Living a masked ball

We all do it from time to time. We put on a mask because we don’t want people to know what we’re thinking. Being polite is a mask most of the time. Pretending you like your colleagues while you in reality want to throttle them. It’s all a mask. And there is nothing wrong with that. It makes life easier.

But… what if your life becomes the mask?

I recently noticed that my life seems to be like that. Like I’m constantly wearing a mask. And when I started thinking about it… well, it dawned on me that I’ve been doing that for quite a while. I have to admit that I was never very good at being myself around others. When I was still in school it was tedious being myself. My classmates didn’t like me when I was myself too much. I was bullied from time to time. But I now pinpointed the time when I began to consciously wear a mask. It was in twelfth’s grade. It was after I was bullied and betrayed by people I had called friends until then. Actually, it began during that period of time. I didn’t want them thinking they had won. So I started wearing a mask of indifference. It killed me inside. After every class I went to the bathroom to fight my tears and my panic. And I wanted to cry. The worst part was that I got easier. The first day was hell. We had a free period and my friends went to town to get new socks because it was raining so badly and one ‘friend’s’ socks were soaked. They had been gone in a flash. When I caught up with them and asked why they hadn’t waited for me they said, and I quote: “Don’t you know when you’re unwanted?” That one sentence gutted me. They left me standing there, all alone, on the verge of tears. It felt like someone had hit me in the chest hard. I wanted to go home, go to my mummy and let her tell me she loved me. Because apparently only my mummy loved me. Apparently I wasn’t lovable enough for other people than my mother to like me. But I didn’t go home. Goody-two-shoes I was I toughed it out and went back to school. I spent my free period trying to reign in the tears and calm myself down enough to be able to sit through the classes I had that day. That was the first time I decided to put on a mask. I was so relieved that nobody noticed my inner terror. And I hated it the same time. I hated that nobody apparently cared enough about me to see through my poor attempt at calmness. They were okay with the explanation that I was tired. I broke down that day when I came home.

And since then I’m wearing more or less constantly a mask. It’s not beneficial to my trust issues, I get that. But that episode hurt so much and damaged a lot of self-confidence. I don’t want it repeated. And still there are very few people I can be myself with. Most people don’t even do more than scratch the surface. Most people think of me as a nice, polite and overall boring person. I’m exceptionally good at schooling my face into a blank mask of polite niceness. I nod sympathetically when they tell me about their problems and make all the appropriate faces and noises of understanding. I listen with an interested face when they are babbling about things I couldn’t care less about. I offer comfort and advice without pause when asked. I smile and wave for greeting even when I want to scowl and metaphorically bite they head off. I do as people ask me without complaining most of the time.

When someone says they are thirsty, guess who’s the first one going to fetch a drink? Yep, me.

When someone come to the group who’s moving to make space? Yep, me.

Who is fading into the background when the situation calls for that? Yep. Again, me.

I’m deceptive. I’m two-faced. But at the same time it feels like this mask of politeness had become a part of me. Is it still betrayal when it’s ingrained to deeply into me that it has become automatic? I don’t know. I really don’t. I doubt I would be able to tell people to piss off anymore. I might think it but I would physically be unable to tell them so. I don’t want to betray people like that for the most part. It’s an automatism. I’m keeping people at arm-length for self protection. My poor mind has learnt that people do not like me for what and who I am and now it’s trying to protect me by creating a façade people do not like but tolerate. I’m not liked the way I act. I think maybe subconsciously people notice that it’s a façade, a mask, and are wary of me. But they can’t find fault at me being nice and polite. There is nothing they can put their finger on. So they have to tolerate me. And it’s better than the outright rejection I experienced with my ‘friends’. I’m never in the center of groups and I’m always the odd one out. But all of that is better than being told I’m unwanted. Because that hurts.

But naturally I want to fully belong. All people want that. I want to be able to shed the mask and just be myself. I want to be accepted just the way I am and even maybe liked. I don’t ask of people to love me unconditionally. But sometimes a little bit of interest in my life and my problems would be nice. It wouldn’t have to be genuine interest, even. I can’t ask for something I’m not giving, right? But people could try and improve their pretending. Maybe it’s just me who see through that because it’s what I do. Pretending. Maybe other people think it’s genuine interest and concern. But I can tell it isn’t. It’s pretending and it’s not well done. That bothers me. Why am always I the one to do things properly? Why can’t others? It’s not like it’s easy for me to wear a mask the entire time. It’s exhausting. But I do it. For very selfish reasons. But why can’t people who don’t have problems with being liked for what they are just use a bit of energy to create a better image of concern? Of interest? The impression that they care? It’s not like they need that energy for hiding themselves. But maybe I’m asking for too much.

