The Jacket, the Burger, the Bird

The January cold in Berlin gives you something specific to solve: go to the Alexa mall with Mandy, buy the fat new jacket you’ve been circling for weeks, then eat McDonald’s until the feeling passes. We did all of that. I also burned money on a Monopoly-branded menu that supposedly offered a Wii or a red beanbag as prizes. Won nothing—not even the soft-serve fallback. A friend who works at one of those restaurant chains told me the whole promotion is rigged from top to bottom. She works inside one, so I believe her.

Tomorrow night we’re heading to Rosi’s for Karrera-Klub. Good music. And since we’re somehow on the subject of indie-pop and attractive people—there’s a bird outside my window that will not stop screaming, which is exactly the wrong atmosphere for finishing a coherent sentence—I was promised Nora Tschirner at my birthday. She hasn’t shown. I notice, again, how naturally she finds her way into everything I write. Some things just work that way.