the promised school-essay-ish short story that made my English teacher cry

I had to go through 268 notebooks and 34 kg of printouts. It’s like having lived my entire life again. Those English lessons were probably one of the best things ever possible in the whole Universe.

Still, here it is. I don’t know why V.E. (the initials of my former English teacher. here in Russia, pupils address teachers other than in the rest of the world, and her name is quite a complicated one, and I don’t want to call her just “my former English teacher”, so V.E. it is) burst in tears, but she did, and that was the only time I ever saw her cry in four years we’ve spent together.
I don’t like the story, to be honest. I’m not sure why I made it like this. I was, like, 13 or so. That can be an alibi, can it?
As I told you, when it was story telling in our writing tasks, it was mostly either a picture needing to be described with a story, or a beginning needing to be ended. This one’ with the beginning, and, if I’m lucky, in a few days you’ll witness some examples of things I had spent my time on.
The suggested beginning’s in the beginning and in cursive.  Continue reading

my so-called routine, part 1 (out of the total of 1 parts, maybe)

hey, hey
, we’re the monkeys and all that

i haven’t written anything worth in here for a while, and here finally comes a new something. i’ve started this almost a month ago, so i’m turning into some awfully lazy bum, yes.

To be honest, I somehow was sure that, as long as I leave the country (which is Russia, if you’re not very aware of my life, which is fine), everything would just completely change. That, as one young Alice, I would step into a completely different world, full of creatures, actions, and rules impossible to imagine. You know, people riding sewing machines to get to the Moon, and then going back to the Earth by just jumping very-very high (everyone knows that you can jump higher on the Moon than on the Earth because of the gravity and all these sci-stuff), and, during the whole process Moon singing his wonderful song about “Neil Armstrong walking on my face…” with his retarded voice of a chalked-faced idiot. Something like that. But I am still made of flesh and blood and breathing oxygen and laughing at stupid jokes no one else ever understands. There are still plenty of chavs and just not-good people in the world, and a part of them is still somewhere around me, and the cancer cure still isn’t invented. So, if there’s such thing as half-, or even quarter-frustration, than that’s exactly what I am experiencing here at the moment. Continue reading


Vladimir Nabokov’s definition of the Russian word “toska”.

Toska – noun /ˈtō-skə/ – Russian word roughly translated as sadness, melancholia, lugubriousness.

No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.

yes, that’s exactly what my native language needs to be remembered for. that’s why we are all proud of our language, country, political state and everything. that’s why all Russians are so patriotic. definitely.

vodka, balalaika, bears and communism. and lots of toska.