Beloved Pets

Today’s post will be a multi-coloured spectre of emotions for me. I named this post ‘Beloved Pets’ but in reality it’s so much more. A very dear friend just lost her pet and I understand her pain so well. I had a canary bird. Or rather, he had me. He was not just a pet. He was a family member. Actually he was even more than that. Our entire lives revolved around him. He was with us wherever in the flat we were. He slept in my room, or better I slept in his room. I was allowed to stay in his room. We took him with us to the kitchen for breakfast. We took him with us to the living-room when we watched telly. We spoiled him rotten and he deserved it.

I loved him. I loved him with all my heart. I still do. He was my everything. I teared up every time I thought about the fact that at some point he would die. He was only a canary bird after all. They live 8 years normally. Mine made it to almost twelve. He was an old man when he died. But it was still too early. But everything would’ve been too early in my eyes. This is the hardest thing about pets. They die. It doesn’t matter how much you love them. Your love can’t keep them alive. In fact the more you love them the more it hurts.

When my sweetheart started to develop rheumatism in his little feet we bought a salve to help him with it. He hated it. I held him while my mother treated him with the salve. He always wriggled and tried to escape. The massage did him well, though. He just didn’t like the salve. He always tried to lick it off his feet when we were done. When he went blind on one eye we rearranged his things in his cage so he wouldn’t have to jump around too much. He had always been clumsy but with only one working eye it got even worse. I wouldn’t have thought that possible, I have to admit. He always was hurting himself and even falling on the ground. I’m not sure if he knew that he was a bird. When we let him out of the cage at weekends it wasn’t something rare that he fell from the table. Any bird would’ve caught themselves and flown away. Not mine. He fell. And landed on the ground, looking indignant as if to ask who had thrown him down. And he waited till my mum or I picked him up. Once we decided to wait to see if he would just fly up again. He didn’t. He spent half an hour on the ground, pouting that nobody had come yet to help him. So it was quite a surprise that he could even be clumsier. Then he went blind on the other eye, as well. We now had a blind bird, who didn’t know he was a bird. Again we rearranged his things. And we developed the ability to see when he wanted what. He had trained us well. And he was happy. He was blind, rheumatic and clumsy. And he was happy. He had even started singing again after a year-long. He was well and content. But of course that didn’t change the fact that he was old.

And it hurt like a bitch, if you pardon the language. It hurt. It still does. It was two years ago but still there are days I just want to spend in my bed and cry. At first I was a lost case. I would hear him making noises, shuffling around, calling even though he wasn’t there. In retrospect I have to admit that it sounds like I had gone bonkers. I more or less hallucinated about hearing him, smelling him. For months I dreamed that he was alive again, only to wake up to the fact that he wasn’t. Thinking about this time scares me, to be honest. Despite all my psychological problems I never thought myself crazy. But what I experienced when I grieved for him was borderline insane. Hearing voices, smells that can’t be there. I didn’t notice it at that time but I think my mind was slowly falling apart. And my body followed. Every time I thought I had heard him my heart literally skipped a beat only to pump furiously after that. That couldn’t have been healthy. So, yes, it’s official: I lost my shit over grief. (Again, pardon the language) But – and yes, there is a but – it got better. I would’ve laughed at anyone who said that during my insanity period. Or thrown things at them for even suggesting they knew what I was going through. Not that people would’ve said that. Even with my delicate state of mind I didn’t show it. When around others I put on a poker face, no matter what happens. But if they had known how the grief ate away at me and said something like that I probably would’ve thrown heavy things at them. You think that they don’t have the right to say such things because they never loved their pet as much as you loved yours. That’s total bullshit, of course. But it’s okay to think like that. It’s a part of grieving. It’s okay to think nasty thing about people who just want to help. Because they don’t understand, right? They can’t understand or they would just shut the hell up! But it’s true in the end. Time is great in healing wounds. Better than any doctor. It’s very rough, the journey to Okay, though. I don’t like to think about that time. Everything seemed so pointless to me. I didn’t plan anything. Why should I? I was busy surviving day to day, hour to hour. You carry on somehow but it feels like you’re thrown off the path. It’s like someone has shifted you just a millimeter out of you normal path. Everything is wrong. But slowly you’re shifting back to where you belong. It’s not easy and it’s not nice. It takes months but one morning you will wake up from having had a dream about your beloved and you’re smiling instead of crying. You can think about them and savour the absolutely brilliant moments you had with them instead of focusing on the fact that they aren’t there anymore. You can laugh at their shenanigans. And slowly you learn to be happy again. At least, it was like that for me. I can be happy again. Step by step my mind went back to normal. I don’t hear him anymore. At least, not often. Sometimes I hear a noise and my mind thinks it was him. I’m sad when I realize it was just something else sounding similar. But it’s okay. I’m okay. He was a huge part of my life and I had to learn to live without him. And it’s wonderful that the human heart and the human mind can. It showed me the true magnificence of the humans. We can survive anything. We keep going on. We can stand so much more than we think we can. And though it still hurts like hell sometimes I can concentrate on all those beautiful, funny, fantastic moment I had with him. I’m okay.

