This, ladles and jellyspoons, is what web logs are for. It's so when you have something lame to say, I mean so lame that you wouldn't want to tell it out loud to one or two of your most sympathetic friends, rather than subject yourself to that sort of embarassment instead you publish it for the entertainment of, potentially, two billion or so indifferent or hostile strangers.
So I'm killing time reading this woman out on the internet and I see a comment about this guy, evidently she thinks he was kind of a jerk, and among his other character defects as he's walking down the hallway he's "staring at my tits."
Reading that line made me itch probably more than it should have. 'Cause I do that. I've even been called on it. "You were staring at that girl's..." I blush.
Which, of course, I'd like to try to explain or justify or whatever. You too,
sapiens sapiens, can be trained! Indeed you might have been. I read somewhere about a class of college psychology wiseasses who trained their professor to move toward the left side of the room. All they did was smile and look attentive when he tended left and consciously turned that stuff off whenever he angled right. In an hour they had that sucker bunched up like a hunchback, practically walked him out the classroom door, and he was the professor, and they were the students.
Now what I'm telling you is this: if, when you were coming up, the adults yelled at you and hit you a lot, you end up trained good like old Pavlov's dog. Especially if you've got a sister in the house to sometimes draw their fire instead, fact is you get yelled at maybe twenty percent less often, and slapped ten percent less often, if you only follow the two true Golden Rules: 1.) Keep your God Damn Mouth Shut, Asshole, 2.) Don't Look that Fucker in the Eyes. To this day, it's been thirty-five years now, I feel exactly the same acrophobic sensation as when I walk along the brink of a high fall whenever I look anyone in the face.
And
yes it is genuinely true how the Sun rises in a woman's bosom and sets in her bottom, and yes a few times I have started and gawked for a brief, I hope discreet second or two and this girl's or that's particularly eyecatching plunging neckline, but that's been all in all quite an infrequent event in my life, and as it happens guys's chests don't light me up at all. Yet the stupid fact is, girls or guys, I always, always, always stare straight at the shirt pockets.
