Saturday,
August 1, 1998
Can you
believe it's almost been a year since I started keeping this
thing? WOW! I can't fucking believe it. I feel like I breathed
life into it just a little bit and now it almost controls me.
I suppose it's a good thing to have this kind of document, and
in lieu of past endeavors, I don't think I would have ever of
kept this up for myself, but because I know there are some of
you still with me...
Now for
some serious stuff...
I sat
in the metro coming from Liuda's obshezhete. On the first line,
the purple, I thought of one of my past lovers. I thought of
all the things I admired about him and I smiled to myself. I
was aware o the smile on my face because other men were staring
at me.
Then I
switched to the grey line and sat down. I was next to the two
macho Russians and that always makes me feel more feminine.
Then I looked across from me and saw this tanned chest of a
woman that reveled her age. She was outside, working on her
garden... tomatoes perhaps, but I doubt she was swimming in
a pool in her backyard. I thought to myself "she has a smooth
chest, she needs scars here and here" so I painted them on her
with my imagination and that was my mother's chest. Then a woman
sat down next to her and she was wearing a bright pink shirt,
and right above the neckline, there was a bright pink scar.
It wasn't right. It's not like the scars I remember. The one
where a port had been infected and everyone cleaned it out but
me because I was too grossed out.
I ran
my hands across her chest, the one that nursed me. Odd thing
for a woman of the seventies to nurse her children. It was cold
and hard, and the 4th port that finally took, was up around
her collarbone. Before, it had always been close to her heart...
I wonder what they did with her heart.
She has
been in the ground exactly six months today... and my grief
ebbs and tides. Today, it was a tsunami and I can cry here,
in Moscow, where I am comfortable. Funny, isn't it?
Monday,
August 3, 1998
Memories,
memories, memories... other people's memories that haunt me...
nothing I ever experienced myself. But the thing about being
an artist, about filtering other people's experiences, about
the ESP thing, where I can feel the residue left behind... That
is rather painful for me but I listen to just about everyone,
because sometimes, you just need to know someone cares.
So, I
really would like to think I don't need other people's opinions
to validate my life, and most of the time I don't care, but
sometimes, I like to be re-affirmed...
Lena is
bitching at Babushka for hurting my feelings. I can hear the
things she is saying, and the memories she has of me... visiting
babushka in the hospital; going with her to the cemetery; helping
her whenever she asks me. Lena understands me more then I give
her credit for sometimes. She is such a beautiful woman. I really
admire her a lot, and it's funny to have been accidentally placed
with her and we share some of the same attitudes about life.
In the
book I am reading, it says that it's hard to identify with women
because my mom was so sick for so long that I didn't have such
a great example, but Lena is such a woman. Always neat and clean,
face just right, hair perfect. I really admire that she takes
the time to do these things always.
Good memories
of her... asking me about a brand of make-up; asking me is Safeguard
is a good soap... She must admire me as well if she asks me
what I think about certain things. We talk about love, men,
life. I really appreciate the time I have gotten to spend with
her. But babushka hurt my feelings so bad today that I started
packing up my shit and called around to get a room some where
else.
I spent
the night away last night. I can't tell you how wonderful it
was. Smooth, hairless skin; taller then me (which is nice for
a change, most guys are about my height); chiseled features
and Russian to boot! I never thought a Russian man would be
interested in me, they usually don't like foreigners. But I
met him last year, and he told Liuda how pretty he thought I
was. I look at him and I am on fire.
He's so
much more solid then me, and when he laid his head on my arm
this morning, it was so heavy. I translated a joke into Russian
from English that I knew and he laughed and laughed because
he thought it was Russian. He is sweet, and kind, and when he
looks back at me, he is on fire. That's what life is all about.
Feeling something so deeply, so nice, so equal. Good God, what
has gotten into me?
