Please turn on the heat in Prospekt Veteranov, specifically, in my apartment. It is really, really fucking cold. I'm not even going to try to sugar coat this. I'm sure that after all of the time we've (however passively on my part) known each other, you're not shocked by my use of profanity. So ещё раз, turn on my god damn heat! Look, if this continues, I'm going to be sick, dead, and fat. Fat because my babushka is under the impression that the only way to prevent me from succumbing to the cold is by feeding me mass amounts of food. If I don't eat at least five dozen blini, a particularly fierce метель (blizzard, not the tasty one) is sure to blow me away to Siberia where someone else will have to resume your duties. Why end what we have going here? I'm sure you could call one of the Sashas you know and get this whole thing sorted out before the end of Kelsey. If not, I'm afraid that I'll have to send Tatyana Petrovna to go all babushka on you with the stick she uses to bang on the wall when the neighbors get loud. It's your call but she is a spry, fierce thing, especially when government hooliganism is involved. So if I get some heat within, say, the next five minutes, we'll be all squared up.
Спасибо большое!
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