 

My dear friend – you know who you are; I just don’t want to mention your name in case you don’t want me to – I hope this post helps a bit. I wrote it entirely for you because I know so well that all those I’m-so-sorry, I-know-how-you-feel, and It-will-get-better suck. They suck big time. And I do realize that this post is nothing different than that. And I didn’t want to say those things directly because I know that you have enough heavy books to throw at me. But maybe, just maybe, I managed to write one or two sentences that are helpful. If not, then you can throw all the books at me you like.

I'm going on an adventure!

So, this day’s post is entirely a happy one. The most happiest one I will probably ever write. Because it is about adventure, friendship, stuff I love and stuff that worked.

HobbitCon.

You don’t know what it is? Well, that’s a pity. Google it. Seriously, go to Google now and search. I was at HobbitCon last year and I got infected. I got infected with con fever. HobbitCon is my adventure. I’m going on an adventure. Literally. Like Bilbo Baggins I’m going on an adventure. True, I have more time to plan, I won’t forget my handkerchiefs. Really, they are already packed. Well, not really. I have the stuff I’m taking all mounted in the corner. My suitcase is airing out in the moment. But anyway. I love middle-earth. I truly love it. I would jump on the chance to live in middle-earth immediately. I can’t imagine a place I would rather live. (Though the Tardis is a really close second.) Going to the convention and seeing all those other weird, wonderful people who share my love is just marvelous! I feel accepted there because we all are odd. We all are fangirls and fanboys. It’s like coming home of a sort but not really because it’s all new and exciting.

 

And this year there is another form of new and exciting, as well! I’m going to meet two precious friends of mine for the first time in person! We know each other really well from chatting via the World Wide Web and texting, but this is the first time I can hug them. I’m so looking forward to see my two sweethearts and have a heartfelt chat about… well, everything. I’m sure we will never be out of topics to talk about. And if we are, who cares? I like a comfortable silence as much as the next person. I’m so thrilled to have the chance to meet Tami and Nadja. Those two are some of my most beloved. I found them in the Hunger Games forum I wrote about. And ever since they have been great friends to me. They listen to me ranting about silly things and petty problems. They cheer me up when I’m feeling blue. They laugh with me about silly, stupid things and they cry with me about Doomsday. Everybody who says that friends in the internet aren’t real friends can go and dig themselves a hole. I love those two to bits and pieces and I’m not sure they will survive me hugging the living daylight out of them when I finally meet them.

I will also catch up with a friend I met last year at HobbitCon and her friends (who I don’t know, yet). I’ve been in contact with Gabi ever since I came home last year. Imagine that. A whole year we exchanged mails, remembering the great time we had at the con and looking forward to this year’s HobbitCon. It’s really amazing. I consider myself a nerd. There are enough people who say that nerds are socially awkward and really unsocial. (Though nerds have a much better reputation since The Big Bang Theory) And, come on, it’s true. But only in the “normal” world. Give us a shared obsession and a convention about it and we socialize way past what “normal” people can tolerate. I mean, I’m the living prove. I’m so damn awkward around people it’s painful. But now, HobbitCon. Last year I met people I’m still in contact with and now I’m meeting other people with the same obsession. There come live-long friendships from conventions. I even heard of marriages that came from a meeting at a convention. And that’s the fantastic thing about it! Conventions are magical! There is real life magic floating around in the form of excitement and friendship and shared love. And we all love middle-earth. That’s the common ground. We are all different in age, job, living arrangements; but in the end the love for middle-earth unites us all. A convention is a wibbly-wobbly, cozy-wozy ball of love. And yes, I just shamelessly nicked a quote from the Doctor. (Tami, that is what you did to me with convincing me to start with Doctor Who!) At HobbitCon there will be people in costumes and without costumes and so much to see that you would need two weeks more to observe everything. And those costume, God! I could gaze adoringly at those the entire weekend. Everybody just puts so much effort in their costumes. I did, too. I want to look my best. And I’m still amazed that everything worked out so well… I really had no idea what I was doing but it looks like a dress now. I’m even participating in the Costume Contest with my Dwarven Lady Costume. I think it’s not necessary to point out that I’m already dying from being nervous, is it? But hey, it’s a great adventure, isn’t it? You have to take risks when going on an adventure. And I’m so ready for this adventure!

