Apologies Anna Siggins, whose format I have shamelessly stolen for this piece of filler. But it's your own fault for not putting on a Russian accent for me and exorcising this useless infatuation. Tut fucking tut.
LETTER TO A RUSSIAN REVOLUTIONARY
I don't know where to send this. You're in hiding, and, of course, we've never met. You only entered my life today, with the force of a flashmob.
It's wet here and my ceiling's bleeding water, the day is a fat kid refusing to get out of bed, and now I feel like the Kremlin cold on your tail.
We could just crawl into a bed as if sneaking behind enemy lines, and every grunt and gasp and grimace of pleasure would hiss like dynamite underneath parliament, and our little death would kill us safe from harm.
Because of you, Natalia, I will have to drink myself into a state where I can't walk unless you prop a large stick up my arse and carry me around like a barely sentient puppet.
Yours as hatefully as lovingly,