SOMETIMES RAW

This year, we planned something slightly different for Halloween. Romania, with Transylvania as the main destination. We arrived in Timisoara and explored, headed to Brasov and Bran Castle, Poenari Fortress, and Transfagarasan road, and slept in a Bed & Breakfast in the middle of nowhere, which was probably more terrifying than anything else!

Transylvania is famous for its vampire legends and bloodthirsty Count Dracula, popularized by Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel, Dracula. But the Vlad Ţepeş that inspired the book was very real – referred to throughout history as “Vlad the Impaler” for his agonizing method of impaling his enemies and criminals on long spikes.

In fact, Vlad never lived at the clifftop Bran Castle. Where Dracula did live, though, was Poenari Castle, also known as Poenari Fortress, which was a principal residence. Poenari served as a strategic stronghold for Vlad during his reign.

So, after we discovered all those castles, we headed to the Transfagarasan road, which is mostly closed for the winter season already. Because of this, and since we got tired, we decided to stay at a Bed and Breakfast deep in the Carpathian woods. Let’s call the place The Garlic Not. The listing said “easily accessible by car,” but I only got there after being stuffed into a haunted rental car (was it even an official rental car?) by some Carpathian peasants surrounded by hundreds of stray dogs and had to drive through the deepest, darkest woods for hours.

We got to The Garlic Not, and the place was deserted. We were the only guests. This B&B was run by an 86-year-old mother and her son, and a cook which reminded me of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. We decided to sit in their restaurant to eat something, write a bit on my novel, take some notes, and talk to my son, when the old woman with the fewest teeth I’ve ever seen handed me a menu.

“For our guests – on the house,” she said, and passed us the menu and two goblets of something red to drink. We took a sip, and it was not bad. We ordered the paprika hendl (traditional and national dish) and decided not to ask her about the weird drink thing.

I looked around, and this place was spooky. Outside, some stray dogs howled, and the old lady told us that they would protect us from the bears. Bears that are still everywhere because they don’t hibernate yet. “They come really close to this bed and breakfast. If you guys go outside again, make sure to close the main gates and don’t go too far away. We have all kinds of guns here to protect you. These bears are no joke,” she added. I’ve only been in Transylvania for three days, and the omnipresent fog, eerie wind chimes, and sinking feeling that something horrible is about to happen started to feel normal.

I took a sip of my cocktail and wondered how I would continue the conversation with the old lady owner. I started nonchalantly and asked if there were hiking trails. She said a simple, “no,” and added that “her brother went missing three years ago. And his fiancée. And her dad. And his fiancée. And several other visitors -mostly Germans who thought they could run away from bears with Birkenstock sandals and ugly socks”. I sipped my cocktail slowly while my son kicked me under the table and whispered, “Mom, I told you not to come here! It is too spooky. And look at this weird guy sitting in this corner of the restaurant. Didn’t the old lady say we are the only customers?”

That’s when I saw him. His razor-sharp, marble-like cheekbones, his jet black eyes, and the fourteenth-century cape he wore. He sat in the back of the restaurant and also drank a big glass of something red. He stared at me until I picked up my weird drink and walked over to his table. “Mom, nooooo….!” my son screamed, but it was too late. We both walked over to meet the Count.

“Count Dracula is my name. Daniela and Joel (how did he know our names?), welcome. Sit!” he said, still glowering. We took a seat. We had no choice.

“Why are you guys here? So far out in the wild?” he asked.

“Oh, we are actually here on vacation, but I got tired driving, so we stopped here,” I replied.

It’s hard even to believe he’s here in front of me. Count Dracula opened his mouth again, and I saw those long, long, very pointy teeth, and I got that weird feeling in my chest again. My son whispered, “Mom, let’s go!”

“You know, I could help you with your novel if you want,” Dracula offered when he saw that my son wanted to leave and pulled me away.

“I think I am okay. It is awfully late and we are tired. We should go to bed now, “I replied.

“But I stay up all night,” he responded.

“Uh-huh. Doing what? Playing creepy organ songs?” I joked.

“I can play something for you guys,” he smiled, the first time he smiled.

Dracula reached out and touched my shoulder. His fingers were eight centimeters long, and just as pointy as his teeth. His touch was ice cold. My son screamed, and it broke his evil spell. I looked at my son, who yelled and tried to distract Dracula: “Mom, now, run!”

“My son is right. I should go,” I told him. I got up and ran for the door.

“Wait!” Dracula yelled across The Garlic Not in a very spooky voice.

Count Dracula ran (flew?) towards me.

A bat flew by my head, and I lost my balance. Count Dracula caught me, and I stared into his translucent white face. He leaned in and kissed me. His mouth was hungry, impatient. But he wasn’t kissing me the usual way. He bit into my neck, and blood started spurting everywhere. Then I passed out and found myself the next day in my bed. Nicely tucked in, my son next to me. “Mom, I had the weirdest dream last night. I dreamed we met Dracula in the restaurant!” he said. “I had the same dream. Weird. Let’s go downstairs, have breakfast, and check out of here. What a weird place,” I replied.

When we pulled out of the driveway a couple of hours later, it was when I knew.

