A Man Should Have Balls
When, if not all the time, does being professional detract from your personal life? So I have this girl, Liliana, in my car, and I desperately want to rent her an apartment. Not because of my meagre commission, or even to know her bedroom window, but rather that I need to see her again. I show her a few apartments that I know she won't want, foolishly selling all the way. "This one is close to the train," I say (but be sure to bring a sandwich for the walk). I know that she wants some apartment that I don't have. Once this is ascertained, is it not right to abandon "professionalism" and go to "personalism?" I may have something else she wants. Is professionalism not a myth, a capitalist invention?
I'm sure she smiled. She touched and twirled her hair while we were talking (of course the windows of the car were open, no doubt messing her dark and sultry look). She complimented me on my accent, which she took to be British until I told her I was from Palatine. Do these scant signs permit an abandonment of salesmanship? If I showed obvious sexual interest in all of my sexy clients, wouldn't that cross some awful societal boundary? Does that boundary exist?
Nay, it must be a psychological boundary, some awful product of the great white suburbs where nobody says what they mean. Things are understood, but never really understood. It must be an institutionalized cowardice masquerading as manners, castration as sophistication, a polite illness.
I feel terribly confused and regretful. A man should have balls, and while mine are there for fondling, they don't seem to be providing the behavior necessary to get laid. What is wrong with my balls? Should I send them back to the factory, the uterus?
HAPPINESS LEVEL: 7
ANXIETY LEVEL: 9
LISTENING TO: "Human Nature" by Michael Jackson
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I'm sure she smiled. She touched and twirled her hair while we were talking (of course the windows of the car were open, no doubt messing her dark and sultry look). She complimented me on my accent, which she took to be British until I told her I was from Palatine. Do these scant signs permit an abandonment of salesmanship? If I showed obvious sexual interest in all of my sexy clients, wouldn't that cross some awful societal boundary? Does that boundary exist?
Nay, it must be a psychological boundary, some awful product of the great white suburbs where nobody says what they mean. Things are understood, but never really understood. It must be an institutionalized cowardice masquerading as manners, castration as sophistication, a polite illness.
I feel terribly confused and regretful. A man should have balls, and while mine are there for fondling, they don't seem to be providing the behavior necessary to get laid. What is wrong with my balls? Should I send them back to the factory, the uterus?
HAPPINESS LEVEL: 7
ANXIETY LEVEL: 9
LISTENING TO: "Human Nature" by Michael Jackson
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Labels: courtship rituals
posted by JMH | 10:27 PM
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