Hello, peoples. It is I, Russian Girl. I have taken off the vodka-juice party hat and stopped sexing the goats long enough to log onto my computer that is powered by the yerbils. And who do I find?
I’m finally home after a long day of vh1’ing & whatnot, and am about to commence attempts to pack my little pink suitcase for a week of gallivanting around the country. First stop: San Francisco, for Mr. Dave Morin (pictured above) and hispreemptively epic birthday bash, along with quality time withRandi and … a date. Secondary stop: Chicago, where I will partake in family activities … and a date. Finally back in the city Saturday, a week hence. (But no date. It’s like I’m allergic to men in my own city. hahah) Okay, I suppose that isn’t SO much gallivanting. It felt more gallivant-ish in my head.
Seriously, I have to stop procrastinating and actually deal with my empty suitcase. Three hours of sleep does not a decisive packer make.
So hold telephones. Is this Poofy’s way of telling Teensy Kremlin that she is date the other peoples? And telling us as well? And he maybe come back to her then? I no like these mind games. Hey, I have idea, Poofy: SHUT IT AND JUST FIND MAN – ANY MAN REALLY AT THIS POINTS! There is an old man in my village named Antinko. He has the hands of hard field worker and boobies of lady. He would maybe date you. (If you no Twitter about it.)