The weird thing is, I now have night vision and can levitate. I am also most active at night and sleep in a coffin during the day. It is just more comfortable this way. My son feels the same way. But overall, what a cool trip to Romania. The food was great, and from now on, everything we do is going to be all-vampire, all the time.

For the Bed & Breakfast review online: I gave two stars instead of one because the Count didn’t charge me for the extra day and provided free breakfast, but tbh if you’re looking for a place in Transylvania, you should probably just stay at the Holiday Inn in a big city instead of going so deep into the Carpathian woods, unless you want the full Dracula experience of course.

Days later, I checked if my review ever went online, but The Garlic Not does not exist.

via The New Yorker

“Thieves in balaclavas broke into Paris’ Louvre museum on Sunday morning, using a crane to smash an upstairs window, then stealing priceless objects from an area that houses the French crown jewels before escaping on motorbikes.” 
— Reuters

– – –

I am the best at what I do. I move with precision, each step a carefully choreographed ballet. I do not simply steal things like a common pickpocket; I perform. I create. I inspire.

But not before 9:30 a.m.

If I were to, say, steal the crown jewels from the Louvre, I would not get up at the crack of dawn to do it. Mais non! How could I be expected to perform my best work without a good night’s sleep? Heist days are long, and a sleepy thief is a grouchy thief. And what of my petit dejeuner? Am I to rappel from the roof of the museum’s jewel wing without having enjoyed my pain au chocolat? I may be a thief, but I am not an animal.

In France, we pride ourselves on enjoying life’s simple pleasures: food, drink, and the occasional grand larceny. To rush through these things would not just disrupt our leisurely schedule; it would be a sin. One must savor the moment, not run from robbery to robbery like a buffoon.

My typical heist morning routine goes like this: wake at leisure, cigarette, croissant and cafe au lait, read a chapter of Voltaire, stroll along the Seine, browse the Paris flea market, THEN robbery. Eliminating any one of those activities would sap the pleasure from my day, making me no better than those fools and amateurs from Ocean’s Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen….

And that’s not even taking union rules into account. According to union bylaws, jewel thieves are to begin work no earlier than 9 a.m. and finish no later than 1 p.m. We have a strict ten-hour work week, overtime for weekends, and paid leave for polishing and jewelry dismantling. Years ago, the government attempted to raise the retirement age to forty-five, prompting us to go on strike for weeks until they caved. It may sound strange for the government to negotiate with robbers, but trust me, they need us for the intrigue.

I have read of other cat burglars who work in the dead of night, and all I can tell you is they are not French. Miss a night of passionate lovemaking to steal some jewels that will still be there the next morning at a reasonable hour? C’est impossible! As exquisite as the curve of a perfectly cut diamond is, it will never compare with the curve of your lover’s back. Besides, life is too short to get caught up in the rat race. At some point, you have to realize that blindly chasing down jewels takes you nowhere, except maybe prison if you’re an amateur. Your life has to be about more than just your work.

But, as with every industry, technology is threatening to take my job away as well. No one wants to pay for centuries-old diamonds anymore, what with 3D-printed versions available at a fraction of the cost. Quelle dommage! It makes my blood boil to think that people cannot see the difference between a piece of plastic and a sapphire tiara worn by Marie Antoinette. But this new generation wants only the quick and easy, not the exquisite. My work is becoming a lost art, along with all those pieces of lost art I stole.

C’est la vie. In the meantime, I will enjoy myself for as long as I can as the last of a dying breed of hardworking—but not too hardworking—thieves. A ragtag troupe of misfits, off on one last caper to knock the bumbling inspecteur off his guard as he shakes his fist at us while we zip away on our mopeds.

So, yesterday evening I attended a lecture on AI, and I have to say that many things I heard are a bit scary. For example, AI can write an entire novel within 20 seconds. All I need to do is type, for example, Stephen King-style, 90,000 words, keywords: woods, scary, friendship, death, and monster. I will receive a full manuscript of a novel that, 20 pages in, sounds amazing. Makes me wonder, will we need authors in the future? Will we need humans in stores, or can robots do the job? They are sort of doing it already anyway. Some strange future we are heading to, don’t you think? It obviously has many good sides as well. Maybe it can assist in finding a cure for AIDS or cancer. However, for now, there are still things artificial intelligence cannot which puts humans still in charge. For now.

Experience a heart attack while working in the herb garden.

Get a divorce.

Put too many kernels in the pan to make popcorn because I wanted MORE popcorn, and then I got LESS because half of them fell out! #irony #metaphor

Wonder what its middle school bully is doing now.

Show up to court in a white linen suit.

Drape myself face down on an ottoman in a fit of ennui.

Adjourn to the reading room for tea and cookies.

Yawn, flick the middle finger, or kiss.

Suspect that something evil has happened in this very room.

Fall for a red-flag person.

Lose its sense of time in The New York Times and miss one’s flight.

Have a least-favorite roommate.

Admire the voluptuous nature of a cloud.

Climax in unison with its lover.

Obtain a meditative state and lose it.

Extend a too-firm handshake to someone you don’t like.

