Tu rechingada madre

Que me cago en la muy podrida leche de la puta madre que parió a mis llamados colegas. If I, on frequent flyer miles, in transit to and then in the former SSR my ancestors are from, and while looking at their names on the commemorative ghetto wall, and walking into one of the cattle cars into which they also appear to have walked in a more serious way, and looking for further documentation in broken-down ex-Soviet archives while people speak to me in Latvian and Russian that I do not understand, can still be responding, upon dropping Internet, to questions about ridiculous situations into which students on study abroad have gotten themselves, and if their program directors in other developing countries can respond sensibly as well and are, furthermore, taking responsible action, then the people at home who have received copies of all of these messages can at least fucking answer.


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