The sex
was phenomenal, but the attention was even better. Telling me
I look like one of the maidens from some Russian fairy tale
as he brushed my hair. Caressing my misty back and being oh
so seductive. Taking time to feel me next to him. Kisses deep
and moist unlike any I have ever experienced. So much attention
to details that were easily lost in past encounters. Teasing
me with kisses and taking his mouth away causing me gentle anxiety.
Manners, what wonderful manners, opening doors, he took my hand...
he blew me a kiss back as well.
He's a
graduate student at the technology institute. He is so amazingly
beautiful. I liked him last year, but when I met him, I think
I only had a week left.
So, all
the good things I have done for Babushka, buy her peanut butter,
visit her in the hospital, all out the window. Good girls don't
do such things, but I am not a part of this society, and she
needs to accept that people can and will do what ever the hell
they want.
I met
the most amazing couple today. She was Russian and he's English.
He's much older then she is, but they are such a happy couple.
It's the most English I have spoken in two weeks. Strange how
fast it seems to go out of practice. They met when she was in
England on business and he was a taxi cab driver at the time.
He gave her his address and a couple of months went by and she
wrote to him. They corresponded in this manner and when he wanted
to marry her, the English government wouldn't let it happen
(they were afraid that she was just doing it for business),
so he had to go to a higher court and appeal their decision.
It was such a romantic story to hear him tell it.
We spent
a few hours together, just looking at places. I took photos.
We talked about families and kids and dads... He told me when
you are young, and you are a father, you just don't really care
about anyone but yourself, then as you get older, you start
to realize how important your family is. It was nice to hear
such words coming from a father that has children he doesn't
really see. I feel so much for him, for the shitty experiences
he had to live through because he wasn't aware of such things.
I was invited to stay with them if I ever do decide to go to
England (little did they know who they invited), and I think
with this experience I have changed my mind somewhat about how
I feel about the English.
I haven't
slept for two days really. I slept over at Liuda's the other
day... She just can't get over how much I understand. I don't
have to tell her to slow down. I don't know what happened to
Moscow's nasty smell, it's vanished for me as well.
More experiences...
more, more, more... I am so tired now, I can barely keep my
eyes open and write about them all...
Wednesday,
August 5, 1998
Time out
for personal time... Write again when I am in Volgagrad this
weekend.
Thursday,
August 6, 1998
I am falling
deeply, madly, and passionately in love with this man. Just
the way about him, the few things I have talked with him about.
The way he moves... I watch him walk and I think of his tan
line.
I feel
like a teenager because there was no place to go the other night
so we just sat outside, kissing on the quasi playground. I nibbled
on his ear, and it sent shivers up his spine.
We rented
a hotel room last night and after he took about an hour shower
(good god he's worse then a woman) he came out and I gave him
a back rub. He loves them. Andy never wanted me to do such things
for him, and that was always a weird thing for me because how
can you not like getting that kind of pleasure from being touched?
Massaging
him everywhere, such beautiful skin. Almost as soft as mine,
but he was in Sochi last week and got sun poisoning so he is
peeling now. He's the perfect height, the perfect everything.
Intelligent, funny, handsome. I feel like a cat that has been
thrown out of a 30 story building again.
Now I
understand why there are so many love songs.
I am scared
to a certain degree. Little thoughts that really mean nothing.
His mind is amazing, just a little crooked to the left.
When I
was sick of rubbing his back, I started kissing his spine and
licking it in little tiny circles finishing it with one of those
kisses that tugs on your muscles. Slowly, ever so slowly. I
wanted to feel his soft skin against my lips. I would stop every
once in a while and blow.
I leave
for Volgagrad tomorrow, to see Roman. I am excited, but I am
also a little sad as well. I want to be with him, next to him,
feel him near me. I see how people can do such stupid things
when they love someone now.
I licked
around his collar bones, feeling the muscles just underneath
the skin go slightly taught. Worked my way up to his ear and
nibbled on it again. He shivered and then I had him turn over
so I could work my way down.
