Absolutely fabulous
Fellow Moscovites! There is one journal to make you absolutely happy!
Don't believe the facade.
Punch an old lady in the face today.
It's only self-defense.
I was sucked into the service because of the beautiful singing and the cathedral's perfect acoustics. Almost the entire service was sung. The problem lay in this: after a certain point, I began to get dizzy. It may have been the lack of oxygen, my neighbor's elbow resting compactly in my diaphragm, the fact that my face was smothered in the head scarf of an elderly pilgrim, or the plumes of incense. In any event, my continued existence relied on my leaving the service. I began to work my way out of the crowd, gently and slowly, like a dentist trying to delicately extract a compacted molar. I see an inch of air, I fill it with my hand. Another inch of air-- ooh, I can squeeze my foot over almost a whole three inches. I am almost at the exit-- until-- an old woman (a "babushka") grabs me by the arm with astounding strength and says: "Excuse me, the service isn't over." I try to mime: "I'm dying."A firm headshake from her, and the message was clear. SUFFER. IT IS LENT. My new position was even worse. One arm was held by the babushka.The other was held by her tall, male companion (a son, maybe?). My face was in a leather jacket. The sermon continued. Suffer. Finally, the door cracked open a tiny bit. I seized my opportunity and, wrenching myself away from the babushka and, with more effort, her son, I crouched low to the ground and, leading with my shoulder, having vague,vestigial memories of the birth canal, squeezed myself out into the glorious, Godless sunshine.
via zum_zum - oooooh how... well... beautiful!
Don't believe the facade.
Punch an old lady in the face today.
It's only self-defense.
I was sucked into the service because of the beautiful singing and the cathedral's perfect acoustics. Almost the entire service was sung. The problem lay in this: after a certain point, I began to get dizzy. It may have been the lack of oxygen, my neighbor's elbow resting compactly in my diaphragm, the fact that my face was smothered in the head scarf of an elderly pilgrim, or the plumes of incense. In any event, my continued existence relied on my leaving the service. I began to work my way out of the crowd, gently and slowly, like a dentist trying to delicately extract a compacted molar. I see an inch of air, I fill it with my hand. Another inch of air-- ooh, I can squeeze my foot over almost a whole three inches. I am almost at the exit-- until-- an old woman (a "babushka") grabs me by the arm with astounding strength and says: "Excuse me, the service isn't over." I try to mime: "I'm dying."A firm headshake from her, and the message was clear. SUFFER. IT IS LENT. My new position was even worse. One arm was held by the babushka.The other was held by her tall, male companion (a son, maybe?). My face was in a leather jacket. The sermon continued. Suffer. Finally, the door cracked open a tiny bit. I seized my opportunity and, wrenching myself away from the babushka and, with more effort, her son, I crouched low to the ground and, leading with my shoulder, having vague,vestigial memories of the birth canal, squeezed myself out into the glorious, Godless sunshine.
via zum_zum - oooooh how... well... beautiful!