Plusha Fucks Up, But Possibly for a Good Reason

This is a post that I wrote ages ago, while still with my no-good ex, but it was a happy day, and a happy memory actually, so as my official last post on this blog evs, I'm going to go ahead and publish it. As it turned out, the young lady that I had brought home that night was a very expensive escort, which I got completely free of charge. Yay for me! There are no dirty details in the post, but use your imaginations, because I assure you that it was dirty as all fuck.


Dear Friend,
I know that I've been a bit remiss in my writing here as of late (last 6 months of so), but I've been, ahem, a bit busy with life and shit.

So allow me to catch you up a bit on what's been going on in my life for the past half a year or so.

First, I've moved. I now live in a beautiful apartment that leaks like a faucet but looks like an abandoned church.Amazingly enough, even though the ceiling drops about a liter of water from the ceiling every time it rains, it's almost impossible to take a shower because there is virtually no water pressure here. Nice, right? But I'm not complaining because as I said, it's pretty as all hell and has a domed ceiling and lots of space.

I still work at the publishing house (oligarch's personal assistant), but only part time now. The rest of the time I am teaching English even though I wouldn't know a verb from a noun (seriously, I don't know what those are, and if anyone knows a quick way to remember the difference, please let me in on the secret), and the rest of the time, try to have as much fun as I can.

I have a "boyfriend." I use that term loosely because as it turns out I've got some commitment issues and don't want one of those. Furthermore, he's not exactly Mr. Right. As my father so keenly pointed out, women can talk until they are blue in the face about how they like a guy for his talent and his deep soul and intellect, but this is total bullshit because ultimately they fall in love with men for their pretty faces and large cocks. That's basically the situation here. Although, he is a very talented musician. He's also talented in other areas. Nuff said.

There. You're basically all caught up.

So what's happening today? First of all, let me confess that I am extremely hung over at the moment so please disregard the poor writing. It's hard to write well when you've got a pounding migraine and there are small green devils crawling all over you.

Today was supposed to be a productive day. I'm currently working on obtaining an internal passport, including a propiska (this is complete bullshit left over from the soviet times where the government still insists on keeping track of where everyone is living at all times). So, today, I was supposed to go to the local police station to get some documents stamped. After that I was supposed to go to a seminar on teaching English as a second language so that I can receive a certificate and also, um, learn to teach better. Yeah, big super productive day.

Did I do these important things that I was supposed to do? Hell no. And why, you may ask? Why did Plusha not do the very important things that she was supposed to do? Because Plusha wilded out last night in a completely bohemian fashion. Instead of being responsible and going home around midnight like she was supposed toin order to get lots of sleep, so that she can be bright-eyed and bushy tailed this morning, Plusha went to a night club, drank lots of absinth, and brought home this:



Seriously, this is approximately what she looked like.I honestly wasn't sure that women like this existed outside of Royo drawings. And we were accompanied by this:



The above being my boyfriend.

After the three of us got home, Image number 1 and I sent Image number 2 out for additional wine. I'm not going to describe the details of the debauchery that happened when he returned, but sufficed to say that a nice, bohemian time was had by all.

So, was it worth it? Was having said nice bohemian time with Image 1 and Image 2 worth completely crapping out, fucking up, and not doing the things that I was supposed to do this morning? You know what? I don't think that when I'm sixty I'm going to wish that I handled more of my paperwork and said hello to post-Soviet bureaucracy on a more regular basis. I think that instead, I'm going to fondly remember nights like last night. Because it was fucking memorable. So yeah, it was totally fucking worth it!

And now I'm going to go and drown my face in some cold water because I don't feel well. But fuck it, even the hangover is worth it.

Death in Russia, Part Deux

Hi there.
I'm back in America now, so my life in Frozen hell is over. I'm now on a whole new/old level of the inferno, filled with superfun stuff like unemployment, broke-as-a-joke-ness and generally ignoring and being ignored by my dearest and closest. But that's how this level of hell works. It ain't frozen, but it sure as fuck is humid and isolated. I swear it's like living on an uninhabited island, with the difference being that some asshole's car alarm goes off every ten minutes and you have to pay really high rent. Is it really worth it? Really?