Swiftly transition from self-loathing to acceptance at the sight of its dead and wrongly planted fig plant.

Rid itself of the feeling that a yoga retreat is a scam.

Chug a Tequila Sunrise Cocktail in front of everyone.

Become shy about seeing two people sexually, tongue kissing.

Give it all up for someone.

Continue feeling shame for something it did in fourth grade.

Weep over sins that are not its own.

Tokyo Drift a shopping cart around the grocery store.

Clean effectively.

Fight back movie-induced tears.

Surrender to the currents of the great unknown through the steady brown eyes of someone special.

Ride a desert horse atop the high isolated hills, leaving behind a red cloud of dust and a dark past.

Avoid eye contact with the one person who you know who knows the answer.

Pace.

Flail.

Sashay.

Understand and respect pure charisma.

Reassess its sexuality after watching a video of a rug being steam cleaned.

Learn more about itself through the years with a partner.

Appreciate a well-tailored suit.

Lean against an office window sill that overlooks the city skyline and wonder what it’s all for.

Wake up in a driveway.

Multitask.

Make moral judgements.

Feel.

Forget the names of everyone who works with you.

Worry that the friend group they are meant to have is somewhere else.

Employ a diet that is maintained through persistent self-hate.

Suffer from seasonal unease.

Succumb to an ice-cream bar.

A couple of days ago, I watched Ghost with Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze, one of my all-time favorite movies. (Crying every.single.time) So, what happens when we die, Mom,” my son asked after the movie. “Is there such thing as heaven and hell?” Well, is there? It is at least a nice thought to think to be up there “in heaven” and meet all your family and friends again, right?

With fall approaching fast, and everything turns dark and grey, questions of death and dying are naturally creeping up.

After my son went to bed, I let my thoughts wander; and out of the blue, I remembered something a friends had once said: “I’m not scared of death because after death you can’t feel anything. You just aren’t there.” But that, to me, is the scary part. Where are you? Just nowhere? Just nothing? It’s over? Suddenly I felt like I was standing over a precipice. On a regular fall day, for no reason in particular, my mind had wrapped itself around death for the first time, and I momentarily felt weird.

Have you felt this way? I’ve recently realized, death will also happen to me. Maybe not today, maybe not next month, but it WILL happen. Before, I knew it would “happen to me,” like knew I would “die someday,” but not REALLY. Not actually.

In my thirties, there were so many things “in front” of death. Having my son, moving to Canada, to New York, to Vienna….Subconsciously, I figured, those things had to happen before I died. I wasn’t next up. I didn’t have to worry about it right now. It was so far away, surely.

But Nina Riggs’s memoir The Bright Hour, about her struggle with cancer, published posthumously, began to puncture my cool-headedness. I immediately related to her: her inner monologue felt so similar to mine; she was a writer and a worrier, too. It felt like I was reading a book about myself.

The fear of flying often kicks in around age 27, studies reveal, when people start to grapple with their own mortality. They don’t feel invincible, like they did as rowdy kids and hormonal teenagers. I totally get that, don’t you? “As life experiences build up, the reality of ​our own vulnerability as human beings can set in,” says New York-based therapist Nathan Feiles.

And what about your later years? They say you should listen to life advice from people in their 80s and 90s, because they’ve been staring death in the face for years. One thing my grandfather used to say that has always stuck with me. 

When I was in school, 14 and miserable, I was visiting my grandparents. Over coffee and cake, I mused, “I just have to get through the last three months of the schoolyear; I wish I could just wake up and it would be over.” Opa jerked back, as if I had hit him. “Never wish away your life,” he told me, quietly. I struggled to see what he meant — of COURSE anyone would want to skip days that were difficult or painful or heartbreaking. But, now that I’m older, I’m starting to grasp his point. Soak it all up, even the hard parts. You are alive.

So, how can we move forward without freaking out about death? A friend recommended Staring at the Sun by Irvin Yalom about dealing with death anxiety. “It helps,” she said.

Or what if we reframe things, so that we see life, instead of death, as the mind-bending part? Writes Barbara Ehrenreich in Natural Causes: “You can think of death bitterly or with resignation, as a tragic interruption of your life, and take every possible measure to postpone it. Or, more realistically, you can think of life as an interruption of an eternity of personal nonexistence, and see it as a brief opportunity to observe and interact with the living, ever-surprising world around us.”

Now and again, I’ll be looking at my child and it will cross my mind that we’re all going to die someday — and then I’ll think of things like earrings, and they seem so ridiculous. WHO CARES??? We are going to die, WHY ARE WE WEARING EARRINGS. But then maybe that’s the point of jewelry? And sports? And songs? And complicated soup recipes? To be distractingly wonderful and fill up the moments and let you just play with your child on the rug?

Our close relationships ground us, too, of course. After years of living with stage IV cancer, Kate Bowler wrote in the New York Times: “A friend knits me socks and another drops off cookies, and still another writes a funny email or takes me to a concert. These seemingly small efforts are anchors that hold me to the present, that keep me from floating away on thoughts of an unknown future. They say to me, like my sister Maria did on one very bad day: ‘Yes, the world is changed, dear heart, but do not be afraid. You are loved, you are loved. You will not disappear. I am here.’”

