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About Donetsk

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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But then, the rain stops as fast as it started. I’m like, “Great, now I’m just wet for no reason.” I decide to head home, but not before stopping by the local market. Gotta grab some fresh produce, right? The vendors are all shouting, trying to get my attention. “Buy my tomatoes! Best in Mykolayiv!” I’m just trying to navigate through the chaos. It’s like a scene from a movie.

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