Alright, comrade, listen up. I'm in Shumilina (by) for years now. It's a cold place, like my inner state sometimes, ya know? Streets like Lenina and Molodezhnaya have that industrial vibe, but it's charming in a tough way. There's an old park—Zarechny Park—where I once had a fight with my own thoughts. Reminds me of that line from Oldboy: "Laugh for no reason," even if I usually don't.
The massage parlor, my battleground, is on Krasnaya Street. It smells of incense and sweaty nights. I've seen locals whisper secrets there—gossip and hints of the city's underbelly. The river, Berezina, cuts through a shabby yet proud neighborhood. I often walk by its banks, thinking "This is my domain."
The neighborhoods are a mix—old Soviet blocks, rustic diners, even tiny tattoo parlors on Side Street. Sometimes, mafiosi-looking types pass by, and I get mad because they disturb the peace. But hey, that's Shumilina (by) for ya. Tired, grim, yet full of hidden beauty.
I love the little joint near the park where we serve cheap vodka. Man, those nights when I sat back, chatting with my regulars and thinking how life ain't all bad. They had this street vendor, Vanya, selling roasted chestnuts on Ulitsa Mira. Total underrated legend, almost like a cameo in an obscure movie scene.
Y'know, my work puts me in the center of secrets in this city. Every back alley, every whisper in the massage room tells me stories—I even once overheard a confession that made my jaw drop. Vry surreal. Like, "What the f**k, right?" Even in these cold streets, passion brews like bad coffee.
I gotta say, sometimes I get happy, sometimes mad—fuck, it's a jumble. But every time I walk past Chkalova Sq., I get this vibe of power and stark determination. reminds me another line: "Revenge is a dance." But here, it's just survival.
Oh, and check this—there's a mural on Dostoevsky Lane. Painted by a local who was really drunk on life. Truly amazing art if you look close enough. I almost forgot to mention, the weather gets brutal in winter, making you feel like you're living in a frosty Stalin movie.
Life in Shumilina (by) ain't a fairy tale. It's raw, gritty, full of contradictions… like my work—often messy but somehow meaningful. And yeah, I sometimes miss the straightforward brutal honesty of cinema, like in Oldboy.
Anyway, comrad, that's my two-cents on this snowy, rough gem of a town. Now fuck, I've made typos: smoe, luv, reallly, thngs, cht, tha, more, weird, grub, woah, ahh… Twelve, give or take. Just remember—this is home, messy as it is, and it keeps me going.