The Journalist needs her wings clipped…

I work in a building that was built during the ’60’s, by some “avant-garde” architect who was far too enamored with concrete and cubism. As a result, 9 out of 10 visitors get lost trying to get to their destination. Most of the time, I’m the guy who has to steer them straight.

The Journalist stopped by today (well, not today–I’m not going to leak that much detail; the last thing I want is for one of the women I talk about to find this blog), and after I gave directions to a visitor, she went and suggested a different route. Now, I wouldn’t mind, if she had given a better route, but she didn’t–it may be a physically shorter distance, but her suggested route involves some complicated turns, and most likely left the guy more confused than before. If you’re going to undercut me, at least come up with a better route.

What really got me, though, was her patronizing tone as she informed me that there was an alternate route. Ever since she started parading her boy-toy past me, she’s had this air about her, as though she were mocking my previous attraction to her (I say previous, because learning about her beliefs and behaviors has definitely diminished her in my eyes). I’d still fuck her, but I don’t find myself actively lusting for her–familiarity does, indeed, breed contempt. My problems are psychological and social–and I’ve come a long way in overcoming those limitations. She, on the other hand, is racing against time–and there’s still no Fountain of Youth. I don’t think she’s got all that to strut about.

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