toilet [Theme] Page 1

I said that all my friends are smart people but they are good. They love me and have never done anything wrong. Then something hit her in the eye and she ran to the toilet.

If living life to the fullest is living like everyone else, then everyone goes to the toilet too.

In front Kurochkin nurses tied up woozy after a deathly story of the Cuban who ran around the office shouting: "Revolt! Long live the world revolution! Coffins and guillotine is our symbol!". Cuban was dressed up in a straitjacket, and aunt Glasha gave him a double portion of the magnesia in each buttock, so that it is a metaphorical expression of "life is cracking in the area W..." took quite perceptible scathing look. But then the self-proclaimed brother of Fidel, passionate soul, writhing on the floor in pain, he continued to shout revolutionary slogans interspersed with delirium. "Hurrah! - he yelled. In blitzkrieg only play the Germans! Cuban will show your bourgeois face cat eye of the dictatorship of the proletariat. I learned Russian only for the fact that Lenin spoke. All hanged on lampposts in nature..."
Soon, the Cuban was quiet. Realizing, obviously, your "cracked" position, he is unlikely to show someone the cat eyes of the dictatorship of the proletariat, a Cuban clenched his teeth and curled up, silent.
One of the patients, a former teacher of rastamanskie Bodrato, insane, like Kurochkin, on religious grounds alcoholic, took a moment to quietly to the nurses to approach Ivan Mefodevich and whisper to him that from the street through a bathroom window it causes some bearded friend Smokes. Kurochkin bullet slipped into the toilet, with little concern about what this intimate restaurant in the mental hospitals seen from the office through a special hinged window. Clutching at the bars, Ivan looked down into the courtyard, and saw the excited alcohol Dimka Dimova, a heart friend who shook before him an open bottle of port.
- Salutations, soul Kurochkin! - thundered the red-bearded giant, in a welcoming gesture throwing up your hand with port. - Drink to your health, my friend! How long are you going to hang around in these stinking land? Beast your Ideas! Gives you to visit. Rubbish! Bureaucracy! X-rays fucking! Soul does not see, son of a dog! Bureaucrats took possession of the souls of brilliant artists. Vanya! - even louder shouted Dymov. - Do you know what is happening on the streets of our blessed town? Rebellion, revolution, disobedience holiday! And tops it all some kind of mad monk. Has led just a bunch of fanatics to the Uspensky temple and demands of the Church authorities. Says that did the world end in Rastyapino.
Smokes took a swig from the bottle and mad, laughed.
- And, indeed, long live doomsday! Want anarchy! Tired of mocking the power of money and the bureaucrats! Break the grate, friend, jump! I'll catch you, and we incurred General in a whirlwind of madness.
(from the novel Crack)

I also have a cat. Not easy. Philosophical, psychological, existential. His name is Socrates. He had red hair, old and fat.
He constantly needs to assert and define their existence. He needs a cut from the everyday space of meanings. And he cuts through them where possible and where not. Often the latter. The back of the sofa riddled with meaning, the litter box, too, a carpet with tufts of red wool, "cemetery" chicken bones under the kitchen table - all Socratic sense.
Sometimes he deliberately wakes me up at night when I lay hungover, so I got mad, lost his temper and "identified" it is the existence of bashing.
Socrates rises to his paws to my ear, loud screaming, then runs away headlong, hiding under the sofa and squeaks. In a word, existential bastard.
Alas, I must also be approved by the absurd actions to acutely feel some bubble or mosquito unity, and person. Just not one that sounds good. Leave it for curly-haired boys with guitars that call to hit heads against stone walls. Existentialism, his mother! I do know the meaning of your life, but are unable to implement it fully. Can't get rid of habits that are as far from the truth, as a set of psychological properties of the monkey from the man. Isn't that a big gap? Even too big.
However, you need to live. At peace with itself and the constant enmity with the world.
And indicate the existence of a genuine sense in opening the space of truth.
And even if you're a poet, look often at the night stars. If you're not a poet, still get out on the balcony and watch. Maybe ever notice how one of the stars winked at you. And invited into the flight. Here you can open up to the true moments of life. Don't miss a moment.
But if you don't have a balcony, and you're not a poet, and your head rarely turns to the stars, then go and look at his feet - and there you can see reflected in the puddle star. Well, like wink?

I also have a cat. Not easy. Philosophical, psychological, existential. His name is Socrates. He had red hair, old and fat.
He constantly needs to assert and define their existence. He needs a cut from the everyday space of meanings. And he cuts through them where possible and where not. Often the latter. The back of the sofa riddled with meaning, the litter box, too, a carpet with tufts of red wool, "cemetery" chicken bones under the kitchen table - all Socratic sense.
Sometimes he deliberately wakes me up at night when I lay hungover, so I got mad, lost his temper and "identified" it is the existence of bashing.
Socrates rises to his paws to my ear, loud screaming, then runs away headlong, hiding under the sofa and squeaks. In a word, existential bastard.



Explanation of the quote:

From the novel "Psychologist and a psychopath".
Cat Socrates and the owner.

Outhouse painting jostle installation.

Here's your toilet.
- No, thank you, I have carpet.

Undercover is like to live in purgatory. Your life ends, and though you're still walking, breathing and talking - in fact, it's not you. And the longer it lasts, the harder it is to remember who you really are. I was the youngest of seven children, six boys and my sister who had everything she wanted. My life consisted of clothes and a queue to the toilet. Private life? Sure! All of you know. It was impossible to keep a secret or to be left alone. I'd give my left arm to be back for Sunday dinner with his family.

Such a piercing gaze he had never in his life seen. Even in the queue to the toilet.

The interesting thing about motherhood: all around are touched and want the same pet as you, but only you several times a day clean litter box.

At the Bolshoi theatre premiere. Gather audience: men in tuxedos, ladies in diamonds.
Before the curtain rises is a few minutes, the conductor prepares the orchestra. And the first violinist is absent but... such a delicate situation to bring it is now impossible for he jerks off in the men's room. Conductor screaming "I'll take care of this!" run to the toilet. Bursts into the cabin, and shouted: "What a shame! So who's jacking off! And this is the first violin of the orchestra! Who do you put your hand?! Above the elbow! Softer the brush!"

- I have more... no family... in truth, I have birth it was not. Parents called me the spawn of the Devil and wanted to kill... I created a new family, but it all was killed. After all this... what is the meaning of life? Whether I should do... to worry about?
What? To live in pain?
Yes. It hurts... really hurts, Glen.
- It is clear. It hurts me, too.
- Eh?..
I couldn't save a loved one. And yet here I am, alive. Have so much to do to survive. You need to eat, to sleep. To go to the toilet. But despite all this... If I live, then one day will come when someone will need me. Live and also wait for this day to come. But if it hurts so bad I want to die, then focus on revenge.
- Revenge...
- Live. Live until you find a new reason to live. If you live... then one day... you will meet people who will need you.
Glen... You really think... that this day would come?
Who knows?

Where a person - there is always the toilet.

Since the planes were the closet, the sky ceased to be a strong element.