Renting
a hotel room took about 40 minutes. I swear to God, this outdated
system is so fucking stupid, it drives me crazy sometimes. I
constantly find myself saying to myself "It's Russia" and now
even Lena has adopted the phrase. They don't understand that
life can be made much more simple if they wouldn't rely on Soviet
tactics. The militia men at the door give us shit. I hate this
place sometimes.
I was
careful not to touch his cock. I licked and bit on his hips
and he giggled. I don't know if anyone has every touched him
in such a manner and that's why he was laughing, because he's
not really ticklish. I licked and kissed all around...
Lena told
me not to pay babushka any mind. She loves me and I know it
now. We are meeting tonight and I will take her out to eat at
my favorite place. It has changed. I am so hungry for real food.
I am afraid to eat the food here because it has made me sick
several times before. Our government has regulations for a reason.
When I
was done, I went back up, kissing him but not with the careful
ease that I had earlier. I wanted to feel him inside me. My
lips met his and they were so soft and wet. I kissed on him
a while longer and moved my hips over his. He murmured gently
from the pleasure of the moment, not so worried about what was
to come, but what he was experiencing then. I spread my legs
and put him inside me. His face was still and then he moaned
that way, the way we should always moan when we first enter
someone else that way. I, myself, moaned as well. I moved my
hips back and forth so rhythmically, just feeling him rub up
against my g-spot. My face grew hot and I had to have him come
out of me so I could come. It doesn't take a lot for me. I put
him back inside me and started this way again. He started moving
his hips as well and I came again. He put his hands on my ass
and started to move it with my movements along with moving his
hips and I went crazy and came again, all wet and juicy. Then
he had me lay on my back and he entered me the missionary way.
My muscles tightened against his cock and he let out a deep
breathy moan. We went on this way, his lips so close to mine,
me pushing on him, silent and not so silent screams of pleasure.
I bit on his chest. I wrapped my legs around him like a bug
and we fit so perfectly together that as he was going in and
out of me, I began to shudder like a lady bug on it's back.
This went on for so long that it hurt and felt so good that
I started to cry. He then stopped when I pushed him out and
when he started again, it was as if he was going in and out
to a march playing silently in his head. I cried out each time
his cock hit my g-spot just a little bit. Each time, when I
thought he was about to finish and he was breathing as if he
would, he would stop for a little and regain his composure and
start again. I was going mad. I have never felt or experienced
such sensations with anybody else. I suppose this is also the
difference between making love and fucking. I used to rather
enjoy fucking, but now that I know the difference, I think I
like making love a lot better.
When we
were done, I was just stupid. I couldn't even think in English,
let alone Russian. I tried to explain fuck my brains out, because
I was just so stupid, but of coarse, I couldn't translate that
either.
I used
to have a poster of Murphy's Laws on Sex and it said
sex is only dirty if it's done right, there was a gigantic mess
(ME!) and naturally, I got bitched at by the maids this morning.
I don't know how to say "I'm as messy as a fountain" but, you
know what? I just don't give a fuck because It's Russia.
Saturday,
August 8, 1998
I am sitting
close to one of my most favorite people on the planet. I am
sunburnt from swimming in the Volga today and being stupid and
not wearing sun screen. Sometimes, I really hate myself.
Roman
couldn't read my diary. That cracks me up. But then again, there
are some people I have become acquainted with that would rather
communicate with me, or read my diary.
We have
talked about everything. I told him all the stuff going on in
my life with my family and sex life and it's nice not to be
condemned. I don't know why I always used to be so concerned
about fucking around, but I am just not the goody-to-shoes my
mom was. We are totally different women, with different experiences
and lives.
Some
day in August, 1998
Zombie
like trace... I am in as I sit here, typing these words. (How
stupid was I to actually think I wold have time to keep up with
my diary?)
