I am incapable of being content. Not happy – content. Since I can remember I have always wanted to be someone else. Not to have what someone has, but to be them. No matter how many things I buy, how many cities I visit, how many books I read, how many boyfriends I have, I’m still dissatisfied, disappointed, unhappy. And it’s all my fault. Actually, I don’t know if I call it ‘fault’. It’s rather a malfunction of my system. I can write lists after lists with things that make me ‘happy’ but that doesn’t mean that I really feel that way.
I didn’t ask for any of this but everything is because of me. And I don’t know how to live blaming myself and also motivating myself. Like everything else about me, this is just another paradox.

Fehlfunktionieren ist richtig funktionieren.