Hey universe, I have 10 (sex) wishes for 2023!

I think resolutions are shit. I’ve never had one and I never want to have one. Mainly because I could never keep them in my life. So I keep saying YES to the two to three kilos more and to the two to three thousand euros less in my savings account. Although I have no idea where they went.

May they at least have a great time wherever they are.

I find wishes much more informal than resolutions. I had many when I was little. For example, one of them was Brandon Walsh who took my virginity. Another was a ying yang tattooed on the ankle.

I’m glad that both of my wishes didn’t come true.

But here and now I want to write down 10 wishes that I really, really, really want to come true.

In the order, dear universe, I give you a free hand, I am generous.

I realize that my biological clock is ticking and that soon I will have to decide whether or not I want to be a mom/milf in this life. The fact is: I don’t know. I know zero. Today I really want, tomorrow I doubt, the day after tomorrow I say no to potatoes. That’s exhausting. How do you decide such a big question? And when? And how do you know you’ve made the right decision?

Suff-SMS-Sandro and I don’t fuck every night anymore. We don’t even sleep together every night. But I don’t want it to rip and end like many friends around me: they all have very nice houses, firm potatoes, good jobs – and NO sex. I still want to be fingered in the Uber, fucked on the living room table, and kissed passionately in the front row at concerts. (Sali Sandro.)

It’s clear to me that many don’t understand why Suff-SMS-Sandro and I don’t live together. I mean THAT age. In addition, especially Sandro’s mother, Mrs. Fischer, thinks it stupid to pay two rent. Your Sandro pays too much anyway and has enough space. And why I don’t just move in there, “especially because you often sit there anyway”. It’s very simple: we like to live alone. Your own four walls. the retreat. Need to make an appointment to see each other. You don’t have to understand it, Mrs Fischer, but you will make it easier for yourself – and for us – if you just accept it.

In an absolute emergency, a five is sufficient. No, come on, I want the six.

Sandro’s last Whatsapp is “Shall we rent a car on Saturday to go to the hardware store?” That’s totally okay. But I’d like to see more and more dirty news, like the one from last weekend when Sandro was drinking and partying with the boys: “Ems, are you awake? I’ll be home in 30 minutes. Undress yourself. And put on the red shoes!”

Because cool.

I love ben And so I wish that the new year saves him from Sinas. Sinas are heavier than the New Year’s Eve run in Zurich.

And on mine. And on Sandro’s. Anyone who has been reading this for a while knows that Sandro has a beer can of Messi-gen. I’m careful not to throw the stuff away myself. Even if Ms. Fischer thinks it bothers me so much, I should just throw it away. And what comes next? That I bake your boy a super braid every Sunday?

I’ve been getting up at 6:30 every morning for a few months now. Don’t even think about going back to sleep. That’s why I’m knocked out at 10 p.m. I think that’s this senile escape from bed. I do not like her. She should go.

It would be perfectly fine. Real. I solved it with Sandro. He sleeps with Nicole Aniston. And no, I didn’t mix up first names. sorry jennifer