Accompanying text: On Theo Adams - By Svetlana Grishina
——
I wonder if devil still buys up souls, then do they become cheaper or more expensive in the context of world’s crisis? Is it possible to change your soul for some tomatoes? Are there still any good souls left, which one would actually like to get? How long ago did the crisis in the spiritual world start? Is there an astral stabilization fund? Is it possible to become a karmic tramp? I have been asking Theo’s wardrobe these and other questions, because I have never seen a more hellish repository. The answer, which I heard, lacerated me:
- Put in something glittery before you even dare to speak to me, bitch!
- You are terrible. You are all so terrible.
When I was seven years old, I was really scared that things like that would happen to me, and I was asking my biological parents from Pluto to keep me safe. And now, when SUCH things happen to me, I cheer about, I drink and I go to sleep. Meanwhile, Pluto was called a piece of ice, and I wasn’t yet. But it seems to me that one day I will turn into a piece of dry (or, maybe wet) alcohol. One day, someone will walk into my room, and instead of me there will be a wet stain, which will smell of alcohol in my bed. And I will never be found. And everybody will wonder where i’ve disappeared to, when really I will just return back home.
—————
Speaking to god
If you decide to ever speak to god, it would be appropriate to address him with some normal name. For example, Theo. And then prayers would become not only useful, but also fun. And generally when you say “Theo, please, make me a little more normal” the result seems much more believable. If it’s a god then nobody knows if he can hear you or not, maybe he can’t see you from above, but if it’s a Theo then if he refuses to do what you say you can even phone his grandma and complain. I’m not sure about god, but Theo would definitely hear me. It’s a pity that no religion has a thing when you invent the name for god yourself. Maybe that would make me believe.
——————-
Ivan Ivanov was looking at what used to be his red soviet passport. It looked more like a wad than a proof that he (Ivan Ivanov) is some sort of citizen. His house papers were half burnt, insurance policy was almost chewed and his birth notification notified the world that he doesn’t exist. Ivanov smiled and moved coals in the fire with a stick. Behind his tent the night forest was rustling in the darkness. The stars were looking at Ivanov in surprise and whispering:
- Just wait for it. He’ll think of his TV
- No-o-o. First he’ll think of his fridge. About the funny handle and the red “guiness record book” on the kitchen table.
- No, i’m telling you. First TV, then internet, and then the fridge. They all go to sleep in this order.
One of the stars started coughing and then said - no, everybody always starts with the fridge. Ivanov threw a wad of fresh passport into the red flames and smiled.
- He’ll get bored.. he’ll definitely get bored.. as in “oh, and where are my news and where is my meltdown of financial markets, and where is my wikipedia?”, and then he’ll remember about the fridge.
Ivanov was smiling and patting a squirrel. The Squirrel wanted free nuts and a shot of vodka and was clearly in a bad mood.
- come as you are, as you were… - started Ivanov, trying to cuddle the squirrel
- Officer Vihuholev. Leo. Leo Vihuholev. You are not allowed my makes fires in the park. Can I see your ID please? - sounded from above.
Ivanov was sadly looking into the fire. This was how he found out that the earth is round and there is nowhere to run. The “Esc” button was winkled out long ago.