Because at the end of the day: “We are all just walking each other home.” — Ram Dass

How do you think about death? Do you think about it? What do you believe happens after death? Are you religious? What are your views on the afterlife? I’m so, so curious to hear.

So, I bought this amazing SMEG coffee machine a couple of months ago. This is what the instruction manual said:

Welcome to your new high-end Italian espresso machine. Or should we say buongiorno? Yes, we should. Your espresso machine only speaks Italian. To get the most out of the machine, you must learn the language.

We will wait.

FOURTEEN MONTHS LATER.

Remove the machine from the box. Carefully. You want to make a good first impression. Use a firm, yet gentle grip to establish trust. Too weak a grip, and your high-end Italian espresso machine will never respect you.

Important safeguard: Don’t film an unboxing video. Your espresso machine is wary about having a social media presence. Between you and me, it held some questionable beliefs during WWII and doesn’t want the public to uncover it.

Your Italian espresso machine is perfect for daily use; however, please keep in mind that the machine demands time off to rest, so daily use doesn’t really “work” for it.

To set your machine up, find the area of your house with the best lighting. We know the kitchen will be the most convenient, but this isn’t about you. This is about getting the best extraction, and your Italian espresso machine will feel self-conscious if it thinks the sunlight in your breakfast nook is hitting its metal in the wrong way. If you want your machine to function properly or even at all, get a professional photographer-grade light meter and wave it around your house like it’s a smudging stick.

Plug it in.

Now that your espresso machine is set up, check on its emotional well-being. Is it comfortable? How would it describe its feelings? Is the sunlight too direct? Ask if it feels as if it can produce today.

We’ll save you the trouble: It will say it cannot produce today. Try again tomorrow.

A DAY LATER.

Your high-end Italian espresso machine is now ready for use.

Fill the tank with water. Use bottled water. Never tap. Never filtered. Please refer to the “approved bottled water brands” list at the end of this instruction manual (see: Italian espresso machine rider). If you use a brand it doesn’t like, the machine will be able to detect it and will shut down.

Grind the espresso beans into the provided coffee filter basket.

Throw out the ground espresso beans. Reevaluate your coffee choices. Really take your time. Go on a journey. Come back when you’ve purchased beans that can live up to the high standards of your high-end Italian espresso machine.

THREE WEEKS LATER.

If your high-end Italian espresso machine is on its phone when you try to use it, don’t be alarmed. It’s chatting with its cousin. Please wait for the machine to finish its call before you attempt to use it. You may be tempted to eavesdrop now that you are fluent in Italian, but this is a personal call, so please respect the machine’s privacy.

If you must know, they’re discussing where the cuff of a polo shirt should fall to best showcase a bicep.

Select one shot or two shots. Please know that your machine will dispense how much it feels like, regardless of your selection.

If your machine is reluctant to perform, play the Shia LaBeouf “you can do it” video for motivation. Your high-end Italian espresso machine hasn’t seen it yet, despite being a huge fan of Shia LaBeouf. Again, it makes excellent espresso—so we can forgive its support of problematic actors or former dictators.

Eventually, your high-end Italian espresso machine will produce espresso. It might be in five minutes. It might be at midnight. It might never be. But it will come. Unless it doesn’t.

THREE YEARS LATER.

Your high-end Italian espresso machine demands cleaning every two months. You have missed eighteen cleanings. Cleaning is simple, provided you’ve mastered the machine’s seventy-two-step process, seven of which have three steps in and of themselves.

Please note that these instructions may change at any time without warning. Your machine will not let you know, but if you screw up, it will turn off and never work again. Also, it will leak, but don’t worry, you cannot fix it since there is no way to open it. Usually, it is just one simple plastic tube that clogs. Don’t bother calling or emailing the store where you bought it. They won’t help. You have to send the machine to Italy. You won’t receive a replacement machine. We are sorry. This is how we roll at SMEG.

Enjoy.

All I wanted was an easy-to-operate coffee machine for whole coffee beans. Simple buttons, simple instructions, simple cleaning functions. Why is this so difficult?

My first language is German, but I am more comfortable writing in English. That might actually be because I lived in NYC for many years, finished a Bachelor’s in Forensic Psychology and a Master’s in Applied Linguistics in English. Yay, me! Some terms or phrases were so weird to me in the beginning. For example, you don’t just ask someone, “Hey, how are you?” without expecting an answer. Or when people say literally, actually and oh my gooooosh a million times in conversations. Let’s break these phrases down and start actually with actually:

The Victory Actually
Translation: Did you misspell obnoxious?

“Actually it’s a trilby, not a fedora.”

“Actually, you don’t, because the Upper West Side ends at 96th, so what you mean is, you live in Manhattan Valley.”

“Well, actually, you don’t mean ‘literally,’ you mean ‘figuratively,’ no?”

“Well, actually, you’re not nauseous, you’re nauseated, unless of course you really mean…”

“Uh, hang on, no, it’s not an umlaut, it’s a diæresis. They’re actually different, phonologically.”

