He looked at his pinky and sighed. What was it doing there just hanging off the end like that? So small, skinny and separated from the rest. It really didn’t seem to belong.
The obsession had begun about three months ago and increased into full pinky overload. Everything revolved around it but yet there was no reason for its existence. What a dilemma.
It had happened one night over dinner. Nancy had demanded a romantic get together which Herbert felt defeated the point of romance when it was forced, but hey, who was he to say? Nancy was the 2nd real relationship he’d ever had. As Nancy prattled on about her day Herbert stared aimlessly around the restaurant. Couples littered the candle lit room, white linen and white china. Red roses were on every table. The setting couldn’t be more filled with love if Saint Valentine had thrown up on the place.
“Herbert, are you listening?”
“Mmmhmmm,” he mumbled.
“As I was saying, Doreen was telling me that her brother...”
Herbert took another sip of his chardonnay. He hated chardonnay but with each sip it became easier to drown out the monotony of Nancy’s voice. It was when he put his glass down that he noticed it, all pink, short and meekly thin, just laying there. At the edge of his left hand a finger that served no real purpose or interest…until now.
Why was it there? No one ever seemed to give two thoughts to the pinky. Why do we need it? Thumbs Herbert could understand. It allowed you to hold things, to shake hands, to create. The opposable thumbs were one of the biggest features of our evolution as humans. While it was small it had big responsibilities.
Even the ring finger served a purpose. Granted it was purely superficial; to show off something pretty. Maybe to represent a future with someone else. A future that the more he stared at his pinky finger would not involve Nancy.
And it was this dinner that was the beginning of the end of Herbert and Nancy’s relationship. Three weeks after that fated day of realization Nancy approached Herbert in his bedroom. There he was, as he had been almost every waking hour of everyday, staring at his pinky. Sitting on his bed with his hand on his knee he was mesmerized. It took Nancy three times of saying his name, shouting it the last time, for him to look up.
“Hmmm?”
“I can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what anymore,” Herbert said touching his pinky on his left hand.
“This.” She waved her hand between the two of them. “I can’t be with you while you continue this absurd obsession.”
“Who has an obsession?”
“YOU, HERBERT! You do! All you talk about, all you seem to think about, all you even look at anymore is your god damn pinky finger.”
“Well, what’s the point of it?”
“Who gives a shit?! It’s there, live with it. Everyone seems to coping with this unknown just fine!”
“Yeah but it’s just…there.”
“Ooooo! Get help, psycho!”
With that Nancy stormed out of his apartment slamming the door so hard that the mirror next to it fell with a loud crash of breaking glass. Herbert barely even noticed for he had gone back to staring at his pinky.
Over the next couple of weeks Herbert talked to his friends about it. None of them understood and many of them used the term “insane”. After a while they too stopped coming around to see him. He was a man involved, involved in useless thoughts, according to everyone else.
He even tried talking to a shrink about his concerns. She seemed to understand, nodding often, asking questions. It seemed hopeful that he had finally found someone who understood. That is until she handed him a prescription for Phenobarbital on his way out.
“Just a little something to ease the discomfort,” she said with a wink. Herbert later found out that Phenobarbital is an anti-psychotic. But I’m not a psychotic, Herbert thought. I just don’t see the reason. As the months wore on and the weather got colder he began to think of ways to eliminate his problem.
It wasn’t until one particularly cold December night that he figured out a solution once and for all. He was sitting in his apartment, watching the news, though not truly watching of course. Suddenly his thoughts and the news were interrupted. The power in his building had gone out. Herbert sat stunned for a second then got up to the laborious task of lighting the various candles he had laying around. After 20 minutes his hands were cramped and cold.
Cold. Now there’s a thought. If I sit here long enough, with the extreme cold permeating my body…and the extremities are always the 1st to go numb in these scenarios… Get the pinky number and then…
An hour later and he felt frozen stiff. He had thought enough to put on a jacket but he left his left hand exposed of course. When he put it into the jacket he felt like he was pressing a block of ice to his chest. Perfect. Now to the task on hand.
He walked into the kitchen holding a candle stick. Where is it? Where is it? Ah ha! He grabbed the largest knife from the cutting block and placed his left hand on the counter by the sink. Easy clean up later. After this he’d get around to the other one.
With a huge grin and a sense of relief he raised his knife above his head over the unwanted finger and-
THWAP!
