanically recited all the things which we could do if we did it (I kind of got the feeling they REALLY wanted us to do it...somehow). After they had terrorized me for the last weeks, we finally agreed on an appointment. Only for them to call me henceforth every five minutes to remind me when my appointment was, what we needed to bring and that we could pay by either credit/debit/etc. I was really on the heel to tell them to bloody fuck off, but I just did what I always do: nod politely and listen to his shit to not offend his feelings. Last Saturday, the day had come to drive up to South Kensington and prove my suspicious attitude towards people wrong and enter the pamper day. We arrived there early (German and Austrian that we are) and had to wait quite a while before we were whisked in by two nice stylists. Everything started out really promising: we were offered drinks, they asked kindly whether we had been looking forward to this, etc.etc. etc. Then we were seated in front of the mirror for our special makeup. Alright, I hate it when you get offered something in a leaflet and almost EVERY TIME you don't get what it says in there. Why would they do that? Rather keep the expectations low and then blow your customers' minds instead of promising something which never happens. Anyway, the leaflet we had got had stated we would get a manicure, mini-facial, in-depth talk about our skin, hand massage and, finally, makeup. Weeelll, the manicure was getting your nails painted with nail varnish that chipped off after half an hour. There was no hand treatment or anything fancy, just a bit of filing and varnish. Then we sat down and got makeup on - the mini-facial and hand massage were skipped - and after about twenty minutes the makeup was finished and of the two hours pampering we had had been promised, we needed not even an hour before we were hurried down to the photo shoot. The photo studio was nice but nothing extraordinary. There were some random pieces of furniture on which you could pose and I must say the photographer was really nice, though I would have preferred much more freedom. He always put us in the pose we should be in, where to point our face - which as such is not bad, but it left little room for own ideas, creativity and trying out. N and I had brought four outfits which we shot one after the other (don't worry, they are alright) and it was really fun shooting with N. The part I felt trapped with (and which, to be honest, I had seen coming anyway), came afterwards. The leaflet and people on the phone had promised a big screen on which you could watch your photos and it turned out to be just a big computer screen - slight difference there. The pictures were OK, but not completely freakishly out-of-the-world-super but they nevertheless charged 70 pounds per picture! And I am talking picture on a CD, not even a printout included or anything like it. Just the shitty picture. Here I enter the rant. First of all, I think it is generally outrageous to pay for a photo shoot and then have to pay additionally for the pics. I think it is OK to charge for pictures you want to have bigger, printed, photoshopped, etc, but you should be able to bring a flash drive on which you can put the plain pictures, after all, you're on them and they should be yours. I once did a photo shoot in Innsbruck and it was the same there. My Mum gave the voucher to me and it had cost her 200 Euros and still I had to pay 15€ for every fucking picture, but at least the price for each picture was not as outrageous as in GK. As I said, I suspected something like this would happen - I am naive, but not that naive. They netted us with their nice price-off voucher and assumed to get much more money in for the pictures. I hate when I realise that I am being made a dumb-ass; however, I must say I was pretty proud of myself in between for staying firm. The woman came in and told us she could make us an amazing price for just 1300 pounds for all pictures and N and I just gaped at her, not believing our ears. Who would ever pay such a shitload of money for some average pictures? Seriously. We immediately declared her mad and she backed off a bit, trying to lure us in with her packages (only 500 pounds, that is only 250 for each of you. Yeah, you still got to be kidding me, right?), but I stayed firm and told her the prices were horrendous and I would only take my free picture and one additional. I think she nearly had a heart attack, but in the end she gave in and even gave us one for free (probably that was the winning prize if only you stayed firm and fended off her attacks skilfully). In the end, we payed 200 pounds together for six pictures and although they are really cool, they're not worth the money and I am still a little outraged that I didn't follow the whim to just stomp off and declare them all money-greedy amateurs. Well, I have the pictures which will remind me of my time in England and my dear friend I found here, so I decided to regret nothing because regretting means forsaking all the experiences you've made. However, next time, I will bring my flash drive and secretly load the pictures all on them while I am alone. As for the pics, judge on your own whether you like them and whether you would have spent such an amount of money on it...and I cannot recommend the GK pampering day, to be honest. They were nice, but horrendously over-priced. From 642 tiny things to write about
Write about a time you broke a Bone/Heart/Law/Promise. In fact, I couldn't recall having broken a bone, definitely none of my own. My sister says we are steel-boned...I would call it overly careful. No, that is not true. As children we were quite reckless and risk-taking; however, I think injuring yourself too often and severely might indicate a lack of risk management. Knowing your borders and abilities is part of taking a risk and although I have climbed about a thousand trees in my life, I never fell off them because I wasn't stupid enough to miscalculate whether I could jump that far (I couldn't) or whether climbing a wet tree is a good idea (it isn't). I once nearly got my finger tip torn off due to a nasty fight with my sister which ended with my finger being squeezed by the door, but that pretty much covers it. I have, however, broken a heart, apparently. Talking about this is really not easy for me as I truly behaved like a proper bitch, so feel free to judge, prejudice and condemn me for this. When I was sixteen I had my first boyfriend and, as I have seen with many people, he was more a means to an end than true love. I