 

So, yeah. This is the last post before HobbitCon. I will write about what happened when I’m home again. Maybe even with photos, who knows?

Cheers and the best wishes!

Sherlock Holmes vs. Doctor Watson

I know, I promised that I would post something happy next. I actually tried to find a funny picture and build a post around it. But then, there are so many hilarious pictures out there on the internet that I would’ve had a hard time deciding. And then, my brain is fixated on jobs and education and applications these days. I’ve hardly done anything else in the last two or three weeks. So I decided that today’s post would be about work. And not my petty problems at work, no. No, I mean jobs in general.

I found this little gem and thought I would share it

 http://likealaugh.org/mrcontent/2014/1400475601aweThephilosophicaloutlookofatenyearold-480x897.jpg

I was quite impressed that those are the thoughts of a ten-year-old, if I’m honest. But then I started thinking. It’s true, no adult really thinks about stuff like that. We were all asked during school what we want to become when we’re grown up. My answers varied from ballerina over teacher to ‘Heck-I-don’t-know’. The last one is the most recent one. When I was finishing school I literally didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. Just to imagine choosing one profession and staying with it my entire work life gave me the creeps. So in the end I settled for studying. I chose languages because I could at least see myself interpreting texts for some years before I didn’t want to do it anymore. Well, it turned out that wasn’t my way. Long story short, I realized that I didn’t have to love the job I’m doing and obsess about it. We all are asked what we love to do and are taught that this is exactly what we should choose as a job for us; but… I can’t do that. I simply can’t. Because I get bored. And I get bored very easily. If I found a job today and thought it fantastic it’s entirely possible that a month from now I would dread going to work because I found it so boring.

So, when I saw the picture above I started thinking (I know, I do that a lot…). It’s crystal clear that I’m no Sherlock. There is nothing I can do really well. I’m adequate at a lot of things, but exceptional? No. I also know that it is my own fault. I’ve never put any more effort into something than was absolutely necessary. I never had to. I learn new things quite easily and most of the times a general understanding is enough. I never did any more maths problems than I really had to. I never read another chapter for more understanding. I’m a fast learner and therefore never learned to really study something. So, I have a wide range of mediocre talents but nothing that stands out. Clearly no Sherlock, right?

So, if I’m not a Sherlock, then I must be a Watson.

But somehow I have a problem with that conclusion. I’m too selfish to be a Watson. I don’t want to be the supporting character of someone else’s story, no matter how important supporting characters are. I work for myself and I want to be recognized for what I’m doing. And then there is always the problem that I’m probably cleverer than most of my future employers. I hate stupid people. It doesn’t bother me if people are not that intelligent. But there are also stupid people. For me there is a difference between not intelligent and stupid. And I can’t stand stupidity. People can’t help if they are intelligent or not, it’s genetic. But they can do something against their stupidity. Most people don’t do that, though. I can see, why. It’s easier to be stupid in our society. Because most people are. And chances are I will end up working for someone stupid. (I know that I must sound terribly snooty right now… I’m sorry)

 So, the actual question is: do I want to be the Watson to some stupid person? Or should I dedicate myself to something so that I become a Sherlock? Is it possible to change from a Watson to a Sherlock?

I would love to be a Watson if I just found my Sherlock. My Sherlock would be a smart person I can admire. Someone I can respect and not want to slap senseless every time he or she opens their mouth. The longer I think about it the clearer becomes my ache to find my Sherlock. I’m only twenty-three right now, but I have the feeling that I should (and want) to start my career soon. It’s difficult to imagine a future if it depends on someone. On someone I don’t even know. Somehow I wish I had never found that picture, had never read it. Things just get complicated once you’ve started thinking about them. Sometimes I wish I could just stop thinking for a while. But now that the shit hit the fan (please excuse my language), I have to go with it. I defined myself as a Watson and now I’m dedicating my time to finding my Sherlock. I know he must be out there.

