Five years ago I met a boy. It was like a childhood, without hands. And in the course of some difficult logistical decisions left to sleep with him, and he left somewhere in the morning and had to go back, but I woke up earlier. I woke up, made my best face of a Russian woman (I’m dropping hot lead and I’m not happy) and went into the kitchen. And here I smoked a cigarette, opened the first eye, and there Mom and Grandma are sitting. Those are you know so proletarian that it seems that the revolution was done with these very hands with the pearl manicure. They look at each other and say:

– Mitchell, look at what a shuster brought the fool home, and we didn’t notice. And what are you standing for? Go, the boy is gone.

Well, at that moment I decided that the situation could not be corrected and I said:

The boy left, but the honorary did not leave. Who will pay?