was sixteen, had never had a boyfriend and felt ugly and rejected when he came along. Gladly, I fled into our relationship, only to not be the "virgin" anymore (we didn't sleep with each other, I am talking metaphorically here). However, after not even four months, I got bored and wanted out of the relationship, but lacked the ability and respect to end it gracefully. In fact, I did the worst I could have done. After "forgetting" the roses he had bought me at his place, I ended the relationship over the phone (I am talking text message here, not even a call) and I had already arranged a date with another guy at that point (Oh my God, I was awful, if you should ever read that, old boyfriend, I am so sorry). I thought we had separated unanimously, but months later one of my friends told me he had been crying after I had split up with him and so all I can say is this: Teenagers are idiots and I certainly one when I did that and I am truly, truly sorry for having broken your heart at that point. Hm, I am a generally boring, law-abiding person, so I couldn't remember when I broke the law unless cheating at school counts as breaking the law. I definitely break promises regularly, which is bad, I know. It's just that I sometimes promise something either too quickly or when I am in a good mood, but the closer it gets to fulfilling the promise, the more eagerly I look for excuses not to fulfill it. Generally, I think we promise too much. "I promise I will stay in touch", "I promise I will call you every week" "I promise we will stay together for ever"... In fact, we cannot foresee the future and therefore will never be able to really promise something we not be forced to break at some point. I feel promises are more for your own reassurance than for really keeping something up. I know that when I promise specific people to call them more often or to meet regularly, I already know when uttering my promise that I won't keep it. Why then say it? Something I - and I am sure other people - could work on. ...and I am not talking about my not upcoming marriage. In fact, it's about a relationship that has been going on for a much longer time than the one with my man - I am talking Harry Potter here.
After my horrendous birthday (two or so entries ago), I was in for the most awesome weekend EVER!!! My sister came to visit and we decided to go to the Warner Bros Making of Harry Potter Leavsden Studio Tour (It's an enormous sign...). N joined us. We set off on Sunday morning, me and my sister, to London. We had a lot of time before it was actually time to go (as I always have, I am ALWAYS far too early because I am so scared of being late...I could blame it on being Austrian, but I think I am just nuts) and so my sister dragged me into the Shakespeare exhibition in the British Library. Don't get me wrong, I like Shakespeare (or at least I am obliged to say so, English graduate that I am...) and the exhibition was surely extensive and interesting...er, well, actually it wasn't, which leads me up to my point. I want to consider myself as an educated, cultivated and culturally aware person but I have to admit, I don't really like museums. The exhibition had letters of any random people who, once upon dinosaurs lived, wrote something to/for/about Shakespeare in illegible letters which were now lying behind glass boxes, and endless posters with information and short videos (my personal favourites) on people talking about Shakespeare. There were about 15 rooms with different themes evolving around Shakespeare and whoever planned the exhibition certainly meant well, but it was just too much of everything...at least for me. After old book Nr 267 I was just like: "Oh, great another old book, how interesting" (you have to read it in a sarcastic tone to get my point, otherwise it doesn't make sense). Condense it to the most important stuff and throw the boring stuff out, would be my advice, but who am I to judge... After this truly...well, enlightening excursion, we went to have lunch at Ed's Diner at Euston Station and I must say I enjoyed it a lot. It was a traditional American diner atmosphere and the food was much and unhealthy, as it should be. However, at some point, finally, we headed off to the studios. We took the train from Euston to Watford Junction and if you plan to go to the studios in the near future, don't waste your money on the over-priced bus that goes there from Victoria Coach Station. From Euston to Watford Junction it is only twenty minutes and shuttle buses operate from there to bring you up to the studios, it's really easy. And you should definitely plan to go there, as it is just amazing!! I nearly had to cry two times (in the Great Hall and Diagon Alley) and the exhibited sets are truly overwhelming. Now they have a new room with the Hogwarts Express in it and I - as I was the biggest Harry Potter Fan - was allowed to blow the whistle! Before headed off to the second part of the exhibition, we had a short break and drank Butterbeer, which tasted quite peculiar and, for my taste, a bit too sweet, but you should try it if you're there. We also walked over the popular bridge which crashes in the 7th movie due to, well, the battle. The most impressive set was probably Diagon Alley. You can wander up and down and peep into the stores (how awesome must it be to be able to access them...). I added some pics of the exhibition, but you should really go and see for yourself, as I cannot describe in words how awesome it is (and that should mean something). After the exhibition always comes what? Yeah, right, the shop. Some deem it to be more important than the exhibition (and often it is true). The adjacent shop was so ginormous and cool that we spent about two hours in it until we settled for what we wanted to buy (I got a wand, a Hippogriff (soft toy, don't worry), Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, Fudge Flies, a pennant, a necklace, etc, etc, etc...). You should bring a lot of money to make the shop experience worthwhile, as it is not only cool as hell, but also ridiculously over-priced. Ever since we went to the exhibition, I have a new secret dream...work at the studios. How cool would it be if people asked what I did and I could answer "I sell wands and brooms"? I will tell you: Freaking cool. So much for my sophisticated career plans... |
AuthorIn September 2015 I started a new chapter of my life by moving (temporarily or permanently, not yet decided) to England where I work and socialise now. Archives
December 2017
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