Email from old college friend, Petits Choux:
October 20 at 7:12pm
Like your blog. It's surprisingly...tame. Not sure what I was expecting...
Talk soon.
Reply:
English Teacher X
October 20 at 10:16pm
The more insane stories are in the older entires, 2005 - 2006, and on the older blog. Those years were pretty much a blur of absinthe. . . and there are more lengthy and detailed stories on the website. The last year I've had to watch my mouth very carefully, after one former teacher wanted to fight me over something I wrote.
Crazy shit still happens, but too many people have found out about this blog now and I often can't write about them.
Just as an example: two girls I know went to America to work as strippers in Atlantic City -- one of the girls I know here, former girlfriend and occasional fuck-buddy, revealed to me she recently started fucking one of their boyfriend here, an American basketball player on loan to a Russian team.
I sent this girl a text message the next morning reading, "I had nightmares last night about your fucking (Natasha)'s ghetto boyfriend!"
Through some quirk of the Russian mobile phone networks, this message was accidentally delivered to one of the secretaries at the school. And coincidentally, there is a girl named (Natasha) who works in the office. . .
I might still write about that, actually, it's so funny. . .
2 comments:
Nice site. No, really, I was in fact moved. I had heard from an Irish masseuse that it was well written, but could never bring myself to look at the reality.
Now, when I first opened it up, I was shocked... shocked by the primitive graphics. Like the Radiohead concert poster that has thousands of grinning cats falling from the sky. You know that one?
And then... Oh gosh, oh golly... I thought it was pompous and overwrought.
But then (!), I read on, and somewhere between the babydoll and the dialogue at the office over teacher's midnight exits, I felt pathos creeping up on me. Creeping up like the hair on the back of your neck when a junky with a hammer approaches in the silence like a starving snow leapord.
This site is a familiar laugh in the dark which beckons, and teases the Friday night youth who had been sure the pub was on the right side of the street and the cemetery on the left.
Bloated comments aside, I'm glad to have come by.
LeOpards. LeOpards. LeOpards. Yeah, spelled like LeOnard Cohen, Yeah! FUCK YEAH!
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