The first
day, Roman and I went to the beach and laid out. I actually
love Volgagrad. Sure, there isn't a lot to do but lay out, and
it's rather nice. I usually am not so cruel to my skin, but
I have found it necessary to do such things on this trip.
Just like
I found it necessary for Roman to help me do a front walk over
on the beach, since I have been wanting to do one since May.
We talked and talked. It's so easy to talk to him. I don't know
why I am so comfortable, but I am, and since now I don't really
care to be with him, I taught him how to pull my finger. It's
like we are siblings, he's the brother I have always wanted
to have.
Strange
how I can feel so connected to people that really aren't my
siblings more then I can the ones I have. I suppose that is
the way of the world. You can choose your friends, but you can't
choose your family. I have a good little sister though. And
my nephews aren't monsters. I hate it when people aren't nice
to kids because there is strife in the family. The kids never
did anything wrong.
I can
tell you how it feels to be here, with Roman. So strange. He
so much the same and so different all at once. All his friends
think I am a little boring because all I have been doing is
sleeping, but we leave for Kazan Tip tomorrow, which is in the
Crimea. I am excited, but I have been traveling all summer so
I am not as excited as Roman and all his friends.
It seemed
like time was standing oh so still before and now that I have
my life, some friends... it's going by so fast. I miss Andrei
so much. I think about him obsessively, and I don't know if
that is so I won't think of Roman or if it's because I truly
adore him. I told Roman that Andrei reminds me of on of those
typical Soviet men in those old films, the way he moves, the
way he is. I don't know...
He wants
to come to America, and he says so. But I don't think he realizes
who he is telling because when I set out to do something, I
find a way to accomplish it. I don't know if he would even want
to be involved with me so deeply, and frankly, I am not sure
I want that kind of responsibility. I mean to take care of someone
that really can't speak English. He can write it and I think
he can read it, but, eh, who knows. That is just wishful thinking.
I don't know if anything serious will happen, and I suppose
I don't really have to figure it out now but I can't imagine
waking up to someone else. He is so beautiful.
He told
me a story about how he went home because it was his mom's birthday,
he even sent them a telegram, and when he showed up, they were
all surprised. I suppose he is probably strange for a Russian,
maybe like I am strange to be an American. Very passionate people.
That's something I have desired. And he's a man. No bones to
choke on. I am tired of dealing with men that can't get over
their ex-girlfriends.
Then again,
maybe I am idealizing this whole thing, a silly fantasy in the
flesh. I go back and forth, but I look at him on my video camera,
and I get all giddy. I think for so long I have only hoped to
find someone that was equally passionate about life, about love,
about sex, about everything... It's nice to dream. It's nice
having someone so close to fantasy be a reality. It's nice to
have a man that isn't like "I'm here, fuck me." but takes the
time to enjoy the things we do to each other's body.
And it's
really nice to hear that I am pretty and that I remind him of
a mermaid when my hair is down because I don't have a mommy
to tell me I am pretty, or tell me she's proud of me, or someone
that believes in me the way she did. That's part of the reason
I write this, I am trying to convince myself of these things,
that I am an interesting, funny, intelligent, neat person because
it's really hard to believe such things in such a society.
I really
try hard to accentuate people's positive characteristics because
life is too short to worry so much about the bad... But when
I think of dad... it's really hard to concentrate on anything
good when there was so much bad. It was with him that I realized
that I don't have to put up with anyone's shit if I am not happy
or comfortable. That's a good thing I think, but it's also a
hard thing to sit and listen to someone you care about tell
you things you don't want to know about yourself. Dad really
can't say anything bad about me except that "she's fat."
I was
Bulimic from the time I was 13 until I was about 19. When people
say shitty things to you about such things, I don't think they
realize how painfully you are aware of such matters. I am not
terribly overweight, especially since I have been traveling,
but we are all different people, and we all want different things
from life with one goal, and that is to be happy.
I don't
go into any great depth about how I feel about such things because
I am just figuring some of them out. My image for what a woman
was happened to be a very ill woman and I was identical to her.
