So here I am, in the USSR. Some people like to call it Russia but I think that's a load of stuffwhitepeoplelike crap.
All of the men have mullets.
All of the women look like prostitutes from the late '80s.
No one knows what chickpeas are.
Being the scenester hound that I am, I have discovered Dacha, the indie hangout of St. Petersburg where they play Mambo #5 on the busy nights to get people really going. Here, I first inhale, drink and finally snort Sambuca with either gargantuan Russian men that are scary and oafy as fuck, or short, lithe Russian men who are creepy as, well, short and creepy Russians. Dacha is my house (or my 'cottage,' as that is what Dacha means in Russian) where vodka bottle service costs $20 and cigarette burns are free. From my tank top-sporting evening last night, I look like I have a sadist as a Cnoncop (Pronouncer 'sponsor,' this means Sugar Daddy or Sucre Pere in Russian).
Love!
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