Pathologies & Pussy Riot

[SAMAA PASKAA SUOMEKSI here.]

P detested two things in fiction: politics and war. She wouldn't look into a novel or sit down and watch a movie that dealt with these topics. You had to draw the line somewhere. Grrrl had to have principles.

In her youth P announced that she does not eat macaroni. In the light of available evidence, the conviction was hard to maintain. She matured and proclaimed she does not have sex when intoxicated. She campaigned for her goal. Between the idea and reality fell the shadow, she was that shadow, and saw herself at the corner of her eye, as if in a mirror in the middle of the night, but who cared, as nobody else did. See her, that is. Or care. Well, what the fuck? When a man turned into a pain in the ass, as they always did, she cut the ties and promptly slept with the next one on her assembly line of life. Usually the sequence of events was in reverse, however. First came the weekend full of fun with the upcoming candidate; then, as a consequence, she was able to burn her bridges. The method worked so well, it was amazing. She was proud of herself, true to herself.

P dreamed of becoming an author. She wrote all the time in a standard school notebook (the large variant). In her own words, she kept a diary. P never revised what she had written, but produced more. She had no notion of creating an accomplished work, something perhaps worth publishing. She didn't want her name on a cover of a book. The attention seeking syndrome of men was simply absurd on this field as well, P snorted. They wanted fame. So help me God.

To tell the truth, P wrote with her pussy. Sex was the only form of self-expression she was completely at ease with. That she trusted. Her personality was built in bed, and it was in bed that it thrived. She had yet to receive any indisputable evidence that there was life beyond banging. The Big Bang, she joked with her husband, Mammal Prilepin, the publisher, who was similarly inclined. In bed, out of it. Après le baiser, bof, Mammal said, the only words in French he knew. And P had taught them. She had probably read the sentence someplace. On a lavatory wall in Switzerland or wherever she had roamed, before.

The persons depicted above have one thing in common with the Russian revolutionaries. The pearls thrown by PR can be found in the bowels of P. Or in the mouth of the man of the house. It depends on the stage of digestion we're at. The world is a weird place, and worth fighting for.

There is something wrong with the sentence, so I can't possibly comment on that.

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I'M AFRAID THERE  EXISTS AN ALTERNATIVE ENDING TO THIS STORY. IT CAN BE FOUND IN THE BOOK 

THE ADVERSARY BY EMMANUEL CARRERE.

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TO BE CONTINUED... OVER here.