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.

Cannibals, Yay!

So I finally found something new to write about.

The other day I had this conversation with one of my adult Russian students (word for word transcription, nothing added or omitted):

Me: So, would anyone here ever eat a dog? I mean, dogmeat? I mean, if you were hungry enough.

Student1: No, I never will eat a dog. Why would I eat a dog? No.

Student2: Yes, I ate this once.

Me: Excuse me? You ah, you ate a dog once?

Student2: Yes, when I was in army.

(me and Student1 both stare at each other and at Student2 while blinking rapidly with our eyes).

Me: so em, why did you do this? You didn't have any other food in the army?

Student2: Yes! No food. I was verry hungrry. We all eat dog in the army.

Me: wow... (trying not to look surprised. I'm not squimish, just wasn't expecting that)

Me: Okay, next question on my "Would you ever" list is, god help me, "Would you ever eat a person?" Um, so now we're talking about human meat.

Student1: No! Never! This is disgusting! Who write these list for you?

Me: Um, I just got it off of a website for ESL conversation classes.

Student2: I would. I had a friend in army who did this.

Me: What? Sorry, did you just say that you know someone who ate a person?

Student2: Yes, my friend in arrmy, when he was in Chechnia, he eat a person.

Me: Because he was really hungry, like you with the dog, and had no food?

Student2: He was in mountains for s weeks. He was in, what do you call it, special force? And they had prisoner.

Me: So they killed their POW and ate him because they had no food for three weeks? Jesus...

Student2: No no no no no! They not kill him. They keep him alive, cut meat from his thighs and grill them and then eat them. And he watch.

Me: ?????
What the fffffffffff...

Student1: (complete fucking silence. Won't even look at Student2.)

Student2: Well, they ver angry at the prisoner. So they want to hurt him, but also, they ver hungry.

Me: okay, that's, that's it for the day. I'll see you next week. A lot of food for thought there heh-heh. Thanks Boris. Very interesting today.

Yeah, real convo. Really happened. I love Russia.

FUCK YOU DIMA!!!! (Or how to kick a three-legged dog in the balls)

Yeah, am I bitter? Yes. Am I pissed off? Shitteously! Am I hurt like a three-legged dog that just got kicked in the balls? Without a doubt!
And why you might ask?
Because I got into a "serious" relationship over here ya'll. Now please, have a good laugh at my expense because I'm such a dumbass. First time I fall in love with a man in seven years and he turns out to be such a dick that I might just go play for the other team for reals this time.
Now let me start out by saying that when I got together with DIMA he was living with another girlfriend, and had been living with her for the past three years. Here is a quick summary of our six month relationship, which by the way is the longest relationship that I've been in since college:

- Girl meets boy. It's love at first sight.
- Boy leaves his other girlfriend and moves in with girl.
- Boy eats all of girl's food and sucks up whatever financial means she has at her disposal.
- Girl quietly complains about money but boy cooks really good food and fucks like a stallion so girl continues to ignore the fact that she's supporting a man-sized baby.
- Girl and boy are in love. Girl introduces boy to her father. Everything is great. (Except for the fact that money is tight and girl is getting kind of needy and clingy because she's so in love)
- Boy goes away to a music festival and comes back all distant and shit.
- Boy increasingly needs to hang out with his friends without girl and is even more distant.
- Girl begins to feel insecure and unattractive. And also, suspicious.
- Girl and boy only have sex in a dirty nightclub because he's hardly ever home anymore.
- Girl's financial situation improves (because man-sized baby is eating elsewhere) while her emotional state deteriorates.
- Girl asks boy if he's fucking other women while in a hysterical state. Boy admits that "yes, when I need to." FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING CUNT ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKER!!!!
- Boy gets a new girlfriend without telling girl about it, and judging by the looks of her, has no intention of breaking up with girl because new girlfriend looks about 19 so she probably has no income and lives with her parents, thereby not being in a position to support boy. DROP DEAD YOU USING PIECE OF SHIT COCKSUCKER!!!!
- Girl finally breaks up with boy via text message after a solid month and a half of depression and inner-turmoil. Boy doesn't even bother calling girl back.
- Girl calls boy and tells him to get his shit out of her place. This is when information about new girlfriend is confirmed. FUCKER!
- Girl's heart is so fucking broke she may never love again. At least for the summer.

The End.

This was the best and worst relationship that I have ever been in. And the funny part is that when I got together with this sorry excuse for a Siberian abortion, I knew that it would turn out this way. I knew that eventually, I would be in the exact same position as the girl he was with when he and I got together. And I told myself that when that happened, I had to bail out immediately, and also, under no circumstances am I to fall in love with this fucking gigolo. And then, I just, forgot. I fucking forgot. So I guess the only one to blame here is not me, and not DIMA, but my shit ability to remember things. FUCK YOU MEMORY!!!! Next time work better.

I swear, next time I meet a man, I'm going to write a big reminder right above my bed so that we can both see it every morning. It's going to be something like "THIS MOTHERFUCKER WILL SCREW YOU OVER EVENTUALLY. DUMP HIS ASS THE MINUTE SHIT DON'T SEEM RIGHT AND DON'T FALL IN LOVE NO MATTER WHAT." I am actually going to do this. But I'll write it in English so it's not such a shocker for him every morning.

All laughs aside, I really hurt and don't know how to make it stop. Any advice will be appreciated.

Quick Russian joke

What is the difference between a pedophile and a pedagogue?
The pedophile REALLY likes children.

