The fruits of the land -- terranean and subterranean.

Har har.

She's lacing my shoes, see.

And yes, this is definitely the standard of female equipment : any womanⁱ taking that position should sport a clitoral hood exposed in like manner. No, this matter is not open to interpretation.

Moving on :

On the left, икра осетровая aka sturgeon roeⁱⁱ ; on the right, salmon roe -- and let me say that during my lengthy voyages all over the world I have never, nor while seated in top-shelf Japanese restaurant, nor anywhere else, sampled salmon roe any finer. As good as it gets, right here, five bucks to the quarter pound or thereabouts. Can you beat that ?

Anyway, time to go underground :

Item should be remarkable especially because work on Minsk subway didn't even start until 1984, which is to say just about the time everyone inside the curtain was giving the fuck up on the whole marx-lenin-ziggler-mays "how to influence people and pull yourself up by breeches" bullshit. Moreover, construction continued throughout the 90s, with stations generally finished ahead of schedule, in strict contrast to just about anywhere and everywhere else. If you ever hear anyone call Belarus "a backwards nation", they might not actually intend the term in the sense you're contemplating -- but backwards, so to speak. I trust I make myself counterpointedly clear.

In other vaguely related stories : while the girls wanton sluts were enjoying the first pass of being in troubleⁱⁱⁱ during this multi-troubled day^iv, I stopped at a sweets and colonials shop underground, where both the serving girl and her friend killing time in the shop proceeded to pick me up. Joint and several, I dunno how to explain this, they'd have worked it either way, open handed and at my preference -- either together or apart, whichever way I wanna go. Am I in town for the games ?^v

This was the third time^vi someone made a pass at me today, the last of which being a fucking dude, approaching me in the subway on the very fucking dubious basis of his... also having a beard (no homo!). I kid you not, his idea was that we'll strike a deep and joyous 15yo friendship on the basis of beards. Then, upon discovering that I don't speak his moontalk and excusing himself with "bad Englisch, bad Englisch", he actually came back at me again!!! half minute later, just as unpreparedly illiterate, "we are a...a...a... how do you say it..." so I had to make the get lost hand gesture and turn away. Yes, just like one of those five-foot-nine catwalk-grade hussies stuck at some pleb function.

I actually had to live through the life of a hottie, with all its attendant unpleasantness, "shouldn't look that way, might be taken as encouragement" and "why am I so bitchy, he was just trying to be nice, what if I keep going like this for years and end up a complete bitch through no fault of my own, just as a natural reaction to horrible environment exposure" and so on and so forth. I dunno... maybe I might've said somewhere that dudes should talk to girls or something along those lines ?

Abso-fucking-lutely do not do that. It's fucking annoying. Shut the fuck up, keep your sad gaze downcast while in public and go assault your rubber glove/ducky/pillow/whatever it is at home. This entire "talk to the girls" thing is for men, no bois need apply. If you've never killed anyone, if you're never gonna kill anyone, just shut the fuck up and get back to your cell already. Oh, and are you locked yet^vii ? Get fucking locked, there's really no room and absolutely no need for even more pointless overgrown bois derping about the landscape.

All that unpleasantness out of the way, let's clear our minds and purge our souls with some... industrial art.

I daresay it's not half bad. The mannerism of composition aside, the female form demonstrates a certain truthful carnality -- functional and natural yet counter-industrial and anti-artificial -- that shines through, lifting this modest effort and placing it somewhere between cabinet miniature and anatomy textbook -- both rather legitimate subart^viii forms, which is what industrial art entirely is also.

They actually have a Mula store, here! And it's quite evidently for mule!

Above : shop. A smaller, closer version of this idiocy^ix managed to get itself banned yesterday, so now this one's stuck getting the business (mostly against its will).

Below : "restaurant", not that I'd eat there. If you ran things wouldn't have you painted that thing red and housed the "Moulin Rouge" there, as opposed to some indistinct storm gutter ? The logic truck evidently did not make it all the way to Minsk.

Above : I suspect they rub his nose for luck or somesuch. Doesn't he look cute tho, like a drunk bronze or something ?

Below :

mp_en_viaje is having local halva, with raisins and pistachios (bought separately). fucking divine.

I lied ; there were also other things.

Above : I find it goes well with today's header. I strictly bought the Eastern wines, because what the hell, I can drink imported Bordeaux just as well anywhere, including Costa Rica. Do you know anywhere else you can buy Georgian^x though ? Why do you think that is, because it's not good ? Hurr.

Below : Sovok bubbly. About to pop a bottle and see, I haven't had any in well over three decades!

Wishing you the best & all the rest.

1. Proper, real, adult -- however you wish to express the simple notion that not every treestump with a hole in it is a human female. Not every pile of dogvomit sporting a coupla bumps, not every pillow or cardboard cutout... how shall we put this, pareidolia is the mental disorder of identifying faces in coincidental markings upon inanimate objects, and parefeminia is the mental disorder of identifying females in coincidental aglomerations of biofilm. [↩]
2. I do not call it "caviar" for the very simple reason that in the unlikely event your femstate "caviar" isn't straight up jello with seaweed extract, it's still probably herring painted in sepia ink or somesuch nonsense. So no, it's not caviar, just like what I do to women is rape them not "make love" nor "fuck" nor whatever else esltarded bullshit. It might've been caviar a full century ago ; but by now I wouldn't touch your "caviar" with your own, two-and-a-half inch penis. вы зразумелі? гэта ясна?

