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About Mykolaiv

Thing is, it’s a mixed bag. One night, you’re chattin’ some stunner—legs for days, witty banter—next thing, she ghosts ya faster than a wight in sunlight. Pisses me off, that does! Where’s the honor? “We’re all just meat,” *Leviathan* whispers, and ain’t that the truth—swipe left, swipe right, it’s a meat market out there. But then—oh, then!—you hit gold. Met this lass once, fiery redhead, proper minx—knew her way ‘round a bed better’n I know a cask. Left me grinning like a fool—happy as a pig in shit.

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But then, I see this guy at the bar. He’s got a huge tattoo of a chicken on his arm. I’m like, “What’s up with that?” Oleg’s like, “Maybe he’s a chicken farmer?” I can’t stop giggling.

Gifted singer and Cedar Rapids socialite’s husband perished on Titanic