A Serious Note: Part Deux

Today I explore the problems associated with living in Moscow.  


And spend an inordinate volume of the post bitching about my flatmate.

7.  Random shit. Yeah-you know the sort: you get back home from work on a Friday, do a wash for your work clothes while you cook dinner (the superlative combination of a fine French wine and a meat-feast pizza) and then, without rhyme or reason, the electric cuts out. 

Um.

Did I just travel back to the 40s?  

I thought we were in the world's most expensive city?  And on that note...

8.  World's most expensive city.  Nearly six quid for a pint of Stella?  Get tae fuck.  Shitey leather jackets with ridiculous fur appendages that you wouldn't wear as a Halloween costume for upwards of £400?  That'll be shining bright.       

9. My flatmate.  I should have known on the initial meeting.  I'd just arrived the night before and had absolutely no food whatsoever in the apartment the following morning.  He sat, eating breakfast, and didn't even think to offer something.  I disregarded it at the time, but as time goes by, I'm coming round to the idea that he may be a bit of a 'tard (to the point that I think he may genuinely be a bit of an asspie).  I tire of feigning interest in his consistently wank chat and his "eccentricities". 

Case in point: he told me not long after I'd arrived (and when he was unaware that I'm actually qualified as a teacher) that an Honours degree is apparently equivalent to a Masters and that as the school was considering opening a private university at some point down the line, he hoped he would be in line to work there as a Professor in Physics.  

Nice try, dickwad.

Unfortunately, this is not exactly impossible to rule out because other countries aren't quite as stringent as we happen to be in the West regarding academic credentials.  

Anyway-bear with me.  When I asked if he was qualified in ICT in any way, shape or form-he replied that 'it's easy for me because I did Physics at university and ICT is just Maths, so we're like better at it than people who study ICT.'  I had to choke back the crippling urge to give him a smack in the mouth since my sister actually has an undergraduate degree in Maths, a Masters in Computing Science (which she undertook without any prior training), is currently in the second year of her PhD and is in the process of being fucking published in academic journals.  I may not see eye to eye with my sis on certain things, but she knows her stuff and her stuff ain't easy.  So yeah, you gargantuan fuck-pig.  You Physics graduates really have changed the world with your rad programming skills.  

Add to these few traits his complete inability to have a properly sequenced conversation:

D: Hey, how are you doing?  Are you going out later as I was thinking about maybe nipping downtown to see some people?

F: Yeah.  Do you know what my Russian girlfriend calls me?

D: Um.

F: Her "man-rabbit" (cue laughter which induces me to politely laugh, too).  So, anyway, you were saying?

D: Um.        

It's like talking to a child who hasn't quite mastered the concept of introducing a topic relevant to adult conversation and is so ridiculously self-absorbed that he only sees other people as a conduit for which to further his own stories.  My brother has to suffer a similar fate with his flatmate and coincidentally, both his and my flatmates are avid sportsmen.  Asspie gene=Jock douche?

And as the final coup de grace:  I can suffer the unwashed dishes that he'll leave for a day when I need to use them, but the man is completely unable to close a door/cupboard door behind himself.  I mean, like, he opens cupboards all over the place and it ends up looking like this:

Maybe he's scared monsters hide in there.

For the record, I'm not someone who will claim to have OCD (and, while we're at it-fuck you if you claim to have OCD because you like to be clean; have you ever known anyone diagnosed with it?  Not the same fucking thing, I can assure you), but repeatedly opening cupboard doors and leaving them open is within the realms of the bizarre-just close the thing behind you; don't wait for me to do it then post about it on a fucking blog.

He's the loudest person in the world first thing in the morning (particularly when eating), is unable to leave the slightest bit of room in the fridge or freezer for any food that I buy and comes across all privileged when talking about our apartment.  The truth is that it is effectively my apartment: you see, qualified teachers are entitled to an apartment on their own, but I got shafted and landed with him.  Nevertheless, he's got fuck all teaching experience bar a month or two of ESL and no teaching qualifications whatsoever (oops, I forgot-he's got an Honours degree in "Astrophysics") and he thinks that in some way this qualifies him to allow his fucked-up Russian girlfriend ("Maybe you should clean the place?", she chastises) to move stuff into our bathroom and strut his stuff chez moi?  

Nah, nah, nah, nah.  GAME OVER!

  

David is going to be hunting for a new apartment soon, methinks. 

Oh, and if none of that is really illustrative of what an asspie he is-he contends that the Wii is the greatest gaming console, like, ever.  

Ever.

9.  Actually, I can't do this anymore.  No, not the job-the diatribe.  The school is new and I'm fully well aware of the sheer logistics that are involved in the setting up of a school-particularly with so few qualified staff.  In foreign countries, many things that would seem instantaneous in the West can take days, weeks or even months to resolve.  It's true that some things are really inconvenient and truly baffling (materials, mainly), but I think that I've gone past the point of worrying about anything.  The kids, while sometimes rambunctious, are actually a pleasure to teach as they are intensely interested in learning and eager to please.  The Russian staff can be a dour lot, but are nevertheless terribly polite and try to put me at ease.  The international staff are all relatively young and there are some really funny fuckers (particularly the older qualified teachers).  So...What-me worry?  

True, I have absolutely no interest in spending any more time with the Asspie, but I'm not going to let that fuck up what could be the most bodacious time to be had in Moscow.  Just look at this photo I took when I visited Red Square on my oddy-knocky a few weeks ago:

Can anyone else hear the Russian national anthem?

Ain't it purty?

Yes, the disgruntled man-goat you once knew is dead.  Or, at the very least, lying in wait till a certain Asspie leaves one cupboard too many open.  The epiphany, as many of you probably are already aware, occurred not long before I left the old country and is more than perfunctorily summed up by the quote:

"If the problem can be solved then why worry? If the problem cannot be solved worrying will do you no good.” – Shantideva

There is very little I can do in the situation I am in right now other than wait it out and try my best; by screaming, shouting and being negative about the situation, I will never enjoy my time here and will end up becoming too fixated on minutiae that could take a year or two to sort out.  Of course, if things don't improve within a few months, I will look to pastures green, but denying myself the opportunity to explore Moscow on a fairly decent wage and (what I consider) relatively little stress would be a fool's errand.  

Plus, the vodka is worth it alone.

So, in essence: shut it, Pint.

Whether you're unhappy with life, liberty or even simply the pursuit of happiness, the picture below is bound to bring at least a smile to your miserable mug for at least a few seconds, and if it doesn't...I'd consider professional help: 

I don't think I've ever seen a dog look so proud.

And now you're going to spend the next half an hour looking up dog pictures on the net.  

You can thank me later.

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"Within your 'purview'? Where do you think you are, some fucking regency costume drama?"

-D.