Book: New duhless the 21st century. Selfie

Two things can kill me in the morning: Wake the neighbors, stating that I filled in, and the song "My friend the artist and poet".

Days filled with die and fall of their own emptiness in the collective nothing flew faster than updated tape Facebook.

People for decades live in the "summer dump", and while the summer has not come, spend a hundred and twenty days abroad or lay low inner emigration, opening on this day "the shop of farm products", "metroline", "the institutes of physical planning", "bike paths" and other intellectual trinkets that maintain a collective game in Copenhagen within the Bottom. I mean, I wanted to say within the Garden ring.
In this way, the huge, archaic Russia. Looks cloudy, red sleepy eyes on the next generation "the best people", then gets up, shoes-dresses and goes to the plant. Russia, which first ripped to pieces by some drunken men in the Bialowieza forest, which then said that all of her troubles because she's too "paternalistic" and "sleepy," and she suffered meager remnants of your savings to profitable investments in MMM. Russia, which is in the queue at the temple, where the belt of the virgin, by the way said that she stood up.
And here it is, all so sleepy, between the temple and the subway station, and discusses the problems of housing, and then some vampires over the ear hoarsely whine that "further so to live". And these vampires don't just not have problems with housing, and don't even know what the acronym stands for. Russia, realizing this, turns away and quietly, through clenched teeth, hissed: "Here is a bitch!".
Because she knows that more can live. She lives with the knowledge that the worst may be naturally the day after tomorrow. And if she says that to delay the "day after tomorrow", you should immediately deal with internal enemies, it is the same sleepy comfort from the queue, roll up the "best people" in cycle lanes or chopped down on the meatballs.
And so they live, these two substances. Some in anxious anticipation of that "day after tomorrow", others in anxious anticipation of the summer. And these events do not occur and do not occur, and discussions are ongoing.

They lived near. Sociology calls them "hipsters", and I - "electric people".
Every day in the area in the afternoon they came to the bar to max, ordered a coffee and took out the laptops. Hours to two, with tense faces, they looked at the monitors and feverishly banging on the keyboard. Then the laptop is set aside and the same persons and the same excess energy they began to beat on the screens of their iPhones. Strange, but they never spoke. Just texted.
After two Parking in front of the bar was filled with bikes and scooters whose owners sit down at the tables to such as they are, and "electric people". Came with a straight face looked at the menu, which saw daily, was thinking about ten minutes to order is always the same set - organic Burger and cranberry juice.
Before you start the conversation "electric" certainly photographed: the food, each other or each other on the background of the food.
Podglyadev in the monitors, I found a couple of blogs "electric". In the BIO they listed designers, fashionistas, urban specialists and even art objects. Photos that are relevant to their professional activities, find it difficult. Basically, the albums consisted of pictures of each other mixed in with food, pet and feet, shod in fanciful shoes.

Running your own blog completely kill the desire to write long texts. Experiences, feelings, emotions, which first needed chapters and huge time costs, now, easy peddling for a couple of paragraphs, written in twenty minutes.

In the same carriage of the Moscow metro beautiful girls a little less than in the final of the contest "Miss universe". And Louis Vuitton handbags a little more.

It was an interesting experience. I was among the people who had never met, never heard their conversations, feel their smell, never been to their habitats. It was a world of "Housewives of middle age", which I thought live only in the ranking of the Gallup. The world of migrant workers, the Caucasian drivers of minibuses, mashed fathers of families and other stuffy people.
Yet it was the students nicohitler with forever red eyelids, "krasauchiki" Dagestan haircut Mireille Mathieu (by the way, they are called "Muscovite") and the "Muscovites" - provocatively dressed provincial and habilities of padovka.
Here on the walls of the cars advertised unknown to me brands and the shops, read books, titles and authors which I had never heard of (and occasionally eyes came across mine, which is already there).
Here leafing through the magazines that I thought were closed in the late nineties, discussed the details of yesterday's "Let them talk", resented "obarevich fucking Americans" like the Americans "obureli" right in the entrance.
Here even the young people joked jokes their parents. But no one ever smiled in response. Here nobody smiled.
Someone else's everyday life had forever careworn, unhappy face. The pitch RAO "Nospecial" to match my condition.
In General, this Moscow was unfamiliar town. I didn't know its rules, policies, and habits. I was not familiar with its inhabitants. I felt only the smell. Capital smelled of sweat, ink Newspapers that get their hands dirty, and Cologne Paco Rabanne.

I hardly ate anything. My fuel was cigarettes and alcohol. Lack of appetite, fresh air and natural light did the trick: I was like a heroin junkie. Finally I won meme of the social networks, "You will not lose weight by the summer". However, until the summer stayed to live.

- Why don't you have dogs? Don't want any dog to have? It is now so fashionable!
I'm unlucky with bitches - zeju through his teeth.

In the head a cascade of memories of all the moments of cheap bravado. From the above the age of seventeen phrases: "I am ready to exchange all my time allowed for twenty-four years Cobain" - to high-sounding heresies in the interview like: "All my heroes are dead - on about something Yes speaks." Or the recent "All mediocrity desperately want to live happily ever after, and the geniuses at the thoughts of death do not have time". It seems as if with every such passage the fate of the first, grinning, writing off all of the boyish, then he narrowed his eyes, reading his interviews or watching the night partying, alcohol, drugs and other shit, and one day just gave up.

And the question whether the creative effort of the "cries of wounded souls" in the intervals between receipt of the bourgeois household joys, from the region unanswered. Like, would play Viktor Tsoi corporate, if he stayed alive. Or the question "What do you want?".

Generally men, at different stages of his life, driven by petty desires. To stand at least fifty, to do nothing, and grandmother was. To vymutit exactly what they want, and pay less than others or nothing at all to pay. To love to eat, but my belly didn't grow up to have friends with whom to talk. To look in the mirror and say, "I still got it". To win in small intrigues, to get significant discounts, when you bring the invoice for payment of her stolen hours of drug, alcohol or sexual buzz. To a career of some sort, the car to change to.
Each one of us to the question: "do you Want to go down in history?" - smile, because the firm knows what really wants in the may dump at sea.
But somehow, miraculously infinity this rat race leaves one in history, and the other plunges to the bottom of the shameful petty-bourgeois swamp.
Some turn out heroes of our time, and the other a mortgage at a good rate give. And combine that never works. The first known and the second happy.

"Smoking causes impotence" - struck by the inscription on the pack. More effective would be to write that impotence is cause of Smoking. None of us in this case would never have lit a cigarette on the people.

How come my Bunny that someone cleverly turned rails and sent our trains to different tracks? Just twenty years ago. The same Soviet children, who equally disliked the scoop, listening to the same "Movie", went to the same first "McDonald's", then happily welcomed 1991, because by that time all of us are already equally fed up. And we all have the same dream that is where we now go, to be completely different. But it turned out that's exactly what "the same other" we represented too differently.
And like the departing to the new world of the composition consisted entirely of us, such awesome and motivated, and today we met at the station and in my car rare late passengers, and there you Packed the whole composition. Goes by, monotonously rattling, and it again sings Alla Pugacheva, there again, eating dumplings "peasant", it smells like a Christmas tree and plays blutack...