One day, guests came to us from Belgium and brought wine. I have to say that in wine they do well, and my wife, at the time a future, also began to be interested in this, went to courses and so on.

So they opened a bottle of hamburger, tasting, trying to identify the notes.

My wife says, smell it. I try and say, yes, it smells of acetone. I was fucked, and used to a specialized site to read about the nose.

And whatever you think, the first line there is written "a pronounced smell of acetone", and a rapid shift of superstitious views to respectful ones. Since then, I have recognized the taste of dried finishes and the smell of purple several times, but the story with acetone is my favorite.

Our teacher of literature adhered to the canonical views “the poet thought precisely about what was written in the textbook approved by the plenum of the CPSU...” and any deviation from the “right” composition was punished with a low rating.

Then came the physmat and in 10th class we were transferred to another teacher of literature. The lady is very elevated with the classical image of the teacher of literature, a spiritualized look and a quiet voice. Seeing her so and wanted to start the dialogue with the phrase: "Let me ask...? "

And here, on September 1st, 14-year-old ballbesses, whose blood and brains boil out. One thought on “How do you see your school in 20 years?”

At the next class, the teacher reads the most successful and unsuccessful options, makes a selection, offers to discuss, participate (for us this is new).

I want, he says, to draw attention to one composition:

“Lasers perceive the perimeter of the school, recognizing students. The roof is guarded by blazers. After silencing the reactive suitcase, the first-class students run to the lesson.

We are sitting. And we want to rub, and we understand that the author has gotten. A couple in literature can be corrected, but to get in front of a new teacher is not the best idea.

And the teacher, with her voice from the Essenin readings, says: "This is what I understand, a thoughtful, literate approach to the work. No patterns and clichés, slogans and propaganda. Learn to think on your own. Five with a plus.”

When we lived in the USSR, there was no sex. Now that we have sex, we are not there.

His parents married students in the early 1980s. Once they were inexpressively lucky, they managed to buy a Finnish toilet, unusual then, blue color. Since they lived in the community, the toilet was guarded until the better times. Then the distribution to the north, again common. They finally got an apartment. Then came my mom’s grandmother.
Mom went to check her, Dad followed her, refused from the apartment, so she did not live in her. We lived with my grandmother, but it was not clear what would happen with the apartment too, the parents were on bird rights. Sanitary value in vain decided not to spend, wait for certainty. Everything resolved in favor of the parents, the grandmother calmly left. It would seem, here it is the star hour of the toilet, but the 90s went by. Everyone suddenly became not until repairs, here would survive. My parents were lucky for the second time. The house where we lived was bought for a hotel, and the parents provided another apartment with fresh excellent repairs. The blue friend is out again. I moved to a warehouse.
Years went by, we grew up, and here is finally my first apartment. I was immediately presented with the royal throne, but it did not enter my holopic bathroom. The hopes were placed on the sister, who, far from sin, dropped to work abroad. I got married and lived with my husband, after me they tried to give a gift, which my husband insistently refused, arguing that he already has a toilet.
Finally, the parents decided to repair. For the sake of such a sister came from another continent, to look at the established multi-suffering push. But to our eyes presented modern sanitary, shining banal whiteness. At the questions, the parents humbly turned their eyes away and answered something unclear.
I recently bought a dacha. I proposed to put the old man there to accomplish, so to speak, his life purpose, but my mother was very upset, like this came to my mind. It will be given to the grandchildren. All four immediately. And I wondered why other families inherit jewelry, paintings, books, photographs after all, and we have that.

So one day you will wake up, and all Russia is already rewritten to Rotenberg.