THEY WEREN'T ME

At long last I am beginning to understand why some men who are not me are single: they are flaming holes. The men who are me are single for an entirely different reason: they're kind of grumpy and on the spectrum. How do you know someone is on the spectrum? Talk to them. At some point there will be an information dump. Without even realizing it they'll monologue over something in great detail, providing so much more as an answer to a simple question that you may regret asking, or start having an existential crisis.
Plus they're probably good at trivia.


Among the men who might be me (but isn't) is one gentleman who visits me work regularly, whose company I enjoy, and who is a welcome relief from the men who are distinctly not me. For one thing, even though he likes American football, he isn't obsessed by it, and does not wet his undoubtedly very distinguished looking undies when "his" team does something totally stupendous. Unlike Jeff, whose chair remains vacant once he has left.

Also, he doesn't make unseemly noises when the stupendous thing is done.

Jeff sounds like a cross between a rabid dog, a full-on Southern politician, and a heretic just dying to be burned at the stake, at those times. Despite being sober.

A PIPE I SMOKED WHILE BEING ME

As the man who is me that irritates me intensely.

I dislike loud noises. And screaming oafs.

There was too much sport today.

Overmuch idiocy!



Let us not talk about Jeff's damp and frilly panties.



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