I have my own illness, so I don't have to worry about any additional
ones, although I know they linger in the back of my mind, haunting
me. She quit taking care of herself before I was old enough
to even understand what she was like when she was young and
oh so beautiful. I look at the picture of what she was and I
wonder how she went from the way she was to the was she was.
I read
in the book that as you age, you start seeing your mother in
your body parts. We were so identical, body shape, our noses
were different and I have fuller lips, but everything was pretty
much the same. That's why my father couldn't deal with me, and
I don't care what anybody says, there is some incestuous occurrences
that happen as you develop and my father and I are still stuck
where we left off when I was 15. I realize this and need to
develop myself mentally further then that fascination of a 15
year old. Perhaps we can get over it, and perhaps we can't.
I don't know.
I don't
resemble my mom so much at this period in her life. She was
already pregnant with me... or would have been this September
when she was my age. That is strange to me.
Part of
the reason I kept the weight was security. I saw how my parents
fucked my life up as a residual of their passion and my mom
always told me I would always be so beautiful, like her, and
quite frankly, after seeing how her life played out, I sure
as fuck don't want to make the same mistakes. But I also don't
want a normal life. Seeing her abused and neglected made me
think that being so beautiful wasn't a good thing, besides,
I am smarter then she was. I am as intelligent as my father
with my mother's looks.
Now I
realize that I am not my mother, and I will not have her life,
that I have made certain decisions to ensure that. I feel safe,
and I don't need to keep weight on as a security blanket and
so I have lost several pounds over here (well, the food tastes
like shit anyway). So, I am trying to re-learn how to eat and
take care of myself, because I really don't want to be sick
if I can help it.
I don't
know, it's so strange to think of myself even a year ago, I
was so afraid of being without Andy, and now, I am not afraid
of being alone so much, but I have new fears. Talking with my
father. Falling in love. Choosing a career for now until I get
into film school (I am determined on this front). Just being
content with the day to day factor of living. Life is so strange,
and it goes in any direction you want it to.
I told
Andrei I had a crush on him last year and he was like "you only
saw me 2 or 3 times." v
And I
answered "Yes, but I know what I want." I think we all do, it's
just sometimes we are a little scared to ask for it.
Wednesday,
August 20, 1998
Did I
forget to mention that it lasted 5 hours the first night? And
the second was even better. Usually guys only have one good
one and then after that, it's pretty typical. I want him to
come home with me. I want to put him in my secret pocket forever
and a day. I miss him... the way he holds his hips, the way
he talks, the way he looks at me.
Sometimes,
I am too easily amused by fantasy... but who knows, maybe he'll
come home with me.
Thursday,
August 21, 1998
Sitting
in a cafe in Kiev. Enjoying the pulsating music in the next
room. Amazing how a letter can take me back so far in my past.
Eleven
years ago, almost to the date, my first kiss, my first "boyfriend,"
The first time I ever touched a boy.
I feel
like I have found my voice and even though it's highly sexually
charged, it's nice to think of such things (what is life about,
folks? If you deny your sexuality and sensuality, how happy
can you be?)
Mom always
talked about how happy she was to be a cheerleader, I wanted
to know about her sexual life, her first fuck. It was with my
father. She said they were very passionate with one another.
Joe was
my first boyfriend. My first French kiss, first fumblings in
my bedroom, first cock to come across my lips. His friends called
me the virgin whore because I would suck his dick but I wouldn't
fuck him. I was and am too naive to differentiate how putting
someone's cock in your mouth is worse then fucking them. I think
that when you are with someone, you can tell so much about them
not only by how they kiss, but how they react when you go down
on them and visa versa. I never let him go down on me, I think
I was too self-conscious then and he didn't like doing it to
his last girlfriend, I didn't know the difference. Now I think
if a man doesn't like giving a woman this kind of pleasure,
not only is he stupid, but he is also a selfish lover and I
have no use for such creatures.
