Yaroslav always kept his headphones on in public spaces, he wasn't particularly keen on letting his eardrums burst from the loudness of stupid white girls screeching over prom-dress shopping at the mall. He'd rather get them blow out by shitty music, like Anal Thermometer. He liked shitty music. This made it inconvenient for you to talk to him, to drag him around to buy things, but you could deal.

You two were wandering the food court, unable to agree on something to eat. "Chert voz'mi, net, I am not eating at that shitty restaurant," he complains. "If I am paying, I pay for good food, pridurok." He scoffs at the suggestion you made of burgers.