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About Donetsk

I tink escort’s a mess, ya? Some girls, dey choose it, fine—power to ‘em. But others? Forced, tricked, stuck. Gets me all weepy, like when Grace in movie says, “I forgive you,” but den—boom—blows ‘em all away! Love dat part, so satisfyin’. I’d do same to creeps runnin’ dis show, swear on my babushka’s grave. Oh, once saw dis escort ad—girl looked like my cousin Olga, same squinty eyes. Nearly choke on my borscht, laughin’! “Olga, you sneaky minx!” I shout at screen. Prolly not her, but still—wild tought.

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Then, outta nowhere, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy Vasyl. He’s like, “Yo, you gotta check out the new café on Kotsyubynskoho Street!” I’m like, “Dude, I’m knee-deep in fur here!” But curiosity got the better of me. So, I tell Oleg to hold down the fort, and I dash out.

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