Inside me dirty cursed home ...
When a child can not sleep for a long time and finally falls asleep, all sounds seem to be deafening. The husband scratches his beard loudly, and the sunshine behind the window is yelling solos from the album DED metal. But there are days when the opera with the working title is really unfolding around "Haha, she finally laid a child, make a pogrom." One such day was not so long ago.
We arrived in the village to close relatives, missed shitting in the nose. Little if therefore, I didn't really like it very much and it was looking for everything, as if to dump everything from here: Always climbed into the stroller and showed a finger: "There!", Trying to find the way home. We must give Madmoiselle due: we reached the turn on the track twice. I was sorry for me, and I was already thinking to spit on the whole intersection ...
But at some point she finally fell asleep, and I decided to walk around the village: After all, when the stroller moves, sleep better. Maybe it will restrain and will be loyal to the local pastor?
So, in the village in every courtyard there was a dog. Or two. Sometimes even three. These trapping are like alcoholics choir at sight of amateur in a rehabilitation dispensary. Several times the cow was in bulk. This is her "Muuuu" it looks like a vibrating phone, which was put in a saucepan, and then delicately stuffed a sleeping person under the pillow. Shed geese. I immediately understood who they had a soloist: he had already hesitated his head, apparently someone threw a cobblestone, having prompted the followers (that is, to me) that it was necessary to go in that motley, and then everything would be plugged.
A flock of schoolgirl flies in frivolous dresses. Not only is they rzut, like sea seagulls, so also drags with you a little Banduur with Shaitan music, of course loud. I intelligently press the lips and look harshly. Every adult man would understand that this is an elegant way to say: "turn off the fuck", but does note. I coughed the company's November "Yykhya" and raised an eyebrow: the music subsided and turned on only around the turn. No, this generation is not lost.
And on this Kaldir-Uladir, I already spoil on the street, at the end of which the house, where tea with lavender, spiritual conversations and spiny homemade eclairs, like here ... how I overtake me the classics of rural marketing thought: loud and broken Pibika carries out a truck with seedlings, brooms and three-liter banks. Inside me dirty cursed home. I mitch in the distance to harmony and barbed eclairs, for me - Pi-Biiiiype. Lee shakes, I am a rascal, the pebibyp is inexorably.
And here I am at the wicket. Lee peacefully sniffs, and I was all died with sounds like nettle. Pour me tea with lavender and do not rattle with spoons, TSSHSH!