Berlin

by Bea Setton

The best thing about him was his enthusiasm for the spring, and his introducing me to two things that I love dearly: Hans Fallada and saure Zwiebeln—a kind of pickled onion. The worst thing about him was absolutely everything else.

She was uglier than I am. I’m not even gratified by this. It’s just a fact.

Charles Bukowski and Milan Kundera feature prominently; Murakami is pretty typical; maybe Hesse (Siddhartha), something by Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club or Invisible Monsters), some Bret Easton Ellis (American Psycho), and always, always, for some reason that I can’t fathom, The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

What are all these people hanging around all the time for, anyway? Doesn’t anyone have a JOB to go to?! Of course, I didn’t work, either. But I was on a prolonged gap year. This wasn’t my life!

People think they are entitled to honest answers, but I’ve never been very honest because I don’t want to be depressing. Was I supposed to answer, No, I haven’t had dinner, I’m stuck in a pattern of starving myself and I can’t break the pattern because being hungry numbs me from the general pervasive feeling of failure and self-disgust which permeates my whole being? Yes, I’m so lonely that I slept with a disgusting man who treated me awfully and has been wrecking my life ever since. And no, I think my younger self would be utterly bereft if she saw me now.

These lies make no sense and make my life more complicated without really making me seem cooler or helping me achieve any of my goals.