LOS ANGELES, CA-

Vaselina operates five port-a-potties next to Kazanskaya Cathedral off Nevsky Prospect in St. Petersburg. In Russian, she’s a Babushka, which means grandmother. Whether Vaselina really has grandchildren makes no difference. She’s one of an army of old post-Soviet women who pour down streets and sidewalks with pocketbooks clutched in one hand, plastic bags of raw meat in the other, linebackers who will, without question, run you the fuck down if you step in their path, especially if you’re inostranetz (foreigner).

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HOUSTON, TX -

God, this is frustrating. I have something I would much rather be writing about right now, but can’t seem to focus on. In a cute little twist, the way life tends to always enjoy twisting things, my equilibrium is off both figuratively and physically.

The metaphor I will eventually get around to dealing with, but the fact that I am pretty much completely deaf right now deserves a little more immediate attention.

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LONDON, ENGLAND-

My writing may be incredibly unprofessional. I have a tendency to write at the reader, writing with self awareness; I know you’re reading, you know I’m writing.

I also have a tendency to go into the writing of blogs; the circumstances, the process.

There isn’t any process to this. It’s spontaneous. I keep over-thinking, writing too self consciously, almost self indulgently.

Right now I’m sitting at a small, standard issue desk in a small room located on the campus of the University of Essex. Outside it is dark, pitch black, British winter dark. Light shines through my thin curtains from the security light out by the main entrance to the building. My building has six flats to a room, three flats to a floor and three floors.

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