My Short and Agonizing Visit to HerpesVille

I don't have herpes, but I do have the Flu.
I just wanted to get that out there so everyone can feel sorry for me. And it's not the bullshit "slight cough/moderate sneezing/sort of a fever for 1 day" flu. No, it's the "high fever for 3 days/throat-tearing coughing/swarm-sneezing" kind of flu.
Anyway, this has nothing to do with the herp, but I just thought that I'd explain my general state of mind at the moment, and also, as previously mentioned the sympathy thing.

So, this post is going to describe in detail my brief visit to what I like to call HerpesVille here in Frozen Hell.

It all began with the night that I went out on Halloween. As everyone knows, Halloween is super fun because it's that special time of year that every girl gets to let her inner (and in my case outer) slut out. So me and my new little friend (I change these on a monthly basis, but I really like this one, so I hope she sticks) dressed up as two goddesses and went out on the town. We ended up at a party, had a fair amount to drink, and naturally I ended up taking some American dude home where we engaged in all sorts of rough'n'fun until the wee hours of the morning. We parted amiably enough when his roommate called him from the afore mentioned party because he couldn't find his pants and needed my gentleman friend's help in locating them. What kind of retard can't find his pants in the morning? And Irish one! That's what kind. Never trust the Irish. Because they'll put a dent in your bathroom door and put you in all kinds of situations where you can get your ass kicked. They're all like Popeye the friendly sailor man, except instead of spinach it's booze, and instead of super strength, it's, um, super retard.

When I got home, still all innocent and doe-eyed, I decided to take a nap. Imagine my totes shock when I wake up to find something not right in my most sacred of sacred places. Yeah, I felt a Dum Dum Dum "blister". I, being a complete and total hypochondriac, immediately think "HERP! » Now don't get me wrong. This ain't the first time that I've mistaken something for herp. This happens to me every couple of years or so. Usually, I handle it pretty calmly. And by calmly, I mean I freak out and run to a doctor, at which point they take one look at whatever it is that's got my panties in a bunch and tell me that it couldn’t 't possibly be herpes because it's on my elbow or something.

But this time, something was different. I'm guessing it's the fact that I'm here in Russia. So this was on a Sunday, and come Monday, I'm thoroughly saturated, and what do I do? The most retarded thing I could have imagined myself doing. I don't go to a doctor. Instead, I call up the last three dudes that I slept with and ask them if THEY have herpes. Yes, I really did that. Including the American that I had just slept with. He couldn't have possibly given it to me but I figured just in case, I should go ahead and include him in on my heart attack (which was now turning into a communal affliction).

Here's how these conversations on the phone went:

Contestant #1 - Blind Diabetic from New Zealand.

-Hey Blank, how you doing? Say, you don't have herpes by any chance, do you? Because I just found something that might be that.
-Oh Jesus P! That's just what I need right now! No, I don't have herpes. So when do you think you gave it to me?
-I gave it to you? Screw you! If anything you gave it to me.
-Well, you slept with that American guy this weekend. He seems dirty. You should call him. He probably gave it to you.

Contestant #2 - Psychopath musician from Russia.
-Hey Blank, how you doing? Say, you don't have herpes by any chance, do you? Because I just found something that might be that.
-Herpes? No, I definitely don't have that. But once you get that all cleared up, please consider me for a permanent position as your Saturday night lover. I'm in the countryside for the weekdays, but I'm here in the city every weekend.
-Seriously? I just told you that I might have herpes. Really?

Contestant #3 - Nice guy from America (Couldn't have possibly given me the herp)
-Hey Blank, how you doing? Say, you don't have herpes by any chance, do you? Because I just found something that might be that.
-Um, no I don't have herpes. I've only slept with two women since I got checked for it 8 months ago, and you were one of them. And uh, I couldn't have given it to you because the incubation period is too short. Can please give me a call after you get tested?


Please note that the only man not completely freaked out by the word "herpes" in this scenario was the Russian. That's how they roll with STD's here in Russia.

Okay, so after doing this completely asinine thing, I went to an expensive VD clinic to get my lady parts checked out. The first thing that I thought was kind of "funny" was that they kept insisting that herpes is not a venereal disease. They don't think of it as an STD here in Russia. They don't even think it's a particularly big deal.
The second thing that happened was that the doctor took one look at it and was like "yeah, that's herpes alright!" And when I said "but couldn't it be something else?" Her reply was "no! This is herpes. We're doing a culture because you're insisting on it, but it's purely perfunctory at this point. I assure you that this is herpes."
Also, she kept asking me what I normally use to treat my herpes. She asked me this twice after I told her that I'd never had it before. Like "what do you normally put on your herpes?" "Lady, I already told you, I've never had herpes before so why and how the hell would I put something on it?" I even asked another doctor in the place if that first doctor is ever wrong and she was like "no, that doctor has been doing this for years, and if she says it's herp, then it's herp."

So, as you can all imagine, I was fairly bummed out by this point. I mean, really bummed out. All I kept thinking of was "Motherfucking Russia gave me Herpes!" Bad enough that it's cold and wet here, but now it's given me a venereal disease. This is bullshit ya'll!

And just as I got used to the idea of living, biking, swimming, and showing with herpes, thanks to Valtrex or whatever, I call this morning to get my "perfunctory" test results back and BAM! it's not herpes. Just like that. I was too relieved to be pissed off about the absolute surety with which that cunt of a doctor was trying to convince me that I had an incurable STD PRIOR to performing the definitive testing.

Anyway, I've done a lot of personal reflecting over the past few (7) days and have come to the conclusion that I'm not letting one more dirty bastard in this country lay a finger on me ever again.

I am, however, going to Iceland for New Years. Iceland is clean and pure, so that's a whole nother matter...

The moral of this story is never believe Russian doctors. Or, don't sleep around. No wait, it's yeah, never believe Russian doctors.