11/15/2002: I should like to shit bricks and mortar, ladies and gentlemen. Vanya Akhmatova, that vile Gorgon who has made my life a hell of vicious Electronic Mail and slanderous postings on Belanet's two (2) bulletin boards, has returned with her own Web site, intended as competition for the elegant text which you scroll through right now! She is insistent upon earning the title of Most Downloaded Belarussian, even though I keep telling her that the only she stands to accomplish such a feat is to join a "Chicks with Dicks" webring and take her rightful place among her kind! This illiterate has attempted to usurp my title for nearly a year, and even her unctuous brother, Super Computing Hacker Kristov, cannot help her. Kristov follows her about, mopping the drool from her chin, protecting her from the polysyllabic hordes that might frighten her with their vocabularies, and molesting her from time to time with his talon-like hands (juvenile arthritis, you see.) He is quite devoted, and I wish Vanya would commit her attention to him rather than her absurd goal of surpassing me in popularity. Poor dove! These calistenics are futile! However, an ASTONISHING new Internet site has also materialized of late: that of my my darling, darling Jascha, the best to caress an electric guitar in all of Belarus and certainly the best at caressing Red Secretary! Ah, the thought of running my hands through his shining mullet and gazing into eyes as mesmerizing as those of Rasputin himself. I must go now. I know a pillow that would like to be treated as a pony and ridden for miles across dewy meadows. -red secy. -red secy

11/11/2002: In Krovgorod we are having an unseasonably warm November; the snow is not very thick at all and only three cases of Pneumonius have been documented thus far in the block of flats where I live. Still, the sputum grows thick in my lung and the wind howls like Vanya Akhmatova doing sex with her brother. I should like to go on holiday in a temperate and tropical location. The Crimean Peninsula is pretty this time of year- the jagged ice bobs merrily upon the churning swells of the Black Sea and children tremble in their knee-length bathing costumes as they are pursued by mutated crabs that have over-sized pincers and fluoresce in the darkness. But if I had a trillion Euros in my pocketbook presently (alas, I have naught but a few kopeks and a cassingle by a Swedish group called Roxette), I would go "whole hog" and eschew the Baltics for a luxurious holiday in Orlando, Florida, U.S.A, a place with orange groves and theme parks and deluxe swimming basins where American children may urinate freely. I would like to stay in a hotel room with private toilet and television set and eat at The Wendys, which is an American restaurant owned by a Pippi Longstocking-type whose melanin-speckled cheeks seem to glow with health and prosperity. I would also go to the Disney theme park and see the Hall of American Presidents. What a thrill. No, I really mean to say that it would be a thrill. -red secy

11/6/2002: If I could have anything I desired (besides an airplane made entirely of Cocaine which would fly me to and from Poland so that I could shop for luxurious goods like furs and chewing gum, or for my precious Jascha to get his index finger back, or for Svetlana Boginskaya, the "Belarussian Swan" to once again reign supreme in the world of elite-level gymnastics- O Bogi!) I would then wish for my own American-style shower in my flat. It would be like having an exotic waterfall in my own house, under which I could frolic like Cheryl Tiegs and tweak my nipples gaily as American-style Pert Plus shampoo ran into my eyes and humbled me with its antiseptic sting! As it is now, I only have an iron bathing tub, the water for which must be brought up from the boiler from my building superindendent, Gimli. I do not like it when Gimli is looking at my teats, but someone must pour the water! "Red Secretary," he grouses, "the other tenants bring up their own bathwater and do not force me to assist in their bathing routine." "Keep pouring," I say. "My nipples are becoming quite stiff and I do not want them to become frostbitten again." And so he pours, and so I drink my vodka Cokes and varnish my fingernails and dream of the day when plumbing will carry my hot water to me instead of a trembling half-wit. It is a good thing I generally give Gimli half a Valium to steady his hands before he depilates my arm-pits, otherwise I might wind up with some unsightly nicks and scratches. I do not mind scratches so long as they are on my back and are adminstered by Jascha after he has been at the printing-press all day and is feeling emboldened by the fumes. -red secy

