Ada Blitzkrieg
Ada Blitzkrieg just published her first book, Dackelkrieg—Rouladen und Rap,
and she did it exactly how she wanted: self-published, dirt cheap, completely unfiltered. No publisher telling her to cut the crude parts or add more vulnerability. Her real name is Clara Carrera, but her older brother couldn’t pronounce it as a kid, so Clara
became Ada,
which then became Ada Blitzkrieg on Twitter, where she has about fifteen thousand followers who showed up because she never switched on a persona, never performed for the algorithm.
She talks about the internet as the place where people with no social life and people in war zones end up, and she means it. She’s been posting for years about frozen pizzas and fat Mario Kart drivers and Dr. Zoidberg’s anatomy in this flat deadpan that reads like someone thinking out loud at 3 AM. She doesn’t smile in photos. She’s clear about being a mess as a human being. Somehow this is exactly what people want to follow.
The book came together because she needed an outlet for all the war inside her. A publisher approached her, but she refused. Too many compromises. She wanted a 100-percent-Ada-Blitzkrieg project—a book where nobody tells her to cut anything or write more about her sex life, just Ada being Ada. It’s her autobiography, and the risk is her mother won’t talk to her after reading it. But at least it’s honest.
The follower count grew sort of by accident. She started tweeting with a friend in another city just to stay connected, but nobody cared at first. Then she met the rappers Casper and Prinz Pi, and they tweeted about her account being perfect, and suddenly it became self-sustaining. People stuck around because her humor felt real—because she never apologized for being a disaster, never pretended to have it together. Self-deprecation is usually a performance, but she makes it look like reportage. And there’s something almost radical about that in a timeline full of people curating their mess.
It’s not metaphorical for her. The internet is survival. She can’t pay rent or buy food without it. Her entire friend group came from Twitter first, then became real. She’s started recognizing people on the street in Berlin who recognize her back, and it still catches her off-guard every time. Her best internet memory is from a night when she and a friend ordered fried chicken from a new place during a launch sale and watched a Blaxploitation film eating crispy chicken parts. The internet made that moment happen. The worst parts are the stalkers who cycle through every few months, but she’s stopped fighting them. The pile of meaningless hate just made her numb, and she’s grateful for that numbness now—it’s easier than caring.
If there’d been no internet, she probably would’ve run a small butcher shop on a farm somewhere, knowing all her customers by name. But there is internet, and she’s built something real there. She published a book for about four euros and made it exactly the way she wanted. Nobody can take that away from her.