Anyway, here's the second and brief installment of what happened after the third day of death in Russia.

THE FUNERAL
Now, for those of you not in the know, the deceased gentleman was quite popular and worked at the theater and was generally beloved by all. So picture this if you will. Over 100 people show up to say goodbye to him at the morgue. Yeah, because again, no funeral home, so it's all done at the morgue in Russia. Well, I mean, they do give you that large hall for it. And here comes the tackiness. So there's this lady that sorts out the last minute details with you. One of which is that she is going to put on some mournful music because "trust me, without it, it'll be worse." Really? You don't think that Mozart's requiem blasted at full volume is a bit much? Seriously? Not for Rrrrrrussians it aint.
So then we get all these people, theatrical people mind you, from the theater, who get up to say a few words. I've never seen so many adults cry that much or beat their chests with such vigor. It was like the spirit of fucking Tarzan had entered the place.
At this point, shit hits fan because there are two nine-year-old childrens who are in attendance. Now, one of them is genuinely distraught over the whole daddy's dead thing and is crying her balls off. And the other one, the one that decided to cry on my lap, is faking it. I've never seen anyone fake cry at a funeral before, but apparently his grandfather told him that that's what we do at funerals and so he felt obligated. It was sick. I swear to god. He had his head buried practically in my crotch for the entire thing, and made crying noises, but would periodically look up at me to see if I was still crying and he had to keep going or could finally stop faking. And I had to see that he was faking every time he did that because his eyes were completely dry and he had this sly look in his eye. Fucking nine-year-olds!

And then came the reception, sponsored by the theater. It was very lovely and tasteful, right up until some alcholic cunt showed up, sat right next to the widow, and began yelling "He was my all, he was my everything, he was my life!!!!" I tried to get her to leave, and when she refused, I told the widow's brother to get her the hell out of there lest I punch her in the face. I mean who does that? He was your all? Really drunken idiot? How about he was the widow's all? How about he was his two children's all? God, only in Russia. No motherfucking decorum.

However, decorum or not, it all seemed honest injun and true. I mean, these people felt shit and expressed it. Also, there was lots and lots of vodka. And food. And crying. I can't over exaggerate the crying. Because that's how we roll in Russia.

All in all, after officially declining my inheritance, so that his two young children can have it all, because I don't want it and it's the right thing to do, this particular death, for some as yet unknown reason, haunts me. I can't seem to get over it. Even though this death, was not nearly as important as the one that came before.

I'm glad to have left Russia because I've had enough of Kafka, but I'm not glad to be here, because here is destructive for me. And I guess this is me signing off. I might post an old entry that I wrote but never posted, but this is the last update update.

Good night and god speed.

Death in Russia

Hey guys! How you doing? I know it's been a while, but if it makes you feel better, I swear that I've been thinking about you this whole time. Hm? How about a massage? Will that do it? Okay, I'll buy you dinner when I get home, ok? Ok? Ok.

And now, onto bigger and better things.

So. Death in Russia. To be more precise, I'm about to let you in on a step-by-step comparison of death in America vs. death in Russia. Of a loved one no less. Having experienced both, I am now uniquely qualified to do so.

Alright.

Step 1. Your loved one dies. Let's say at home. You call an ambulance and:
America: the ambulance arrives within the hour, determines that nothing can be done, after trying everything, and TAKES YOUR LOVED ONE AWAY giving you all the necessary info. You get in touch with a funeral home of your chosing and they assure you in a soft and comforting voice that they'll take care of everything.
Russia: ambulance arrives in two hours. Pokes your loved one a bit, announces that he's quite dead AND LEAVES.
FOUR MOTHERFUCKING HOURS LATER two very self-important morons show up to pick up the body. They also give you the necessary information. But for the past six hours, you've basically gotten some serious quality time with the corpse of the person you once knew and loved. YOU have to wrap him in two sheets of your own choosing and a towel for some reason. As the two morons carry your loved one out, don't be surprised, if he happens to be on the heavy side of life, that while banging his head against the doorframe, one of them might remark, "Damn this guy is heavy!"
End of Step 1.

