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 She fried kolbassa. I adjusted myself to that. Kolbassa is not really pure sausage because of Russian direction. It’s not so easy to be attuned to meat, but in Russia meat is gold. It’s status. It is in normal countries when you eat meat it means nothing. Only meat. In Russia if you eat meat you are better that your neighbor, better than you relative if he earns less. It’s a very ancient motive. I took a peek from a corner at her. You can’t compare woman with humans, though it sounds primitive and monkey-like. She is predisposed to the simple gestures but has a good  nose for ones which connected to her inner territory.  A man is a part of that corral, you can’t get out.

“Good”, I made a comment.

She smiled.

“Lovely kolbassa.”

“From Pyatiorochka.”

“Maybe its chemical?”

“So what? What’s the difference? You like kolbassa, I know.”

“As your father does.”

“So what?”

“Do it.”

“I do.”

To insist on something else is to make things worse. As for her root, things beyond two-dimensional coordinate system is a clear fraud for him. The young age involves all stages of stupidity. That time that angle had never occurred to me.  But kolbassa is ruling over the world. Her father had it in his fridge like a something mandatory. Status means all. To think it over, we’ll never get out of it.


Город: Chicago
Музыка: Nirvana






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