I woke up and I realised that I was normal and meaningless. I scratched my quite individual head that had produced that awful thought. My eyes wandered through the room and got stuck at the painting of a Parisian street scene by van Gogh. Just yesterday I had read an article, in which IKEA announced having sold 152 303 copies of this picture in the past year. What a symbol of non—individualism! I stood up and smashed it.
Not being the least cheered up by my protest, I trotted to the bathroom, only to become aware of my face in the mirror. Has anyone ever looked as absolutely ordinary as I did that morning? What did I smell of? It was my perfume. How can I even say my perfume? It is the same perfume that my neighbour uses and at least 3.5 million other people in the world along with him. It smelled awful. In fact there was something else too, which I recognised as being my sweat. And that smelled even more awful.
The cornflakes tasted awful. I hate them, I hate them for being the favourite food of maybe half the world. Because all those people eat them every morning and tell their friends, you know, this is my favourite food.
Bread me some 2 Euros that there give over me for of, I told the woman in the bakery shop. She gazed at me in total confusion. I repeated my order slowly and precisely. She shook her head, took the bread I had ordered from the shelf and gave it to me. Business as usual, mister. Vollkornbread with sunflower—seeds. Makes 2 Euros. Standing outside the shop with my usual bread, my mood got worse and worse. How could she? Even worse, the shop assistant hadn’t made a fucking comment on my hair that I had just dyed green.
I decided to walk around. Maybe something would happen, something that would prove that stupid morning—thought to be wrong. Maybe somewhere an opportunity would come for me to prove the opposite. I walked on. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. I stopped. I took a minute to think. Then I started to jump Ð with both feet at the same time. HOP, and HOP. And guess what: there were two schoolgirls looking at me and they started to laugh! Quite an enthusiastic feeling began to come over me but then I got tired all of a sudden and the feeling was gone. Besides being absolutely exhausted, I was even more frustrated now than I was before. Apparently there was a certain purpose in setting one foot after the other. I started to kill snails that were moving slowly on the ground. They expired making the widely known squashing sound. It was less than satisfying.
In front of me I saw a big advertisement for a new Cable TV—set offering a Special Price. Maybe you have to pay a price for being special. A young American girl was walking behind me. I thought Berlin would be somehow a little more crazy, ya know. The way she pronounced the word craeizy made me furious. Her friend nodded and we stopped at a pedestrian crossing. The lights had just switched to red. Right foot, left foot, right.
I don’t look too good now. Maybe it’s even better that you can’t see me. That car had definitely not expected me to cross the street at that moment. Both of my legs are broken in several places (the doctors say it will take some time to heal), my face looks rather like a rotten orange and something in my stomach is hurting me really badly. They say it’s my ripped spleen. I can’t move very much, but I can talk without any problem. The nurse thinks I’m crazy because I tell her things like but you great the all nice time looks or little me a give more drink to. I lie on a bed and watch TV all day. Next to the TV, there’s a painting on the wall. It shows a Parisian street scene.