“That’s actually not an acronym, it’s an initialism. To be an acronym…”

The Pleasant Surprise Actually
Translation: My low expectation has been exceeded.

“Actually, you’re right… mostly.”

“You’re funny. You actually just made me laugh out loud.”

“That’s actually a very good question.”

“I mean it was a wedding but actually I kind of had a good time.”

“Actually, yeah, that might… that could actually work. Good job.”

“Wow, yeah no, I did, I do love it. It is my favorite. You actually remembered.”

The Low Self-Esteem Actually
Translation: Yay, stupid me.

“Huh, I actually like the way this looks on me.”

“Yeah, mean, median and mode. I’ve actually heard of that.”

“It went great. I actually contributed a few ideas.”

“I actually think this came out not too bad.”

“Things are good. Great, even? I don’t know, I’m actually in a good place these days. Happy, even.”

“I’d never played before and I was actually pretty good!”

The Damage-Control Actually
Translation: Join me in deciding this isn’t a big deal.

“I actually can’t help you tonight, I have plans.”

“I actually don’t have a copy of my résumé on me, but you can just Google me.”

“I would love to, and happy birthday to your cousin, but I’m, actually, I can’t.”

“Yes, I remember saying I could but actually stuff’s kind of crazy so I can do it, but tomorrow.”

“No, actually, I didn’t read the whole article but that’s not the point. What I’m commenting on, and really, what I’d appreciate your response to, is the tone and the general attitude.”

The Diplomatic Correction Actually
Translation: Sir, no.

“I know. Craig. Yep. Hi, Craig. We’ve actually met before. Couple times.”

“I did actually turn it off and then turn it back on, so no, that’s not it. So can you help?”

“She, actually. My doctor’s a woman. Anyway, what she said was…”

“It was my first language, so actually, I’m pretty sure I pronounced it right: broo-sketta.”

The Self-Soother Actually
Translation: Control the narrative, control the narrative.

“So fuck it, you know? And, actually, maybe it’s a good thing I got fired. Fuck that job. Best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Embarrassed? Why would I be embarrassed? No. actually, I thought it was funny.”

“In fact, nah, you know what? I’m relieved. I don’t have time for that shit, so actually, it’s better that I haven’t heard back from him. Fuck him.”

“I didn’t mean to reply-all but you know, it had to be said. So, in the long run, actually, I’m glad it happened.”

“Thank you. It was scary there but actually, it was a wake-up call, and now I’m exercising, eating better. I wouldn’t have made a change if it hadn’t happened.”

“Thanks. It’s okay. Really. I’ll just take the time to work on it some more. I kind of felt rushed so actually, I’m relieved. No, really, I was actually glad I didn’t get it.”

So, I ran the half-marathon last week, and now people who are crazy into health and sports want to teach me everything they know about nutrition, supplements, and healthy life choices. One topic was whether I consume enough protein. While I gave my best to listen, he took out his pill box stuffed with supplements for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Wtf, I thought while he drowned the first handful of shiny pink and blue pills with some green smoothie out of a plastic shaker. Then he began to tell me what kind of imbecile I am, a know-nothing about nutrition. Here he goes, as good as I remember it.

Hey, you ran the half-marathon, huh?! But are you taking all your supplements? Do you eat enough protein in a day? Don’t even bother answering, because I know the answer is no. But don’t worry, I’m kind of a protein guy. I can give you all the guidance you need so you can stop being such a weak little bitch. I eat three hundred times my recommended daily allowance of protein. So as you can imagine, my life is perfect. I can crush a stainless-steel trash can with my thighs. I could lift your sofa above my head and throw it so far you’ll never see it again. And that’s what I’ll do if you don’t start eating enough protein. So you’d better listen up.

Let’s start with the basics. According to my nutritionist, a guy named the Beef Man, you should be getting at least 30,000 grams of protein at each meal. You’re probably clocking in at a cool fifteen grams or less, which, quite frankly, makes me want to punch a wall. How many chicken breasts have you even eaten so far today? Four? Five? Don’t make me laugh.

By the way, you could be slamming legumes right now while I’m telling you this. Every second of the day is an opportunity for protein, and you’re wasting it. What’s that sound? All I hear is the sound of you not eating a bucket of eggs. That eggless silence is the worst sound in the world. I listen to a recording of myself eating a bucket of eggs to help me fall asleep at night. It brings me peace you’ll never understand.

But don’t think I have no sympathy for sad little failures. I know reaching your daily protein goals can be a challenge. Sometimes you have to get creative. Do you drink coffee in the morning? Try swapping it out for ground turkey. (Do not talk to me until I’ve had my ground turkey.) If you’re still brushing your teeth with toothpaste (zero protein), you’re a stupid idiot. Start brushing with Greek yoghurt. Do you take medicine? Of course you do, because you’re a sick freak who doesn’t get enough protein. Try cottage cheese instead.

I can tell you’re still a little sceptical. Why do you even need all that protein anyway? I’ll tell you why, you piece of shit. You need protein for muscle growth. You’re probably saying, “I don’t care about muscle growth. I like being an adult with the body of a little baby.” And of course, that’s your choice. But you also need protein for maintaining blood, skin, and bones. Ever heard of them? You think you’re too good for bones, buddy? If you don’t eat enough protein, you’re basically saying you’re cool with being a disgusting pile of shit. Ever seen a pile of shit before? It ain’t pretty.

