Running Into Walls

I could tell you I’m using this weekend to do something restorative. That I’m taking stock, tending to the dried-out places inside me, whispering to my bruised soul that everything’s going to be fine while I rub figurative tea tree oil into its joints. I could tell you that. It would be completely false. I have no money for alcohol, so I’m running into walls instead. Here’s what else could be done.

Get some soul into your system—you look pale. Build a small shrine to Verena Koch on your balcony; I won’t forget her. Throw yourself completely into whatever makes your chest feel like it’s actually working again, and once you find it, stay until you can leave with some dignity. Make it to Kater Holzig at least once—everyone in Berlin talks about it, everyone wants to go, everyone who goes likes it. Invent codewords for the things you can’t say out loud. It’s free and it works better than it should.

Don’t be a drag, just be a queen. Go see old friends from wherever you came from—bring cake, bring good energy, and if you’re lucky someone puts on Michael Jackson and suddenly it’s years ago and nothing hurts yet. Run over a few pigeons on the way. The rats of the sky have earned it. Listen to Watch the Throne. And if none of that does it, take a weekend trip to London—just don’t forget your baseball bat, your lighter fluid, and a box of matches. Seems to be considered part of the local culture this week.