Alexander Makarov. It's too early to bury us (№ 426697)

It sometimes seemed to her that there were no sensible females left in the world. They were all obsessed with youth and outward gloss, trying to go against the laws of nature, disfigured faces and bodies, modeling themselves as a machine. A car that can be fucked. All her friends diligently tuned to sell more expensive, to increase their market value. For what? To choke on oysters on Fridays, which they hate, for the sake of fashion trends, to fry not in Russian resorts, but on the European coast and cover their bodies not with fakes of expensive brands, but with originals. Only now they did not realize that they themselves had long turned into cheap copies of each other.