How the fandom life kidnapped me

In today’s post I would like to talk about The Hunger Games and what it means to me. Now that the first part of Mockingjay is out and about in the cinemas I think it’s high time to talk about it. I love the books, I really do. The books changed my life. I mean it. When I first heard about the books I was like “Meh”. I don’t like hypes about books and movies much. Okay, now I’m hypocritical, I admit it. But the Twilight trauma was just too fresh in my mind. So I decided (!) that I wouldn’t read The Hunger Games. But then I was going to the cinema with a friend and there we saw the trailer of the upcoming movie. And the trailer was what got me interested. The movie looked like fun and action and basically so much better than Twilight. So I gave it a try. And what can I say? I was instantly hooked. First I bought the books in German because, well… I am German. I read them and I fell in love with them. Oh, I fell so hard. I opened my laptop (whose name, by the way, is Herman) and googled. And googled. And… you guess it, googled. I found this nice little forum for Hunger Games fans. First I just stalked a bit because I was unsure if I should register. But then I did.

And it was the true beginning of my fangirl life. It was like a whole new world had opened to me. I looked around for other communities I could join to not feel so alone anymore with my love for books. I was still in school back then and let me tell you; I was the odd-ball. Very few of my classmates had even read the Harry Potter books, let alone in the first week they were out. I always felt so lonely when someone talked about Harry Potter and I realized they didn’t talk about the latest book. Or not about the books at all. Can you imagine that they said “I’m not going to read them. I’ll just watch the movie.” Back then I didn’t even know about the magical kingdoms called ‘Fandom’ or I would have said Good riddance! to half-hearted conversations about books with my classmates much earlier! But with The Hunger Games I found my place among fellow fangirls. It was a relief. I felt like I finally truly belonged somewhere. Some of my best friends I met in that forum and they understand me better than anyone though we’ve never even met in person. To be fair, I met two of them in person and am about to meet two other sweethearts soon. But it doesn’t matter. We’re connected even though it “just” a digital connection. Wait, no. We’re communication digitally, but we’re connected by our shared love. For more than three years we had a place to go, not only to talk about the Hunger Games but also tell each other about problems and insecurities. Now, not that long ago the forum was put offline. It was a massive shock for us. I felt like my entire world was crumbling down. Worst thing was, my mom didn’t understand. She thought I overreacted. She said I could stay in contact with the others. Well, that’s true. But it wouldn’t be the same. For three years we had come to this place in the internet and we’d been a family. They were a part of me. We are family and with closing the forum it was like the destruction of the house we were born in. It hurt. It f-ing hurt! Fortunately we found another place for us. We are still together. And I think we now know better how much we mean to each other. It showed me how precious people you don’t even properly know (but let’s face it; I know my virtual friends better than my ‘real’ friends) can become to you. With The Hunger Games I found my place in this world. I’m living the life of a fangirl now. And I’m happy with it. Other people think me weird for obsessing about books and movies. They probably think me absolutely bat-shit crazy if I’m right with interpreting their faces. But that’s who I am. I’m weird. I’m awkward. I’m the girl who organizes the Hunger Games books in a bookstore if it is not done correctly. I’m the girl whose life was changed for the better by a simple movie trailer. I’m a fangirl and I’m proud of it. And The Hunger Games were the gateway for that.

"Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing!"

The name of this post is a quote from BBC’s Sherlock, just in case you don’t know. First things first, I don’t have the delusion that I’m a brilliant genius like Sherlock. I’m intelligent, yes, even more intelligent than most people I see on daily basis. But I’m not a badass detective with a mind palace.

But anyway, that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about. I chose this quote because it fits another aspect of me. My phobias. In my introduction I said I wanted to write about my phobias and explain them. Today I won’t go into detail about one of them but I want to explain what a panic attack is like. We all now a certain level of panic, for example when we realize that we should have done something by now and we haven’t even started. *cough*homework*cough* But let me tell you, that panic feeling you feel when you wake up at night and realize you haven’t done your homework and can’t afford another reprimanding from you teacher is nothing.

It’s nothing.

