Drinkin with Ruskies

What follows is an actual conversation that took place this weekend between me, my friend Lindsay, and a Russian woman who may or may not have serviced men for money in her spotty history living in Russia. She also may or may not have had bleached blonde hair styled in the fashion of Ike Turner. What began as a request for a cigarette quickly spiraled into a throbbing case of TMI (Too Much Information). Here's how it went down:

Russian (speaking with thick accent): Do you have cigarette?
Me (speaking in truths): No, sorry, I left them downstairs.
Lindsay: Sorry.
(5 mins. later, I walk up to Lindsay and RP (Russian Prosty) in convo)
Prosty: And I love him so much, but he think I'm 21.
Lindsay: That's a problem.
Me: What's going on?
Gorby: I'm dating a man, and I love him, he is my heart, but he is 19 and I told him I was 21.
Me: How old are you?
Jessica Tandy: 27.
Me: I see.
Lindsay: Right.
Gary Busey: But I love him! He is my heart! He is gorgeous, and so kind. He is love of life! I can't tell him!
Me: How long have you known him?
Prosty: (pausing to think) Eleven days.
(long, awkward silence)
Prosty: Do you want to see video of him?
(stage direction: pull out a $4500 dollar camera loaded up with film that has captured a strung-out looking kid with stringy hair standing in a gutter on the Lower East Side.)
Lindsay: Oh, he's very cute!
Me: I'm going to say something to be polite now!
(watching video)
Lindsay: Where do you live?
Prosty: Astor Place. (definition: one of the most expensive neighbs in spensy-town.)
Me: (Interior Monologue) Should I move to Moscow? I'm only 24. I could still whore myself out for a couple of years, collect various STD's that could one day be named after me and my vagines, Magenta Silk, and move back to New York 3 years from now to pursue my dreams with enough money to keep me filled to the brim with pirogies. Moscow has a lot of charm, no, self? It's time to put these thick farming arms to good use.
Lindsay: What does he do?
Prosty: Isn't he gorgeous? He's musician.
Me: (Exterior Dialogue) Is he in a band?
Yeltsin: He play sometime. He is very talented. And he is totally clean, he don't do drugs. Well, no needle. He no inject anything into him, but... he smoke heroin.
(pause)
Boris: But no needles.
(awkward pause, wheels turning)
Me: Well, thank god for that. You know what I say to men who use needles: "Hepatitis C You Later!" (this was actually uttered.)
(pause)
Linsday: Are you going to tell him your age?
Prosty: No, in 2 weeks, I call it quits.
Lindsay: Why??
Prosty: I can't date man longer than that.
Me: (interior punalogue) Putin on the Ritz!
(pause)
Me: (interior visual)

Prosty: But it is shame, cause he have big heart.
Me: (interior monologue) Hot to Trotsky!
Lindsay: Well, it was nice talking to you. Good luck!
Me: (interior dementia) We have to get inside, I think I'm coming down with a Tchai-cough-sky! (interior audience boos. interior rotten vegetables are thrown.)
Prosty: Goodbye.
Me: Good timing -- I think they're playing "Be My Lover" by La-Bouche-ka! (interior cutting myself.)


Clearly, this woman was out of her mind. Thought I'd share.


I'm gonna go smoke some heroin. Laaaateeeeerz.