At our apartment complex there was no electricity, water, heating, Internet, and mobile phone connection for almost 48 hours. Since we don’t use gas and have electric stoves, we couldn’t cook either.
Our apartment complex is very “young”—I guess 80 percent of the residents are families with small children and small pets. The kids didn’t have school or training sessions or hobby groups to attend. After I climbed the stairs to the 13th floor for the umpteenth time, my butt was as stiff as a nut, probably a coconut.
And you know what? We have adapted.
The kids read and do their homework using flashlights. There is a battery-operated garland with lights in lieu of fixtures in the hall. We have candles, dry food that doesn’t spoil, and supplies of fresh water. Grocery stores and cafés functioned with generators, and fed people. No one was closed!
People got together and went to well rooms for water. In the evening, the kids had fun on the playground and organized snowball fights. At night, despite freezing rain, utility maintenance teams worked to repair the damage caused by those fuckers.
On the second day of the blackout, people were in such a hurry to get to work that they broke the doors to the Vydubychi metro station.
There is no panic, and everyone is doing what must be done—and more.
How does it feel to live in the eighteenth century for a few days? It’s tough, of course. Those imbeciles who keep firing missiles at us think that this will make us agree to negotiate. There was only one thing on my mind these past few days: “Please, dear Lord, don’t let them start negotiating!” We were completely cut off from the news and didn’t know what was going on, but we hoped to God that Ukraine would not make any concessions.
We can endure the lack of electricity, water, heating—anything. So long as you defectives get lost. We want no part of any of you, neither the good guys nor the bad guys, those who fire the missiles or order them to be launched, those who are “for peace and no war,” those who lie low and have nothing to do with politics. Those who sit around in cafés in Moscow or some other shitville, while in Ukrainian cities mothers cannot wash or feed their children. While the electricity is being cut off in Ukrainian intensive-care units, you bastards are making Christmas vacation plans.
The lack of water, heating, light, and food is a problem that can be solved. But you! You are a malediction—moral perverts.
My grandma had a stock of apt expressions. “I loath” was one such phrase.
Let me tell you that I loathe living next door to your country. I loathe the very thought that the border with your country of orcs is only several hundred kilometers away.
I loathe uttering the word “russia”—and so does my child, and so will my grandchildren.
I loathe the fact that, back in my childhood, when you used to come from your fucktardvilles to Zaporizhzhia to swim in the sea and devour normal food, I would plunge into the same sea with you.
I loathe watching your stupid propaganda, even for fun. I even loathe laughing at you because you are pathetic.
I walk around the holy city of Kyiv, and I loathe even imagining that we were a step away from your loathsome feet touching the cobblestones of the downtown district of Podil.
In short, here’s salt in your eyes and a rock on your chests! I spit three times into your faces at sunset!
Glory to Ukraine!
Kyiv is holding the fort and will continue to stand fast.
Glory to the Armed Forces of Ukraine, the people of Ukraine, the utility maintenance and emergency management teams, doctors, and the police!