Step 2.
The next day you:
America: go to the funeral parlor. Now, the funeral parlor, while a little silly looking, is soothing. It smells like flowers and there doesn't seem to be anyone there but you. The whole thing feels a bit surreal. The funeral director that you speak with uses a special "calm" voice with you. It feels like he's patronizing you a little bit. You just lost a loved one, not suddenly become super sensitive to other people's inside voice, but whatever. The funeral director asks you what you would like to do. Let's say you'd like a cremation. He fills out all the necessary paperwork right in front of you and reassures you that everything will be okay, and tells you that you'll have the ashes of your loved one in a few days, along with the Death Certificate. You pay him some money and go home to plan the goodbye evening for friends and family.
Russsia: go to the city morgue. Oh man, I don't even want to talk about it.The first thing that hits you is a smell that you can't quite figure out until someone points out that this, THIS is the smell of rotting corpses. Thanks Russia! You enter a large buidling. You go to a bunch of different offices where people tell you that you have to go to other offices. You get passed around like a dirty whore. The place is full of crying grieving people, men in white coats, and men in nurse scrubs. It literally smells like death and there are coffins everywhere. No one uses a special voice. And this is Russia. Their regular voices leave something to be desired. They tell you that they'll be performing an autopsy and that you should come back in 4 hours. Nothing can be done until then. When you come back in 4 hours, you have to wait for one more hour for the results, at which point they give them to you and promptly inform you that they are closing. This is one of only two places where you can arrange for a funeral. Great!

It's at this point that they take an interest in what you'd like to do. You tell them you want a cremation, but also a chance for people to say goodbye, like with a coffin and shit, but you'd like the coffin to be closed. Without asking what your reasons for this closed coffin business might be first, they proseed to fight you on it. They go so far as to say "Why would you want a closed coffin??? He's a pretty good looking guy!" Thanks random death nurse person! But we've got two nine-year-old children attending, so no.

You are then taken to look at the coffins. It's at this point that some other death nurse guys inform you that your loved one is too portly to fit into a double coffin and that you will need to special order one. When they find out that you'd like cremation they explain that this is not possible because your loved one is too large to fit into the oven. When you say "fine bitch, we'll go to a different crematorium", they politely explain that their crematorium is the only one in the city. Your only response is "This is bullshit! How small are you ovens anyway??? And also, could you be confusing my loved one with some other huge dead dude down there? Maybe you should go and check." There's absolutely no hope of this happening.

Amazingly, to your great surprise, one of the death nurse guys really does go down and check. And with a complete and utter absence of apology, he lets you know that yeah, they mixed your loved one with someone else's loved one. So as it turns out, your LO can actually fit into the oven. Good on you and your LO. But now, this morgue is closed and you have to go to the nearby cemetery to set up the actual funeral.

So you go and do that. I'm not going to go into detail here, but sufficed to say that you will wait in line for at least 2 more hours, you will be cold because the door is open so that some guys can carry all the headstones out of the cemetery store, and it's the middle of winter, and you will be told that you'll need to bribe the death nurses to carry the coffin for you from the morgue to the hearse-bus that you've had to hire. Score!

You make all the arrangements. What? 45 whole minutes to say goodbye to your loved one in the main hall? You don't say! Thank you evil funeral lady. And thanks also for explaining that while our loved one will be cremated in two days, there's really no way to know when they'll give us the ashes, ahead of time, and also if we don't come to pick them up on the very day that they're ready, you'll charge us 45 rubles per storage day. Super!

Step 3:
The next day:
I haven't done this in America so there's no way to contrast. There just hasn't been a third day.
Russia: You go back to the foul-smelling morgue. Dude, morgue!!!! Seriously. The reason that you go back is to give the death nurses some clothes to dress your loved on in (even though the coffin will be closed). Now here, once again they tell you that you should have an open coffin. And I quote "His face is quite blue now, but he's still a very handsome man." Fuck...
And then you bribe the death nurses to carry your loved one out to the hearse.


This is as far as I've gotten with death in Russia. Tomorrow is the actual funeral/cremation, and the goodbye gathering. If the spirit moves me, there'll be a part duex to this. But guys, for reals, try to not have anyone die on you in Russia, ever. The smell alone is enough to destroy any innocence you might have had. The whole thing will be like an assrape.





I'll miss knowing that you exist.