And look, I get it. Eating a nutritious diet is about balance. Of course, you can still eat other things you enjoy, like fruits, pasta, and even brownies. As long as those fruits, pasta, and brownies are made from a slurry of broken-down animal parts and molded into the shapes of those respective foods. I am aware not everyone enjoys animal slurry. As a vegetarian alternative, put a bunch of chickpeas in a blender and sculpt that goop into the shape of any food you’d normally enjoy. Pretend you’re Demi Moore in Ghost while you’re doing it.

At the end of the day, I’m tired of your excuses. You can’t spend all day cooking lentils? Fine. Don’t tell me you don’t have thirty seconds on your morning commute to snack on some unseasoned ground beef. I don’t leave the house without my five-pound canister of chocolate banana cinnamon roll whey protein powder that I snort when there’s a lull in conversations. I can already hear you whining, “The protein powder burns when I snort it.” Okay, well, nothing is stopping you from administering it rectally, except for your bad attitude.

Ultimately, I can’t force you to eat the correct amount of protein for your body weight. But the next time you try to crush a stainless-steel trash can with your thighs, don’t come crying to me when you look like a fool because you only dented it a little bit.

Looking forward to your golden years, but afraid you’ll never be able to afford it? Our facility offers elderly the comfort of a living space with the same lack of character as an office cubicle. Be surrounded by like-minded residents like yourself, who will be working on their laptops to pay off their bills until the day they die.

Amenities

We did everything we could to re-create the best of the environment you spent seventy years toiling away in, with the following amenities:

• Flexible Leases. Although we want you to stay as long as possible (for financial purposes), we know you may feel uneasy signing a twelve-month lease. That’s why we offer day-to-day leases for our touch-and-go members. Whether you get fired or die (whatever comes first), we’ll accommodate you.
• Playground for Your Grandkids While You Work. The golden years are all about reconnecting with family. Now that you’re retired, it’s time to step into full-time Grandparent Mode. If your grandkids come to visit, but you’re still grinding over that spreadsheet, no fear—we have a Fun Room that any kid will love: wooden blocks, one singular Barbie with its head ripped off, and a TV from 2002 that doesn’t work. The grands will be having too much of a blast in the Fun Room that they won’t even remember they didn’t know you that well when you’re dead.
• IT Support from Your Next-Door Neighbor, Hank. You thought they were nonverbal when they were young; just wait until you receive the speedy, comprehensive PDF-opening service support they give you while they’re in hospice.
• On-the-Clock Job Coaches for When You’re Fired for Being Too Old. At YouStillWork, we know ageism is real. But as we say here, “You still gotta pay the bills.” That’s why we have on-site job coaches to help you find your next gig when you get canned from your current one for hugging the nurse uncomfortably long.

Testimonials

“I was worried that because I was terminally ill at ninety-six years old, I wouldn’t be able to keep my job as a graphic designer. Thanks to YouStillWork, I’m still able to bring value to the shareholders and have as much cold beer as my third heart transplant can handle.” 
— Connie, graphic designer, 96 years old

“Someone like me loved going to the office five days a week—hell, six days a week if I was lucky—because I hated my wife and kids. Now that I’m at YouStillWork, they never visit me, and I couldn’t be happier!” 
— Bob, digital marketing manager, 85 years old

“YouStillWork makes it easy to both live and work. I just got off my yearly performance review call, while Stephanie, my night nurse, bathed me. Flexibility at its finest.” 
— Harry, social media influencer, 81 years old

“Retirement never seemed like something that would be in my reach, and it still isn’t. But at YouStillWork, now I can continue to work fifteen-hour days, and occasionally indulge in building perks like Thursday-night bingo.” 
— Sally, Customer service representative, 72 years old

FAQs

How do I become a resident?
Just because you didn’t hit your performance goals in a normal office doesn’t mean it’s over. You may have just needed a change in scenery. Does that sound like you? In addition to proof of a job, you must show proper documentation that you’ve had an extremely uncomfortable and combative conversation with family who felt it was time to put you here. Members are not allowed to come on their own free will, just like the classic and mandatory in-office five-day-a-week attendance policy. YouStillWork offers kidnapping as an add-on service and will be charged as an initiation fee.

Are there networking events?
A common misconception is that coworking at YouStillWork is their last chapter, but really, it’s just another. We offer several networking events a year with recruiters from the best employers from heaven, purgatory, and hell to assist you with a future job search when you’ve fulfilled your earthly duties.

Is there a cafeteria?
Yes. We offer a large selection of expired granola bars, overripe bananas, and nutritious potato chips so that our residents can maintain their brittleness as they finish their lives off utterly defeated and working for someone who doesn’t care whether they live or die.

So what are you waiting for (other than the sweet release of death, of course)? Reimagine your work-life balance and apply for a kidnapping to YouStillWork today.

