Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
This is a novel. I bet you weren't expecting this, due to the more than rather unusual layout and format of this whole thing. I mean who expects to read a novel when he turns over the manual of his new remote control or tries to find out something new about cereals. Nobody. Except maybe the boredest person in the world.
But that's not me.is it? I doubt it. There must be someone, somewhere, with a big nose who's boreder than me, because if not the world would surely inflate and turn into a giant beachball with mountain ridges and oceans on it - quite like it is now, just with no beach at all.
Anyway, yes it really is a novel. I don't know yet what it will be about, but I suspect it will be rather long, when I'm finished with it. Maybe though, I won't finish it at all, and I'll just sit here writing it till the end of time. If there really is, such a thing as, the end of time. Because I'm not sure of that. If time is a universal concept, like, uhm, space, and cereals, then there might be no end to it at all. Ever. Cos if the universe is infinite, then you could travel till eternity and you wouldn't run out of space either. That is what forever means, I guess - to never know which will be up earlier - time or space. It's all rather obsolete anyway, because you'd die before you get to any end. Some people die before they've used up the last, un-crunchy cornflakes at the bottom of the box. You know, the ones that fell out of the plastic bag inside the box, and have to remain forever in that strange cereal limbo between cardboard box and plastic bag. It's not a pleasant way to spend eternity, I imagine. Nor very exciting, so there might actually be a possibility that I have found the creature that is boreder than me. Given that you count cornflakes among creatures. (They're created by someone, so don't look at me like that.)
Where was I then? Oh yeah right. I was here. Shit.
Anyway, so listen – imagine yourself marooned on a desert island. And you have a mobile phone so you could call anyone. Just you can’t call anyone. The only place you can call is a dry cleaner in Bangkok and the National Health Service of Somalia. And maybe the personnel office of a Shopping Mall in the Mid West of the USA. You can’t call you friends to say you love them or hate them. You can’t call your mum to whisper your last goodbyes. You can’t call a ferryboat to take you home. You can inquire about the whereabouts about a certain Bangkokian tailored suit, and ask when the lady at the counter at The Gap can go home tonight. But you can’t call a cab. Now. That’s how I feel right now.
If only the radio wasn’t so bad.
Nena
Fat boy slim
Das is so lächerlich! Jetzt spielts schon zum 2. Mal Gnarls Barkley und den Scheiß Bono da hats auch schon 2 mal gspielt. Wenn Krone Hit nicht mindestens 12 Lieder pro Stunde spielt kann man sein Geld zurück verlangen oder so. (Welches Geld, f.f.s.?) Anyway, was krieg ich wenn sie in 5 Stunden insgesamt nur 12 verschiedene Lieder spielen? Ich mein 12 Lieder schön und gut. Ein gutes Mixtape hör ich gern 5 Stunden durch, zur Not. Aber Gnarls Barkley und U2? Shakira? Geh bitte, geh scheißen. Ich bin unmutig. Das heißt, der Unmut regiert. Na gut. Gebts ma noch Sachen zum formatieren, das macht eh Spaß. Oder schaltets das Internet wieder ein. Wenigstens blogs kann ich lesen, wenn ich schon net schreiben kann. Auch wenn man da nur auf ungute Sachen draufkommt. Ich hab ja immer gfunden dass zu viel Information echt beschissen is. : (
Gebts ma was zum tun!!

Ich bin schon da seit viertel acht. Jetzt is zehn vor elf. Das sind fast 4 Stunden oder 11-8 = 4. Geh so ein scheiß, sind doch nur 3. Das heißt ich muss noch ca. uhmm.. bis vier. Von elf bis vier? 16 – 11. Sind fünf. Geh scheißen.
Ich darf nicht so viel herumschimpfen, oder? Das macht einen schlechten Eindruck. Oh wunderbar. Jetzt spielts dieses WM Lied. Oder nicht? Ich wär so gern echt kreativ und nicht nur fadisiert.

Ich wär so gern echt kreativ
Und nicht nur fadisiert
Doch wenn ein Lied vom Himmel fällt
Machts kaum unterschied
Ob man drunter steht

Butterfly net
Sky’s so hot, sticky like treacle.
So that’s what domestic slaves feel, don’t they? Or maybe – that’s what it feels to be employed. Shit. Feels awful. I wanna open a bookshop. Changeover!

I wanna dance with somebody. ////
UTWO ///
GNARLS BARKLEY ///
Coldplay, n’n? /
Michael Jackson /
Christina Aguilera /
Herbert Grönemeyer / (uraltes Lied,n’n?)

Paris Hilton /
Corinne Bailey etc. /
Sugababes /
We’re the kids in america /
SCHON WIEDER FAT BOY SLIM ABER EIN ANDERES LIED /
Nena //
Roxette /
Robbie Williams //
This just makes me wanna smash something. I suppose that’s why they call them smash hits.
And I tried to sing and I couldn’t sing I just couldn’t sing that was the hardest part.
BOAH sind das gute lyrics.
FOUR MORE HOURS!
Actually, that’s not too bad. I’ve been her for four hours, and they went by like tourists walk by shops.
(UPDATE: Am dritten tag sind immer noch keine neuen lieder dazu gekommen. allerdings hat sich jede liedanzahl ungefähr versiebenfacht. im moment: u2, one life one love blabla!)

KAPAZITÄT!! KAPAZITÄT!!

Bernard L. Black, Buchhendel
Sirius L. Black, verblichen.
Regulus A. Black, tot
Jack Black, komiker
Johannes Xaver Black, verwandter
Ok Black, team
Blackisthenew Black, hebräer
Martina Black, fan
Cormac Black. emo
Uberal Black, hendelhändler
Cooper Black, schriftart
Horvath Black, Kroate

Wir machen strom!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WILD ELECTRIZITY @ BEWAG

James turned around slowly and so she suddenly flung herself at him and he had no other choice than to hold her safely in his arms.

• Chrismartin wails softly and soft through and through about his general softness after after the hardest part has been cut off him.

Hello, I am a Chrismartin and my name is John. I’m so boring that I have to talk about it all the time, and I wish I could just get rid of these tapes around my fingers. I don’t know why they’re there. Ahh! AHHHHHHHHH! Oh what?

It is cold in this room in an utterly disturbing way. It is that airconditioned kind of cold, that leaves your fingers and nose clammy, while the rest of you is just not freezing yet. It is the kind of cold that gives you headaches, the kind of cold that is only ever found in closed off spaces. Like this one is. Veal fattening pen. I guess I’d be a happy boxed baby cow, cos there’s actually quite a lot of space here. But it’s closed off nevertheless. If I was cool and not just disturbingly cold, I’d just run around and dance like Carlos would, or I’d take my swivel chair out for a ride to the loo. Now that would be fun. It’s one minute past eleven. In ten minutes, there’ll be only ones on the digital clock. Oh my god. I miss a couple of people here and I wish I could not forgive them. But I am so forgiving it hurts. Not forgiving is just boring, and I’ve had just about enough of boredom. Still, everything I’m sure of is up for change. And nothing will ever remain the same. But – will I ever learn? I almost cannot imagine I will.