Svetlana + Belmont
I didn’t start loving you after you’d flown to London that first time to do your wonky research on the Russian Cyberhacking Scandal of 2017, though that kinda helped. I didn't even start loving you when you sent me that obnoxiously blurry (not to mention crooked) retinal screen shot of Bloomsbury, a neighborhood you KNEW I'd always wanted to live in since I'd started reading every Virginia Woolf novel I could get my hands on in college. No, I started loving you the first time you walked around our Andersonville apartment in your turquoise panties with the tiny daisies on the ass and a wad of tissue folded underneath the waste band like a sloppy assassin. What can I say? I'm a brain-damaged Chicago romantic who just happens to hate Christian fascism, dirty anarchists, orgy blowhards, ammosexuals, free market cheerleaders, and doomsday prophets. And I also drink too much o-white wine and synth well scotch to be a science nerd, if that tells you anything.
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