Under normal circumstances, I fully encourage and support any attempt one makes to improve interpersonal communication. Especially when things are clearly communicated on time. Some know how to do this, but unfortunately, many do not.

A partner using “I” statements and engaging in concerted efforts to be clear, open and honest warms my heart. A boss or coworker who communicates clear guidelines and expectations is a cherished gem that I would regularly enjoy. Children who are able to clearly state what is or isn’t working in regards to my half-ass attempts at helping with homework make it easier for me to justify hiring a tutor. I love boundaries. I relish opportunities to really, deeply understand what someone needs or how they feel. It is a wonderful feeling to know that I am surrounded—for the most part—by people who are not assholes and know how to communicate.

Unfortunately, there are people in this world who believe—deep down in their sad souls—that they are effective communicators. What these people don’t realize is that they are just crazy.

Take wannabe Nonviolent Communicators, for instance. And also, people who are sociopaths or egoistic maniacs.

The premise seems harmless enough: Nonviolent Communication is a self-righteous cult-like language style that supposedly facilitates the flow of communication needed to exchange information and resolve differences peacefully. It also claims to help focus attention on compassion as a motivating factor, instead of guilt, blame, fear or shame. In some cases, it helps people to own their feelings. This, I appreciate. I always own the shit out of my feelings, and sometimes everyone else’s feelings, too.

The framework of Nonviolent Communication adds a lot of unnecessary words to sentences, though, and can chew up anywhere from four to thirty-five minutes of any given day. For example, if someone doesn’t feel like going on a date with the drunk woman who accosted them in their therapist’s parking lot, they can just give a calm and brief “no, thanks” as a reply to the solicitation. Or utilize the pepper spray tucked away in their bag. In Nonviolent Communication Fantasy Land, the response would be more like this: “I feel uncomfortable with the level of your alcohol intake, and I need to stay home and watch Sex and the City this weekend.” The latter statement sets a revolving door of interaction into motion and invites questions. And questions always lead to conversation. It seems to complicate things. And it wastes a lot of precious time. Thirty-five minutes a day means about eight days out of an entire year used to engage in conversations with people we’d rather avoid when we could be doing something fun, like sleeping. Or planting five acres of corn. Or having oral surgery.

In almost every instance, if the feelings bubbling up from our instinctive cores incite feelings of aversion, it is quite alright to say, “No.” Take this woman I knew who, loyal to her Nonviolent Communication teachings, decided it was appropriate to “honour” her two-year-old’s needs to repeatedly not get dressed in the morning. In typical terrible-twos fashion, he screamed and cried while he ran amok, tearing their apartment to shreds; his need for control running the game. The mother listened calmly and replied, “I hear that you don’t want to get dressed right now, Lil Johnny. I honour your feelings, and we can try again later.”

This is crazy talk.

A two-year-old doesn’t even know it has needs, nor does the child recognize what those needs are beyond hunger or the deep desire to covet a Playmobil pirate ship. An appropriate response would have been to lasso that little bastard and shove him into a heavily starched straightjacket and get on with the goddamn day. Next, this woman is completely oblivious to the fact that she is raising one of many in a generation of monsters.

This little asshole will grow up to be a large, adult-sized asshole who will eventually enter the workforce and begin relationships. Without a serious emotional smackdown and some mild shaming once in a while, kids like this become men and women with no sense of personal boundaries, frequently displaying asshole behaviour because they “feel like it.” Also, the world is a cruel, gruesome place full of unanticipated pain, and we should all be prepared for the hands of life shoving us down dark stairwells of disappointment every chance it gets.

In the worst-case scenario of overly permissive parenting gone horribly, horribly awry, Lil Johnny will grow up to ruin the lives of women everywhere. He will pose as an asshole and stalk his ex-girlfriends on social media because doing so meets his need to feel in control.

The rationalization for some of his displays of other wildly inappropriate behaviour will surely include passive-aggressive word play: “I am sorry your anxiety causes you to choose to perceive me as a bad person because I just did what I needed to do to survive this stressfull situation, called you a overly dramatic and left in the middle of the night to make plans to screw another woman. Maybe you should think long and hard about what you did to make me need to do that.”

It’s enough to make even the most sane person want to rip their veins out through their eye sockets in fits of unbearable confusion.

It doesn’t end with a few cases of Lil Johnny Lacks Boundaries. I believe that Nonviolent Communicator wannabes are the foulest creatures to walk among us. Most blend in and appear to be everyday, normal people who frequent parks, bookstores, cafes, independent movie theaters and live music venues. Upon close inspection, they can be spotted by an air of narcissism swirling around them and eyes that are open just wide enough to see the white orb curving back above their irises. They never blink. Often, while pretending to listen with an open heart chakra, their heads tilt just slightly to the right, as if positioning the left ear a few centimeters toward an open mouth will help them hear more fully. If they are in agreement with what they hear, their eyes squint and their heads will begin to bob like they are grooving to an inner rhythm of a slow-jam-mix.

