Kamila // Hamburg // 05 October 2025
“Alexander, maybe for you?”
A cold shiver shudders through me and I look up, my gaze like a razor-sharp blade directly into the left eye of the barmaid, unerring and accurate as ever.
“What makes you say that?” I hiss and suppress nausea in my stomach with my anger.
I’m so sick of having to compete with complete strangers. I only demonstrate the hierarchy here, because the bitch is about twice as old as me and not even half as beautiful. The reason why she is behind the counter today and not in front of it is obvious. She has simply failed to commit herself to some rich hotelier, oil sheik, or professional sportsman before her expiry date has passed and must therefore now drool over the spotlight world from the shadows until her retirement – which will certainly not be too long in coming.
Sorry, not sorry.
And besides, hey – should and do are two different pairs of shoes. Oh, so completely different, I could fill books with it and make millions from it – if I wasn’t too lazy and too busy already being famous and rich.
“Oh,” the woman replies slightly unsettled. “I guess I read that somewhere once that you like to drink that…”
Annoyed, I moan, roll my eyeballs ostentatiously and then lean forward slightly toward her.
“A little tip,” I murmur harshly and narrow my eyes without blinking. “Don’t always believe everything that’s written, huh?”
Then I sit up straight, smile coolly and say, “I want a vanity.”
Intimidated, she just nods and gets to work.
“Please,” I spit after her and it sounds as contemptuous as Alice Schwarzer saying the word “man”.
Meanwhile, I have a headache. Raises my spirits to what it feels like minus a thousand percent. I close my eyes, massage my temples and sincerely hope that the alcohol will come soon.
A little later the filigree cocktail glass is already standing in front of me on the counter, filled with black-violet vanity.
Vanity. How fucking appropriate.
Fuck the taste, just by this name and by the sight of this color I am reminded every time why this cocktail has been one of my favorite drinks for some years now.
It’s the color of my soul.
Too bad I have to drink alone again. My best friend Ria danced to me this afternoon with a pregnancy test, proud as a bull and grinning like a fucking rocking horse toy because she is expecting her third child with her long-time boyfriend Javier. She peed on the probably tenth plastic stick in my bathroom and then ostentatiously waved it around before my eyes while jumping back and forth cheering, literally radioactive with happiness. If she goes on like this, she’ll soon run out of godparents.
And I didn’t believe in it once. In a stable future for Ria, the Philippine beauty model, and Javier, the Spanish shooting star, in this fast-paced, vain world.
This time my drink goes to this very world.
This world, that in reality is nothing but a grey, sad place, where sometimes caviar canapés and prosecco are served for free but never hope, and where motivation is just misplaced optimism of the damned, who don’t know better yet.
Ria is the exception that confirms the rule. The only exception that I really allow. Thanks to her, I finally became a godmother. But nevertheless, as much as I am happy for them, I sometimes wonder whether it is really so good to bring children into this world? What if they become like us later?
I turn with the glass in my hand on my barstool and look into the party hall. Textile antichrists pour 1200€ champagne on their egos, tell each other about their last holiday on the Keys or bend their fake tan-sprayed bodies on the dance floor and shit so it looks less like a transition between Michael Jackson and a stroke.
Oh yes, the world of glamour, my only faithful lover, the only thing that always remains the same and nothing ever changes.
Then I flush down two Ibuprofen with vanity.
Drink. Piss. Drink. Piss.
It’s a fucking vicious circle. I hate him. I hate him. Most probably because – in contrast to almost all other things – I can’t change anything, not even with money.
“Oh fuck…” I whisper to myself, put the empty glass back on the counter, and lift up my heavy bones.
I’m fighting my way through the masses. A thicket of mediocrity that you really only encounter at celebrity events. It sucks. I surpass a tremendous percentage of it. Physically seventy-five. Intellectually a hundred. Why are people always dissatisfied only with their appearance and never with their brains?
“Hey, beautiful woman!” somebody calls and grabs my arm.
I turn around and find myself eye to eye with a man who is too muscular, too tanned, and too botoxed to grin at me through the mirrored lenses of his Gucci aviator glasses with his white teeth. It’s a miracle he can still grin at all with all that Botox.
“Well, you here too?” he screams in my ear to drown out the music.
He comes too close to me; I can already feel his hand on my ass, and he stinks so much of cigars and vodka that my breakfast would come up to me at the latest now if I had eaten something today.
“Hi Paco,” I smile professionally as I bend as far back and away from him as my physiology allows.
Francesco “Paco” Fritz Fitzgerald is just as pathetic as his name. A mixture of German-Italian-American parents, and the worst of all. Okay, except maybe for the money. The Fitzgerald family empire earns money with software development, including Paco, who probably can’t even spell HTML.
What’s stupid for me is that this vermin has been out there after me for quite some time now and really doesn’t miss a chance to see if maybe today is His Day, when I spread my legs for him so he can put another line in his fucking macho notebook and possibly give me another goddamn note.