Dear Kreuzberg.

No need to beat around the trashed-by-weed-dealers bush.

It’s been real, but I’m out. You party too much for me. You don’t even wait for the weekends anymore, you just show up on my doorstep on a Tuesday, beer in hand and scream, “Let us make party, JA?”

“No, thank you.” I whisper softly, afraid that you’ll get upset if I show any signs of “negativity,” like, not wanting to drink, or not wanting to scream on the streets, or not wanting to smash glass all over the streets, or not wanting to play shitty music three meters away from the next guy playing shitty music on the streets.

When did street musicians all get full PA systems and amps? Jesus, does the music need to be that loud for anyone with any musical taste to realize your music sucks?

Honestly.

There’s nothing more depressing than seeing some shitty street musician, jamming away with that old, “whether there’s 2 or 200 people, I’m gonna jam my ass off” attitude, for a bunch of people hustling past him with their heads down pretending they don’t notice there’s a guy with an electric guitar blasting crappy music into their ears.

I hate how optimistic some artists are about their own art.

“JUST SHOVE IT IN THEIR FACES AND THEY’LL LOVE IT!”

The only thing worse than that is to see some shit-bag emo street singer, sounding like the worst possible variation of Coldplay mixed with horse shit, mixed with cow shit, mixed with dog shit, with a full crowd of people standing there, ACTUALLY listening to his horrendous music.

What the hell? Are you people hearing what I’m hearing? No wonder the guy’s all kinds of emo, listen to his music. Look at his haircut. Just thinking about this whole scene is making me suicidal.

But I digress. This is a break-up letter. It’s not about the music, Kreuzberg, it’s about you hanging out with these musicians, and jugglers and alternative tour guides, and capitalistic bar owners and so on….

You’ve lost your personality.

Speaking of no personality. Congratulations to that hipster bar on Wrangler Str for celebrating one year of making the neighborhood even shittier and louder and drunker! The balloons were a nice touch, but the mass of drunken fucktards breaking shit and screaming were exactly what that neighborhood needed.

Keep pumping that shit music, and why just have Dj’s on the weekend?

No Kreuzberg, I’m not happy with you. Long gone are the days of sitting on the stairs in the park with Anne, Paula, Vince, Matze, Daniel, Jule, and other reasonable people you chased away.

And now, I’m gone too.

No more broken glass. No more three-hour lines for ice cream. No more, “Oh, cool, how long have you been in Berlin.” No more beer bikes, Segway tours, Que Pasa. No racist German’s from Schoeneweide looking for Chalet, and so on and so forth.

I wish we could stay friends, but honestly, I’m worried about you. I feel like you’re not the neighborhood I fell in love with and you don’t even care. You’re in love with money, and young woman, and real estate.

Oh well, who am I to judge. Be you, Kreuzberg. I’ll never forget that first time I set eyes on you in 2003.

I’ll remember you like that, forever.

Tchüss.