These are the kind of friends I like: the ones where, when you write a story about them, about a problem they had, and that problem was a real serious problem but you change it a bit, so it still seems tragic and horrific but kind of funny and ridiculous at the same time, and the story is full of love, full of love, full of so much love, love, love, love but also your friend does kind of seem like a bit of a useless prick, and you write that story and then you accidentally forget what actually happens in that story and you invite them to a Lesebühne where you are going to read that story and then halfway through you’re like, fuck, will she be mad at me for seeming like such a useless prick in this story, only instead of being offended that you have mined the tragedy of their life for comedic/lesebühne purposes, they are totally flattered about being the star of the story and spend the whole break going: Read another story about me in the second half! Your stories about me are always the funniest! Do you think any of the boys at your Lesebühne realized that it was meant to be me? I saw the one who always does stories about the Deutsche Bahn looking at me, I think he knew it was me. And then, on the way home, they keep on saying: You should really write a story about that time I had sex with my Sachbearbeiter from the Job Center and he had that weird thing on his penis, I really wonder what was wrong with his penis, Jacinta? I don’t think it was a medical problem, I think he was born like that.
The friends I like least are the ones who think stories which aren’t even about them are about them and stop talking to you for six months! You’re so vain, I bet you think this Lesebühnegeschichte is about you, don’t you…..
But maybe this says more about my attitude towards my friends than it does about them. Maybe I am a bit of a parasite/vampire, factory farming people’s misery when I should be organizing interventions and stuff.