If you’re female, then you’re probably familiar with menstruation pain. That nagging pain in your stomach that makes you feel like you will have to puke every minute. If you’re male, then just imagine a stabbing feeling in your guts that won’t go away whatever you do. A panic attack is similar. There is a trigger, of course. It can be anything, really. For a claustrophobic person it will be confinement, for someone afraid of heights it will be climbing on a chair. But there are many phobias out there, and most of them are irrational, and each of them have their own triggers. But without the panic a phobia wouldn’t be a problem. So, the panic attack. How does it start? For me it starts with seeing or hearing the trigger. Then my body immediately goes into emergency mode. That means the nagging pain in my stomach settles in. From my stomach it creeps into my chest, constricting it and making it hard to really breathe. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hyperventilate. I can’t afford that because I don’t want anyone to notice that I have a panic attack and a phobia. It’s easier that way. Because people ask. And then they cannot understand it. And that doesn’t help. Really. It does not help. (The first thing you learn with a phobia is how to lie about it. But I think that will be another post.) So, breathing gets harder. My entire body grows cold although I’m sweating. I don’t sweat buckets, but it’s enough to make me feel even more uncomfortable. My limbs grow numb and it’s difficult to move my fingers. My legs feel like jelly. But at the same time my muscles tense till it’s so uncomfortable I either want to puke or to cry or to scream. Or everything at the same time. In contrast to my body growing cold my head grows warm. Really warm. My throat and my jaw feel like I have a fever while all the muscles in my face get rigid. And it hurts when every muscle there is gets rigid. And then there is my heart. It beats so fast and forceful that it beats against my rips. Blood is pumped through my entire body with force and speed. And on top of that you can’t think straight. Your brain is caught in an endless spiral of terror.

I get it that it’s difficult to understand a panic attack if you never had one. There was a time when I couldn’t understand either. I remember that I once read about a woman who had to wash her hands constantly and couldn’t stop. I didn’t get it. I thought it easy to just not wash hands. But now I understand it. Because I can’t stop, either. My mother is worried about my hands because I wash them that often and that thoroughly. I understand now the pressure of phobias and OCD. You are a slave of your mind. Your brain dictates you how to react to certain things. It’s illogical and irrational most of the time. And you know it. But you can’t help it. So… to get back at the title of this post. It is relaxing to not be me. I hope you understand that now a little bit better. I don’t want any pity for my… condition. It’s my problem. And it’s made in and by my own head. Entirely my own fault. But it would be nice if people understood that not everybody lives that easily. There are things I can’t just do because it would trigger a panic attack. Normal things other people do all the time. Pick up a piece of food if it fell from the plate onto the table and eat it. I can’t do that. Or better, I could do it. But then I would have to wash my entire mouth with strong alcohol. While simultaneously having a panic attack. So, be glad if you can pick up food and eat it. Be glad if you don’t know the terror your own mind can bring you. Live your life easily. I wish I could.

The effects of a Christmas Party

A Happy New Year to you all and a late Merry Christmas!

Today’s post is about my job again. But don’t worry, I’m not going to drown the blog in tears again. Because… it got better. Yes, really. And all because of the Christmas Party. I was there (it was more or less mandatory and I couldn’t afford not going) and I stayed almost till the end. Everybody who knows me just a little bit knows that I’m not one for parties. I just don’t like them. I don’t drink alcohol safe for a glass of sparkling wine or something. I don’t like dancing in a crowd. And I’m more or less completely exhausted once the clock reaches midnight and I need about a week to get alive again after a night like that. But I thought, alright, I’m going. Worst thing to happen is that I’m going to regret it and hide somewhere. I didn’t regret it (if you don’t count the silly games the newbies had to do. Did you know that popcorn is really sharp if you have to stuff your face into it to search for schnaps? I know it now. Luckily, when we couldn’t find any more bottles we were allowed to use our hands for the search. I REALLY hated getting my face somewhere where others had had their faces and hands before. I still have some half-healed cuts on my poor hands.

But well… it was for a good cause. I stayed till five in the morning and now I’m suddenly accepted. Just because I didn’t scarper the first opportunity. I want to point out that I didn’t change anything in how I work. I’m still doing everything like I did before. But suddenly it’s not wrong anymore. Suddenly I’m not the most stupidest, clumsiest oaf of all anymore. It’s fascinating, really. Why do I have to stay up late at a party that I didn’t like that much to be accepted? I mean, that’s not really mature, is it? You party with me and now I like you? Oh yes, that makes sense… But well, I’m not going to complain. It’s easier working without something breathing down your neck just waiting for you to make a mistake.

Oh, and on the even brighter side: We’re getting paid 1.50€ more from now on. Wage floor. Cheers!