But it isn’t merely the aesthetics of unfortunate fashion choices or the superiority complex that shines through their eyes to the condescending tone residing deep in their solar plexuses that makes these people some of the most irritating humans to be surrounded by. Some of them may have heartfelt intentions of making the world a better place. To them I say, Kumbaya, My Lord. Still, there is a fine line between Nonviolent Communication and verbal manipulation. Speaking in a calm, clear tone makes no difference if what you are saying is abusive, just plain stupid, in order for you to get what you want.

Nonviolent Communication tactics may be perfectly appropriate in circles of self-righteous, passive-aggressive cultish circles or among people who are independently wealthy, leaving them with endless hours to devote to self-improvement gimmicks. It leaves the rest of us exposed to the bitter wind of impatience and unanswered questions. And quite frankly, it transforms otherwise normal and understanding people into a pack of angry, mangy wolves. I wish people could just be decent and normal. Without being fullblown assholes.

But these are just my feelings.

I still have a preference for a “yes” or “no” over some long-winded, inconclusive response from some creeps whose prolonged eye contact makes me want to dissolve them in acid.

Obviously, I need to look at my inner “needs list” in Chapter 5 of my Nonviolent Communication book and reflect on what is missing in my life. Oh, nothing, my life is perfectly fine and content.

I think I just feel hurt when people act like assholes, and I need them to go away and never talk to me ever again.

Maybe I just need some empathy. Or maybe people should just try harder to stop being assholes.

Welcome to the German Embassy.

To apply for or renew your passport you first need to make an appointment through our online portal which is open only on Mondays between 10 am and 11 am for you to choose a slot out of three possible days in the next several months. Be fast and good luck. No other appointments, no emails, no phone calls, no questions, or any other inquiries are possible.

We are looking forward to meeting you. Obviously (it is Germany after all), there will be more rules. A lot more.

1. Please bring originals and provide copies of your driver’s license, all passports you ever owned, birth certificate, and detailed notes from the last three months of your therapy appointments. We can tell if you’re faking.

2. Kindly attach reference letters from your employer, a trusted adult who has known you for more than five years, your dentist, and the doctor that delivered you. Please note if you were born by cesarean. If any of these letters are in any othere language than German please provide notarized translations with official seal and stamps.

3. Between the reference letter from your employer and the doctor who delivered you place the passport picture. Those need to be taken by an official photographer with a seal, stamp and authenticity letter. Also include the photographers’ blood type.

4. If applying in advance, we ask that you send along all said bank statements since 1992, and a five-paragraph essay on why your are applying in advance.

5. Please wear shoes. No flip-flops allowed in the embassy. No phones, no belts, no metal at all.

6. Attach two years of signed income tax returns, detailed memos explaining gaps in employment, sudden illnesses and the date of your childs’s first baby tooth.

7. Your last bank statment signed by all members of the band Rammstein.

8. Schedule your follow-up interview with the co-op board on a business day between the hours of 9 a.m. and 9:12 a.m only on full moon. Arrive three hours early for an intensive security screening.

9. Upon arriving for your initial appointment no less than six hours early, you will be blindfolded and spun around forty-three times.

10. You will be escorted to a waiting area where we play Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries on repeat over loudspeakers. Cry now (if you have to) before we will make you.

11. Bring your own writing utensils. Due to security reasons, we won’t provide any pens.

12. When you survived Wagner (on repeat) in the waiting room, you and your paperwork will be picked up by an unmarked (German) van and knocked unconscious.

13. You are not in Squid Game, but we did steal this part from Squid Game.

14. You will be brought to a deserted parking lot on the outskirts of Austria.

15. Take in the beautiful sunset while you bask in the regret of having made that appointment.

16. If you speak in any other language than German we will go full Squid Game.

17. The driver of the van takes off his ski mask. It’s Till Lindemann from Rammstein. He presents you with your quest.

18. Till tells you that you must retrieve a golden wrench from Fetter Hardware Store. There’s a screw loose at the embassy’s front door that you need to fix before your passport application will be reviewed.

19. In order to be granted entry into Fetter Hardware, you must correctly answer three riddles from the Sphinx.

20. The Sphinx is a thirteen-year-old Rottweiler/German Shepard mix named Hiller.

21. He will bite only if provoked.

22. The Sphinx is easily provoked.

23. The prophecy completed, Till dissolves into the night, Ray-Bans clattering to the ground.

24. At the entrance of Fetter Hardware, you are greeted by Hiller.

25. You must teach the dog three tricks in order to reveal the code to the safe that the golden wrench is kept in.

26. Once acomplised, you must search deep within your soul to find the words that will bring you back to the embassy.

27. Don’t screw this up (German wrench humor). With every minute you take, your assigned application officer will raise the fee by fifty euros per minute.

28. Upon retrieval of the golden wrench, hurry back to the embassy. You’re late for a second interview we never told you about.

29. Don’t forget proof of health insurance, life insurance, last morgage or rent statement and a new refrigerator for the embassy’s waiting room.

31. We look forward to reviewing your application! Expect a reply in five to forty-seven business days or weeks.

Thank you for your application. Please fill out the Google survey to provide feedback on our services and the Self-evaluation on how you could have made this process more seamless for everyone.

We look forward to meeting with you (as many times as it takes).

Good luck, 
Your German Embassy Team