I think
of other times... How funny some people are. How I want to say
"You'll kiss me after I have had your cock in my mouth, but
you won't drink out of the same bottle as me?" Or one of my
favorites is when a guy doesn't trust what you say or do, but
he'll always trust you with his cock in your mouth. That always
makes me laugh.
Because
even though no woman would ever say it, you know she is thinking
"I could really do some damage here..." But you trust us every
time. The irony kills me.
And the
reason I think a man is stupid for not going down on a woman
is because if a woman is relaxed enough to let you in between
her legs, she is surrendering that which she holds most sacred
of all, the key to her sexuality and boundless pleasure that
maybe she doesn't even know she possesses.
Sometimes,
if I have determined that a man isn't really worth the effort,
I won't let him back in between my legs because I don't want
him to have that kind of power over me. I will fuck him, because
I like fucking, but he'll never feel the softest, most sensitive
part of my body near his lips again. Or feel my gentle convulsions
or murmurs or anything that goes with such a sacred act.
Joe, Joe,
Joe... so much I remember that revolves around you. I told Mikey
to break up with you when she started dating you, but she didn't
listen. I can't blame her today, you do have a lovely cock.
Sins of the past made with adolescent minds. Funny, do you value
your experiences?
I could
care less what your friends said about me, they were shallow
then and cared what other people thought. My hell was starting
back then. Was I with you when I knew my mother was ill? Football
games, cold nights, Stewy's "dream" of flying over Russia and
it being called "Stewyland." (Funny that I am here now). Memories,
I remain so objective. As if past events don't hurt, I can't
feel them hurt. I could never see what you saw in Vicky Hatfield.
Was I not much more beautiful then she?
Socially
acceptable Vicky. Your friend's liked her because she "fit"
in with the bunch of freaks that we were. I was (still am) too
independent.
Roman
was surprised by me. He thought I would bitch when we were on
the way to Kazan Tip (An arduous 24 hours trip from Volgagrad).
Then he thought about it and told me that no matter where I
am, I am the same. He admires that about me. No matter what,
I am in control of myself, and I try not to offend other people
with my more mundane rantings.
I wanted
to kill his girlfriend. She annoyed me and that is not an easily
accomplished feat. She represents all that I abhor. Femininity
to the extreme. Long nails and dependent. No desire to move
her life forward but content with being exactly what she is.
I must admire that to a certain extent, at least she is taken
care of that way.
If I were
a man, I would be insulted to be with this kind of woman because
she would bore me to tears. My father fucked and paraded these
kinds of women in front of us. I did not admire them when they
couldn't help me with my homework and I don't admire them now
that I know they are just holes without souls.
I suppose
you are surprised, Joe, to find that I only had a fond memory
of you when you wrote to me, but then I like to remember fond
things of past loves if they made me feel something. There's
only one that I don't feel anything for, and that perplexes
even me because I don't really enjoy objectifying someone I
have been intimate with, but I suppose it had to happen sometime
in my life.
I wrote
while I was away... maybe I will update it (I won't say I will
or I just won't).
But here
is an example... I woke up last week, Wednesday when I had a
bed, crying uncontrollably. I could not figure out why I was
dreaming of my mother dying. Then I had the dream again last
night, horrid, vivid image of her body lying on my desk, broken
and dark. E-mail, no access until today. Sometimes relationships
are stronger then you imagine. One of my e-mail buddies, a young
girl I have spoke with on the phone several times, giving each
other comfort, smiling image of her at prom this year, her mother
died last Tuesday from AIDS. This is ESP, folks. Dreams, feelings,
sensations that were similar to my own, but still so different
felt from so far away.
I think
of how people doubt such things, and I have this evidence before
you. But that would mean you have to trust in me and that such
things exist. It scares me sometimes to know what I feel does
not belong to me, and this is why I must remain objective about
past events.