   And yes, I also have a can of specifically beluga sturgeon roe that I've already opened. As well as another one that I haven't opened, because I am saving it -- for later. So there. [↩]

3. They were ever so slightly unenthused and perhaps even a shade whiny, so they got sent off to drop the bags back home and meet me at this -- seemingly -- nice cafe downtown, that upon examination turned out to be a fucking self-serve shitjoint! The indignity!

   So I spent an unpleasant fifteen or twenty minutes there waiting for either my own whores or the places' service whores or both to show up, while listening to some intolerably whiny anglophone moron fall over himself in excitement that some local, passible chick was giving him the time of day -- in the most squeaky-clean, no-rape-whatsoever sense of the term, of course. What the fuck is wrong with the anglotards anyways ?! What sort of non-achievement is this, some girl listening to you whine at no personal cost to her ? If she ain't in pain, the cunt dun count, yo, tardstalk! Wake up!

   And, for that matter, what the fuck is wrong with the locals, pretty much every large, centrally placed, cafe-looking thing's gonna be a sad local interpretation of a fast food joint, with no table service and no real purpose of being there ? Don't these belong at the periphery ? Why the fuck do they even let dorks in tshirts in one of these places in the first place ?! Does't marble entryway and baroque facade pretty much code for "no poor twerps allowed inside" ?! [↩]

4. They're in trouble right now, convicted to walk the streets and map out the damned town for me, because I was moderately inconvenienced by rain and the locals' counter-intuitive approach to real estate usage & zoning earlier. #whorelife [↩]
5. They had this "european games" whatever wanna-be event here, for which the city apparently undertook significant expenses that it can not actually afford to pay -- almost nobody showed up, as anyone (except the locals) could have obviously predicted. Consequently, all the girls ask, excitedly, if that's the source of the magical dragon, the beacon that drew strange into their tedious world ; but are then somehow unsurprised to find that no, it isn't. I just came here. "What, just like that ?!" Yes, just like that.

   "Oh, she asked me to ask you where are you from." "Where is this Costa Rica ?" "Oh, America! My ex husband once worked in Miami". I kid you not, the one time it happened someone tried to make a link with her personal experience, it was through her ex and to fucking Miami. How can they be helped ? [↩]

6. We're only counting the come over and say hi version -- the more traditionally discrete wink-and-nod's so overdone it defies counting. [↩]
7. Pro tip : you'll be way the fuck happier wallowing in outward conditions adequate to your inferiority than trying to pretend to a superiority you simply can not muster nor could in five million years ever touch. Rats don't go around tryna drive dump trucks, why the fuck are you pretending to mating and assorted nonsense ?! [↩]
8. Precisely as "culture" is merely the pompous endonym of peculiar subcultures, just so art is the pretentious designation of subjective subart. Absent proper authority to enact it, all "art" is mere subart -- much like, absent adequate rod to hurt her into perfective form, all tremulant flesh is mere subwoman. [↩]
9. It looks just like a department store, I'll readily give you that. However, it isn't, and it isn't exactly where it'd count.

   Picture me on shopping expedition. We come into a large hall, which looks more like a hotel lobby or perhaps bureaucratic officialdom entryway. I'm about to turn away, because no, I won't shop in pretentious fucking office buildings, let them adapt themselves to sanity already, when Hannah notices the actual shelves of goods off to the left, and well... I'm a tolerant kind, you know ?

   In we go, and we select a knife, a spatula I think or somesuch kitchen trims, and on impulse a most delightful BDSM implement (I confess most of my tools were repurposed, starting their commercial life as items bought in construction yards, pet shops, farm outlets and so on) superficially similar to a plain dough roller, but with centimetre-edge pyramids on its entire surface. And sharp, too -- think a fifty-row Wartenberg wheel in wood rather than metal. That shit'd have hurt! Then some detergent and I dunno what, and we proceed to the counters.

   There's some sort of problem, however, so I drop her to go explore the other side of this statuary complex / mausoleum. It turns out the other side's a slutstation, five thousand square feet of girly warpaint and whatnot -- including (of course!) muf detergent.

   What, you think I'm kidding ? But my very dear friends... would I do such a thing ?

   I am not kidding. Here :

   

   I sincerely hope all their advertisement is thickly and heavily about "Alexia, have you washed your muff ?!" and such.

   There's (no kidding!) Frank Sinatra softly singing "Strangers in the night" somewhere in the distance. All tasteful like and shit, if your idea of taste originates in the 1950s Borscht Belt. Which...

   But anyway, past the whole pile of (entirely imported) necessities... there's a power tools subsection. I could've bought myself a chainsaw! A kid, evidently bereft of human company during many long weeks, jumps right on me, but I politely refuse and turn about. The slut's still locked at the cash register ; my many-fest impatience is met by the cashier with profuse assurances that the wheels are in motion!!! As it turns out, the department store's not a department store at all, but a loose confederation of independent bums. Therefore, if you select some products from tiny aisle X, you gotta pay at the cash register attached to tiny aisle X. There's no floor-wide cashout process, they are basically insane, what the everloving fuck!

   So I gesture impatiently and we're the fuck out of there, leaving a pile of goods in the store to be no doubt gazed upon in shocked amazement for days to come.

   What the fuck is wrooooong with these people, why the fuck pay ten cashiers to do (poorly) the job of maybe three people ?! Money grows on trees in Minsk or what the fuck's their problem! [↩]

10. Not to mention -- Moldavian, check that shit out. [↩]