middle aged lechers
If something happens twice is it a pattern? I seem to be ideal bait for rich forty- or fifty- something entreprenur divorcees with leftward leanings from the City, and I find it rather disgusting. These men who are just SO eager to talk to me, to establish that we have oh so MUCH in common, that shake my hand so tightly, that humbly and with the greatest diplomacy ask to take the seat next to mine, who talk of their prolific life history, dropping all the important details as if I wouldn’t notice, waxing nostalgic about success, philosophizing about life, and so sincerely pressing for my details, pretending they’re merely interested in a friendly cup of coffee, carefully pretending they’re soaking up some local upstate flavor, they who are driven to eternal self-enrichment. Do I remind you of your daughter? Do I make you think of your wife before she bore your children, became lumpy, and began to nag and bore you? What do you think I will do for you? You self-absorbed men, so privileged and so wrong, you who have always had everything you want, what do you do now that you are alone and the world’s caught up to you and your money’s all made and the grave is mocking you on the pale horizon?