11/4/2002: I have just moved to Krovgorod, a city in Belarus that reeks of septic and burning wigs. The wig-burning industry is principal in this region; a surplus of wigs were fashioned in Minsk the year before last due to the popularity of a bewigged Uzbekistani singing sensation by the name of Bratislava Menyazavut. I have not seen such blind ardour directed toward an entertainer since Taylor Dayne performed on a barge on the Volga. But I digress. Styles change and fads dissolve like government-issue birth control capsules on the weary tongues of whores. So now, these wigs must be disposed of at once. They are sent via truck-load to Krovgorod and incinerated by a ragtag band of wig-burners who were brought from the Caucasus for this reason. These wig-burners have been torching synthetics for generations; they wear nose-plugs to lessen the stench and enjoy flinging cinders at each other. They are also quite illiterate. Anyhow, the company that oversees the wig-burning industry in Krovgorod is called Umni-Volosi Inc., and I have very recently been hired by this company as a secretary. O yawn! O fucking! It seems I am forever doomed to such insulting desk-labours. No matter. At the utter least, they provide me with an (uncomfortable) salary, a chair that swivels to and fro (odd!), several holidays off, AND and an assortment of flavoured lollies in a jar at my desk. I suspect they are intended for the clients who shuffle in and out of the office with wig-burning inquiries, but they are so oh-so-delicious and increase the flow of saliva so as to disguise the scent of herbsaint and Larks on my breath. The only unpleasant part of my new job is my supervisor, Graznik who insists upon addressing me in his horrid English. The other day, Graznik came over to the credenza where I sit and attend to my works, and said "Are you happy with your new job? Does it break your back? By the way, I think you dazzle." Your writer pretended not to listen to him and sucked a lolly dolorously. -red secy.

11/3/2002: I am thinking of a tune which I cannot name. Perhaps one of my readers with a pachydermal memory can help me put a name to this musical enigma? It sounds like the Scorpions, only with cannons. I also recall a maddening electric piano riff and a guest vocal by a Eurasian technopop monster named Transiberia who has a very pronounced Adam's apple and raw knuckles. The song is a six minute musical drama that concerns a teenaged girl who likes "meat" and proceeds to convey this emotion in a series of moans and sighs (provided by Transiberia, who assumes the persona of the teenaged girl for the duration of the song.) We then hear the sound of a record being scratched aburptly (HA HA! Comedy!) Then, the girl's father (voiced by recently-gay pop icon Nikolai Malchik) begins rapping about abstinence, and how it is very important for Belarussian girls not to impregnate themselves and shame Lenin in his tomb. The song ends with father and daughter singing together about how nice it is to wrap a boy's cock in plastic sheeting prior to sexual relations. That way, he cannot impregnate his girl-friend and in many instances cannot even penetrate her. Such prudent judgment would make Lenin smile, the father and daughter concur. Yes, Lenin's moustache would turn up at the corners. THAT'S IT! The title of the song was "Lenin's Moustache Would Turn Up at the Corners"! Never mind then, I have solved my own mystery because I am very clever, and I shall reward myself with a toot of Cocaine and a lengthy Autoshag on mine own pillow. -red secy

11/2/2002: I do love the zoo. I went to to the Betingrad Menagerie today to see the lemurs. The lemur-keeper was absent and the cage door open, and so the lemurs ran hither and yon, their little jaws frothing with some exotic plague and their dear claws slashing the surrounding topiary to bits. I tried to feed them some crackers (a sign on the cage read "PLEASE FEED THE ESCAPED LEMURS CRACKERS SO THEY WILL NOT EAT INSTEAD YOUR FACE") but they did not appear to be hungry and were solely interested in buggering each other. My favorite lemur, who is called Kiwi, seemed to be leading the sexual effort. His lemur-penis was quite red and agitated. I offered him some "marshmallows," which were sent to me by a repulsive American cousin by the name of Lindsay. Apparently they are young Lindsay's favorite snack, which does not surprise me as she herself is quite soft and mallowy. Anyhow, Kiwi declined the treat and spat into my outstretched hand. The gesture struck me as very romantic and ultimately Proustian, as it reminded me of my first boy-friend. His name was Sergei and he liked to wet my fingers with saliva to ease certain entries. Conflicted boy! The interior of him, so queer and bumpy, like flocked velvet! -red secy

11/1/2002: Welcome to my Internet web-site. I recently added a new memory-cartridge to my Apple Lisa® computer, and was able to upgrade my old site as needed. The CPU of the Lisa® is now as fleet as Hermes himself; I can code an entire page in Kashaskript in only fourteen hours or so, and it is a joy to behold the calculations streaking across the screen as Lisa® bolds text and formats paragraphs as if by magic. I adore computing. The trade school I attended in Minsk as a girl offered a strong computing curriculum, and I spent hours gazing at the LENIVAC supercomputer that was the school's pride. BLEEP! "The LENIVAC is very powerful. It can crush numbers like the Tatars crushed Russia," my teacher was fond of whispering to me as his hand wandered up my dirndl skirt. In later years, as a student at Minsk High School, I'm afraid I abandoned my study of technology in favor of rock music and inhalants. These days, I am trying to balance such vices with the analytical stimulation of programming and the emotional rewards of self-reflection. Hence, this web document. It is but an account of one young woman's life as an administrative servant in Belarus, and is not intended as any sort of holy book or guide to a more fulfilling life-type. However, we shall all stand to learn something. If you want to read the moronic ramblings of a daffy cunt, I suggest you visit Vanya Akhmatova's page and help her acheive her ludicrous goal of being the Most Read Belarussian on the Internet. If you desire something a bit loftier, please visit my humble site daily and share in my chronic malaise. Na zdrovya! -red secy.