A little nipple tweaking

I aim to perfect the haiku-esque art of short and concise blogs. As a result here are five paragraphs on a nipple tweaking Armenian:

I met A. almost immediately after I had arrived in Krasnodar. And yes, of course, we met on the internet (the place for beautiful people and the insane. Much overlap). He is quite an interesting character. I recently described him as 'a really eccentric, camp, promiscuous, intellectual Armenian', but I'm sure this isn't the best way to describe him. He's quite complex: on the one hand, he loves Tolstoy, Russian literature and the Russian language in general. He is very well educated and speaks Russian better than Russians, despite only having arrived when he was about 17.  On the other hand, he is extremely hyperactive and scares me by his sudden movements. I don't like sudden movements- I like rest and reflection and chivalrous debauchery!

A quote on his past: 

'I didn't speak any Russian when I arrived, just a few words, but I ended up studying Russian philology (i.e. linguistics and literature of the Russian language) for 5 years and it turned into a great passion of mine....then I studied business for two years. But I didn't like that so much, so I paid someone to write my dissertation. Now I want to do a dissertation focussed on etymology and the psychological weight of words. But I don't have any money left. Maybe I'll marry one of my friends and get citizenship, just long enough so I can get a PHD and then leave forever.'

His current plans consist of:

1) getting out off Russia as soon as possible ('I love Russian and I love Russians, but Russians need some help... I mean, psychologically. It's going to get worse here. Nationalism is crazy and we're heading towards a dictatorship. I secretly hope Turkey invades us and we become one big happy Turkey')
2) learning Spanish
and...
3) trying not to get deported back to Armenia. His passport recently expired, but being in Russia for almost a decade, he doesn't want to go home -- he hasn't returned to Armenia since, has very limited contact with Armenians and has started to feel that Russian has become his native language.  'I'm not Russian, but I'm not Armenian, either. Maybe I can be Spanish. I ADORE Spanish people. But I like German and British culture better. And British humour. You say terrible, horrible things and then laugh with a sarcastic smile. I like that kind of humour.' 

In summary: he is beautifully insane. Sometimes it's hard for me to talk to him because I can't keep up with his energy: one moment, he's explaining the etymology of words one moment, then next moment he's jumping and dancing, next moment he's admiring someone's rear and maybe even taking a photo for posterity, next moment he's begging me to come to karaoke (he goes to karaoke about 3 times a week, even though he doesn't drink. He just turns up by himself and sings to the heavens.), then he's telling me about German literature, then he's raving about Spanish verbs, then he's complaining about Russians, then he's loving Russians, then he's telling me that British people are really cute, timid and sweet, then he's telling me that I am intelligent, then he's philosophizing on the meaning of love, then he's telling me that I'm emotional (this coming from a raving, hyperactive squirrel) and then he's taking pictures and screaming at me that I need to get instagram, that it is a necessity, that it is life or death, that it really is the crux of our generation, that I will die a horrible death without instagram, scarred and impaled on the pole of social rejection. Then he's singing again.

It's all a bit tiring if you haven't slept well, but I am very grateful to him for many funny moments, lots of educational tips on Russian philology and for the 500 rubles he lent me that time I thought I might end up homeless.

But, returning to nipples, and probably breaking my paragraph limit: he recently spotted one of my British friend's very Russian and very heterosexual acquaitances, a young man called Dima, on the street. Mistaking him for an old friend, who had moved to Moscow for good and had recently had a nipple operation for 'superficial cosmetic reasons', he ran up to Dima enthusiastically, grabbed his nipples, tweaked them and asked 'HOW ARE YOUR NIPPLES?'. Dima, a typical stoic replied 'Fine, thanks' and a normal conversation ensued. Only later did A. realize that this was the wrong person....

And here you have some stereotypical Russian stoicness: an almost stranger (they had met once before, but A. had mistaken him for another person) tweaks your nipples and, unshaken and unsmiling, you reply that you are fine and go on your merry way.