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Failed (Nov 11)

How long have I been writing columns? Hmm. Long. Sometimes I like to do it, other times less. That is not due to criticism. It was there but it came from losers.
People who mean little because they feel too fat, too old, too tired, too stupid, to be abandoned or too inadequate may sometimes become a burden. Whether I have achieved something? Hmm.   

Sometimes I think back with melancholy to the time when I started writing. To my uncle (in daily life organ player in a gay bar nearby) who was a war hero because he openly burned a correspondence course 'German for beginners'.
Before that he was still in custody but when I wanted to visit him he escaped. "The bastard," I said to the jailer. "Then you go see him and he runs off." "Yes, he has always been a difficult person," admitted the guard.  "Tell me what." I said and asked if another prisoner was free to visit. That turned out to be a first-time serial rapist (one rape only to the present day) but he was so horny looking at my girlfriend that we were gone while we still could.
I was also an avid nature lover. I liked to cycle through the woods of Chaam, preferably naked in the pouring rain and mimicking the call of an oriole. I also remember my first love. Not unimportant because except for cigarettes, there is nothing more grand than being in love. Perfect busty, breathtakingly beautiful and oh so blonde. I taught her to read without bulging eyes, potty trained her, and broke off the relationship. Because both a girl and a shiny career as a column writer? I thought this an impossible combination.

I became a pigeon fancier and started writing thousands of articles ago. The more articles I wrote, the less desire I sometimes got to write another. Because of pointlessness I sometimes thought and I had concentration problems. That was because of my high IQ, my psychiatrist said. He claims I have an IQ of 280 but you shouldn't take that too seriously. I think he means 180, psychiatrists are exaggerating more. That's because they are so insecure themselves.
He also said I was a genius but you shouldn't take that seriously either. I think that's what those guys say to anyone with an IQ of 180.
When he asked if I was forgetful I said "not that I can remember." He frowned. ainter," he replied. You know what he said too? "I can make you better." "I know that," I said. "You also said that to Tanja's parents when she was born without breasts."  "Are we going to be scornful?" he then asked. "No," I said, "not scornfully, I wouldn't dare, but I would be aggressive" and knocked him down. My self-love has diminished somewhat after that. 

I started making money (not as much as some think) and started drinking (not as much as some think either). I smoked Marlboro, watched a lot of football, listened to a lot of music and read difficult books. And so I became a narcissist, misanthropic, hupochrondic and cynical all at the same time. I liked to laugh but not often because there was little to laugh about. Certainly not in pigeon sport.
The pharmaceutical industry, the sellers of miracle drugs to make pigeons fly faster and other saviors of the pigeon sport have to deal with this. I don't function around those people.

All those vendors of bottles, powders and pills, the makers of schedules that say what you have to give your pigeons every day, attack my mind, eat my heart, trample my soul. I hate their haircuts, their eloquence, their cell phones, their folders, their arrogant faces. I fought them for decades. But alas…Sadly useless years. I sell your stuff that makes you champion they still scream as loud as before.  I, I. I. cut the word ‘I’ out of their language and all those brokers of castles in the air  are tongue-tied. The stories about their miracle potions never contain new truths, but old lies.

Carnitine, enzymes, speed pills, anti-stress tea, I don't have to put a finger in my mouth to get sick when I hear these words. I CANNOT stand it. 
Because they are brain wiping, misleading people, robbing people of their money. And especially because they drive people out of the sport.
Am I neurotic, paranoid or depressed? None of that.  
I do feel like a Don Quichotte fighting against windmills because never before has there been so much rubbish as now.

‘Why don't they believe me?’ I sometimes think.
Because I don't have an expensive booth at Pigeon shows, no gold teeth, no brochures with breathtakingly feminine beauty? It is also dangerous that those people are so different. You have some that you would give a Euro so that they could buy a cheap bullet, you have some that are so inconspicuous that they have no shadow, you have some that you would not want to be your neighbor even though if you were given a house. They are idiots, clowns in human packaging, spoilers, a danger to the pigeon sport.

Why now torturing your keyboard you may ask? The reason was the visit of an ex-champion. He had schedules with him. It stated what he had to give his pigeons daily. On the food and in the water. He did and never played that bad. Now he began to doubt whether he had moved with the times. Or maybe there was something else he didn't know and others did.
If such a man already starts to have doubts, you can imagine how things are with beginners (there are still there). They also run with those schedules in their pocket, they don't know what to think either. But yet it is simple. Look at me: While some were looking for better vitamins, better drops, better vets for many years, I was looking for better pigeons. And when I succeeded and performed super, I was seldom asked what kind of pigeons they were, the more often 'what I had given'. And those were the decent ones.

At the pigeon shop a farmer a fancier was reporting on me. 'They had to suspend that guy (me). His pigeons (my pigeons) are flying pharmacies'. "You have to tell that to S himself" said someone who had not escaped my presence, "he is behind you." He turned and looked at me and asked, "Are you S?" "Completely," I said. 'I don't know you anymore dude. You've got a gray head. ' 'That's because of people like you' I said and asked if I could pay.

And now I am writing another article. No future as a football player, two left hands, as cynical as can be and as long as people refuse to believe good pigeons are the main thing that matters, I feel I failed as a column writer