Self-Help, AI Doom and the Football World Cup

I’ve got an estimated 99 problems right now waiting to be approached, some of which are strikingly sensitive. And I’m certainly not proud of the fact that none of them involve a woman. In fact, I think it’s rather sad. But then again, who would be proud of that?

As I lie on the bed in the middle of the day, shoveling highly calorie-dense snacks into my mouth without even looking at them anymore, I almost manage to swallow the suspicion that I might not be doing enough to turn things around. But I just can’t find the energy right now—in fact, I haven’t for days. What is it? Did I catch an infection on a recent trip, during which I shared the bus with multiple audibly ill travelers for over 6 hours? Is it the depressingly dark and tiny studio apartment I just moved into for the month, which relies entirely on reflections off the neighboring house wall for illumination, exacerbated by the fact that it’s been raining ever since the day I arrived here in soaking wet shoes? Could the pungent stench of unknown origin wafting through every corner of this run-down apartment building located right on a heavily trafficked street in the Kreuzberg neighborhood of Berlin have anything to do with it?

For someone under this much pressure, I am conspicuously inactive. I finally manage to shake the grip of the YouTube algorithm after hours of drifting back and forth between self-help and AI doom, just to… well… switch over to a live stream of the football world cup. I tilt the laptop back onto its side and position it next to me on the bed, its glow leaving my face covered in an unhealthy shade of blue. I open up a bottle of beer, barely avoiding problem number 100 by picking a non-alcoholic one, and watch Germany score the first goal of the match against Curaçao. This is a tiny island in the Caribbean Sea that has never even competed in the world cup before, pitted against one of the sport’s giants. And even in the face of this seemingly impossible task, they are significantly more active than I am. Neither before nor after conceding the goal was there any sign of intimidation. No standing in the back, defending close to their own goal only hoping to score after a lucky counterattack—a strategy frequently picked by small teams in situations like these. Just a group of young, confident men determined to fight for what they believe in. But no worries, I’m not here to talk football strategy with you. I clearly suck at strategy.

I must say, though, that to my surprise I am enjoying these matches more than I expected to a few weeks ago, when the news surrounding the tournament was all about FIFA President Gianni Infantino’s bizarre introduction of the FIFA Peace Prize, with Donald Trump of all people as its first recipient, feared ICE raids during the tournament, a Somali referee who was denied entry to one of the host countries, the USA, despite holding a valid visa issued only a week earlier. And then there were the exorbitant prices—not only for the tickets to the matches, but for everything else that was in one way or another subject to the raw violence of a free market unregulated by any state or morality, from public transport tickets to parking lots at the stadium to hotel rooms.

But right now everything that matters can be captured by a single massive camera, ponderously swaying from left to right following the ball below. As Curaçao, against all odds, scores an equalizing goal, the fans who made the trip erupt in euphoria. The team representing a nation of just 150,000 people had just proven they were able to outplay one of the biggest names in football and thereby shatter any hidden mental barriers that may still have kept them from believing they could win this match or even more. And although that joy was short-lived, as Germany takes the lead once again only minutes later—first by one goal, then by another—they still show no intention of giving up. Neither do the fans, who seem as though they are going to celebrate either way. If not a sporting success that will leave their team as living legends, then life.

All the while my 99 problems have made themselves comfortable in my head, recklessly chipping away at my mental health, slapping around random synapses just to see what happens, fucking up vital neural pathways. Like ill-bred little brats that should never have been allowed access to this inconceivably complex network of outstanding beauty that somehow my whole life runs on. And you just know they will keep vandalizing right until they’re bored and move on. The chaos is paralyzing. It feels like I’m barred from any of the good things in life until it’s all sorted. I am trapped in here with the vandals, in this dark apartment with the funny smell.

I walk over to the kitchen for another beer, where the fridge suddenly throws me into the spotlight. I have a flashback to different times. Times when I was excited about the never-ending stream of ideas I couldn’t wait to bring to life, or the adventures I’d still have, traveling to places and meeting people who would leave lasting imprints, building memories I would draw on for the rest of my life. Luckily I haven’t forgotten that I’ve been here before, in this very place. And I haven’t forgotten that so far I’ve always found a way back to that place of thriving, too. It gives me the confidence to believe that I’ll also recover this time, someday. But as the commentator announces the 7th goal for Germany through the laptop’s speakers on the bed, I know very well that it isn’t going to be today.