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Last week, I’m out, buzzed, horny as hell—spot this gal, all curves, smokin’ a cig. I’m like, “Sh*t, she’s it!” Channelin’ Doc, I swagger up, all “Hey, sorta kinda need a favor.” She laughs—LAUGHS—says, “Honey, I’m off duty.” F*ckin’ gut punch! I’m mad, but damn, she’s got sass—kinda hot. Greed is good, tho—it don’t let me quit. Next night, I’m back, find another—total pro, no games. She’s all “What’s happenin’, hotshot?”—straight outta the movie, I swear. Deal’s done, cash flows, everybody’s happy.

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Julia Mannherz here writes an enchanting story of her acquain- tance with the Russian author. Dmitrii Dmitrievich Smyshliaev. (—), who wrote essays on.

Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I’m sprinting down Lazdynų Street, dodging puddles like I’m in some kind of Olympic event. I’m soaked, but I can’t stop laughing. It’s just so typical, right? Only in Lazdynai would I go from coffee to a rain-soaked sprint in 30 minutes.

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