Kaputt in Hallywudd

"No one calls me... and if they do, it's the wrong one."

That's how you could describe the life of most freelance actors in a nutshell.

Perhaps a bit like the child at Mac Donald's who bobs around alone in the ball pool and wants to be discovered by the other children while they do gymnastics on the climbing frame and don't give a damn if anyone is watching.

Driven by anankastic neurosis, the mother of all personality disorders among artists, motor and brake at the same time, the self flounders in search of identity, what actually has priority, life or fiction, confirmation from outside or inside, through a great disorder of colorful possibilities and can no longer find its way.

Or you simply don't think that much, blindly go along with all the meaningless halligalli and are happy that this can be enough to earn a lot of money these days, which you can then use to hang up the insecure cover, for example.

The best way to deal with this is with humor, otherwise there's only the rope, the razor or perhaps the helipad as a jump ramp on the roof of the Deutsche Bank building in Frankfurt am Main. There are certainly no limits to the imagination.