I sit down and remember the romantics in my fate. Something really disgraceful happens. One young man after my whistle that I can’t tolerate sweet, gave me a seed of spicy ambassador with a pink band around e-e... the waist. Not his own, around the waistline.
The second ill-loving ordered and glued a wallpaper with my portrait on the wall: a cold-blooded spectacle! It turns out, the photo stretched across the wall acquires the features of Ulyana Andreevna Bunsha, seen by Shurik in the doorstep. From my left photographic ear, the wires from the bra were drawn: brown and blue, my left eye got into the irregularity in the wall and evilly washed up and forth, and the right small cutter leaned into the tumble, as if I wanted to bite it. I shouldn’t have been so upset when I saw those wallpapers.
And my husband, in response to my depressing complaint about the lack of romance and the element of surprise in our relationship, gave me five chestnuts, surprisingly placing them in a pot of compot. That’s how in the morning you go to the kitchen, you want to drink a compot, you open the lid of the pot, and there the chestnuts come together in a wedding dance.
Something is wrong with romanticism.