Congratulations Russian Jew!

You’re a Russian Jew. That means most of what you have going for you is a cultural history of being able to survive regardless of the circumstances surrounding you. You’re not funny. You’re not good with money. You’re not great at war. Hell, you’re even kind of bad at circumsizing people in accordance with the creed of your own culture.

It’s a tough life, but it’s the one you were born to, and all that survival instinct has kept you alive and in decent food shelter throughout your stay in New York. Plus your cultural disposition has surrounded you with awkwardly sexually aggressive, deprived and attractive women who look at their mothers and feel their all too rapidly approaching middle age stealing upon them. It’s a life of shame, self-hate and copious, mediocre sex.

You usually just tell people that you’re Russian and skip the Jewish part during introductions. After all, why should they care that your mom guilted you into doing some new and deeply regrettable thing during every Thanksgiving in your life, or that you engaged in a bachannal feast of Chinese food every Christmas day? All they need to know is that you seem sad all the time and keep to yourself.

All this will change tomorrow when you find out that Regina Spektor is a Russian Jew. Overnight you’ll go from being a quiet, assuming dude to being the loudest prick in your office.

“DID YOU KNOW SHE’S PLAYED IN ISRAEL?” you’ll shout at whoever is nearby. People will start going out of their way to avoid contact with you.

“SHE’S SO TALENTED AND ATTRACTIVE!” you’ll tell them homeless man on the subway who, in a moment of lucidity, will ask you to please leave him alone.

When you get home you’ll just scream at the walls of your apartment about how great she is at the top of your lungs. You’ll scream until a knock comes at your front door.

Regina Spektor will be standing there in all her splendor. You’ll think that she’s there to thank you for singing her praises and maybe have some awkward, guilty sex with you. But as it turns out, no, she’s not.

She’ll just punch you in the face, knocking you flat out on the floor, where you’ll lay and massage your lip, wondering if you’re swallowing too much blood.

“Please stop talking about me,” she’ll sigh at you before turning around and leaving you there alone in your home, hopefully to grow a personality.

Congratulations Russian Jew!