When you're approached by a prostitute (like I was about 20 minutes ago), before you even consider whether or not it would be safe to exchange a crisp 20 dollar bill for her warm, tobacco tainted mouth, I suggest you double check her arms for cigarette burns (aka pimp punishment) and her lips for large pulsating bulges, because that could be a sign of herpes. Or acne, which leaves the possibility of her being underage.
When approaching me, this lone hooker hadn't the slightest idea who I was. She figured, hey, here is a man that looks lonely. I should offer him a service he probably can't get on his own. She probably thought it would make her a humanitarian. And 20 bucks, of course. Well hooker, just because I subscribe to Victorias Secret news letter with no intention of ever purchasing a brassiere doesn't make me a bad guy. I can get plenty of girls, I just have to get them drunk enough to not realize that I am ignoring every word they mutter, and am explicitly insulting them every moment I'm not struggling to prevent myself from grabbing one of their breasts.
Some women would call me a pig, others a visionary. Actually, no woman calls me a visionary. It's mostly that pig thing that I hear a lot. Oh well, that revelation usually comes about during breakfast conversation, which usually goes a little something like this:
GIRL
Good morning.
ME
Good morning. Can you make breakfast?
GIRL
You can make me something, no?
ME
2 eggs, rye toast and orange juice with no pulp. If I find one piece of pulp, you'll be sorry!
GIRL
What?
ME
Is breakfast being prepared?
GIRL
What? No!
ME
Oh, well why are you still here? Did you forget your purse? Oh that's right, it's my purse now.
At that point they either take off frantically, or I pull out a gun and then they take off frantically. I should have mentioned that this is how I make a living as well.
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