Sunday,
August 23, 1998
Roman
is worse then me about checking e-mail.
I am in
St. Petersburg. We flew from Kiev yesterday into Moscow and
took the night train here. There "weren't any seats" on the
train (a typical Russian procedure... I should write about such
abominations, but I am so accustomed to it now that it doesn't
even phase me) so as we were standing in line to buy tickets,
this woman asked us if we wanted a space. She was a chamber
maid and she sold us her place for 300 rubles a piece. The exchange
rate is 700=$100 USD, so that was about $80+ dollars.
Thank
God for Xanax or my muscles wouldn't have taken the constant
rocking movement of the geriactic wagon. I realize that these
things serve a purpose, but sometime, they are going to have
to be shot and put out of their misery.
I was
scared I was pregnant in Kiev (yes I am being careful but you
never know... and I am slightly paranoid). I am bleeding like
a stuck pig in Petersburg. I bled so bad this morning that it
soaked through my jeans. Sometimes, accidents happen as you
get older. I think when you are young and paranoid about smelling
and such things, you are more careful. As you get older, you
just don't care as much. Normally I am neurotic about such things,
but I have learned to be more tolerant.
Let's
take shitting in a hole, for example. If I were in the States,
and I saw a toilet that was lecherous, I would avoid it at all
costs. I would wait until I got home. Here, I have mastered
the technique of shitting in a hole. First, you have to pull
your pants down to make sure a) they aren't touching the ground
or walls around you and b) so you won't get any piss on them.
It help if you can find something to grab on to, like the lock
if it's an eye hook (I draw the line at shit holes without doors,
I would rather shit on myself). Like the monastery we were at
in Kiev, it had these nice little traction places for your shoes
so you wouldn't slip, that was nice. There are some advantages
to shitting in a hole, like for instance, it comes out quicker,
easier, and you feel more relief. Pissing is a 50/50 thing though,
for a girl. I confessed to Roman at the monastery that I wish
I had a dick for this express purpose, because for some unknown
reason, they seem to have plenty of urinals to go around.
Now, I
have to wonder sometimes, when they put these shit holes in,
were they like "Sveta, come look! There's a new shit hole at
the monastery, the newest version, with traction guards so you
won't slip in your high heels!"
Whenever
I find a McDonald's, I am very happy. Or any western toilet,
I am almost brought to tears because you know most Russians
don't visit such places because they like their shit holes.
(Roman doesn't like shit holes, for the record).
Wednesday,
August 26, 1998
"Short
black skirt, tight black pants... short black skirt, tight black
pants... you know, the average size of mom's generation of women
was a size two. Then came fast food..."
I laugh.
How brilliant. I would have never have realized that part of
the problem is the way we eat that makes us this way. or I mean
that fast food was the reason that American's are so healthy.
So, Anne
is going through culture shock. I was so pissed at Roman yesterday
because we didn't get to spend much time at the Hermitage or
Peterhoff because we were rushing to meet him and he's out carousing.
I wanted
to take her horseback riding yesterday, to lessen the shock
and do something she has been doing consistently for the past
5 years.
In a way
it help and hurt. She can't stand the Russian's style of training,
with a whip, or that they use such severe bits that they have
no nerve endings in their mouth to command them, but she got
to ride today, really really fast, and do a little jumping.
I was
just too fucking amazed. I am riding on this horse with Anne
in a different country, on the ground of Czar Nicholas the II's
brother's palace. It is in ruins, but it was just fucking amazing,
and then we went riding on the beach on the gulf of Finland.
Here I am, such a dork, taking photos which are probably all
fucked up, but it was just so amazing. I suppose I need to start
enjoying my moments as they happen instead of getting so excited
about the photos.
I wish
I could go on and on, but we have to go to eat, she is sleeping
next to me and we catch the midnight train to Moscow.
"Short
black skirt, tight black pants... SIZE 2"