Friday, March 13, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Welcome to the World. How may I assist you?- Ch. 3
Chapter III- The Final Installment
One of the Winged Guardian’s notorious enemies (because we all know with every super hero comes a super douche) the Trashinator, had taken a main sewage line and shot it into the main Water and Power building ventilators spewing muck, mucus and mayhem throughout the building shutting down power city wide.
Now in our dream dungeon we’re on the government system, government power. I was doing some standard scheduling for his upcoming independent contracts when the buzzer sounded and a live stream of the Trashinator on a rooftop laughing popped up. I panicked! I could call the Guardian’s emergency number and bring him back from his needed vacation or I could pretend I was a superhero myself and SAVE THE DAY! So what do I do? Escape reality, safety and sanity completely.
Grabbing my cell phone and car keys I ran to the elevator, went up to the garage and hijacked the super speed car. Speeding along the streets (in not a very straight pattern I might add- hey, I’d never driven a super car before) watching cars pull out of the way for me and people staring outside their windows hoping to catch a glimpse of the Winged Guardian, I felt accomplished and proud. All my hard work was finally going to show itself in one huge moment.
Those warm tingly feelings lasted a whole 30 seconds before I pulled up to the water and power building now surrounded by on-lookers, police and firemen. I could feel a ripple of relief and joy shoot through the crowd as my car arrived and the police moved the barricades. A stunned silence passed over everyone the moment I stepped out of the car.
As the chief of police came charging towards me I began to hyperventilate. This was real and really stupid.
“What are you doing here?”
“The Guardian is busy. He asked me to check out the scene,” I lied. “What’s the status?”
He rolled his eyes and looked a little shocked that I could demand information but he knew who I was and who I worked for so he complied. “The Trashinator has locked all the doorways except one, the one leading to the service elevator which he has programmed to go straight the roof.”
“How convenient,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing, I’m going up. Can I have a vest, please?”
“You’re going up?”
“Yeah, got a problem with that?”, I asked in my best authoritative voice. The chief merely looked at me like ‘Hey, it’s your funeral’, made a hand signal to some unknown person and two seconds later a policeman was strapping me up with a bullet proof vest and a gun.
As the elevator rose up slowly I began to feel a sudden calm come over me. What’s the worst that could happen? I mean I could die, that was a possibility, a probability really but I was dying for my beliefs, my people. What more of a noble calling could I ask for? The moment the doors opened and a gust of fresh putrid air came at me all that nobility went out the window and was replaced by sheer fear. I crouched down and began crawling behind the only cover I could find: the vent blowing up the shitty air from the Trashinator’s disaster of a creation.
“Hello, hello, who’s there mon friar?”
“Hello Trashinator,” I said in my deepest, manliest voice possible.
“You aren’t the Guardian. Too chicken to come himself I see.”
“Pfft. He’s too busy fighting real criminals to worry about a dirt bag like you.”
“Oh really and who are you? One of the third tiers heroes? Called off the bench to play a few rounds?”
I continued to move around the roof crouching, not knowing where the Trashinator was exactly. I could certainly hear and smell him. The smell kept getting stronger and I wasn’t sure if it was him or the shit air blowing in my face.
“Boo!”
I turned around and there he was. He immediately grabbed me by the collar. “You’re not a hero! Just a lame copy girl!”
“I’m an assistant!” and with that I kicked him right in the balls sending him to the ground. From there I poked him straight into both eyes. As he squealed and squirmed he got closer and closer to the edge of the roof. I kicked and punched with the little energy I had (I didn’t make it to the gym much—work and all). Then on the kick that would have been the Coup-de-gras pushing him over the ledge once and for all, he grabbed the leg I had planted on the ground and pulled. I dropped straight down and he slid over the ledge pulling me with him. I tried to dig my nails in to slow things down which always does a whole lot of good. Finally I reached the edge of the roof with the shit head dangling off my ankle.
What’s a girl to do, hanging here, with a piece of garbage stuck to her? Why make a phone call of course. Somehow I managed to pull my cell phone out of my breast pocket and pull myself up a little on the ledge to dial. But who to call in a time like this? Oh I guess I’ll call my superhero boss and ruin his vacation. Perfect.
Ring ring. Ring ring. Ri-
“Alo, my darling.”
“Um, so I’m in a bit of a situation.”
“Oh yes?,” he said teasingly.
“Yeah, um, I’m hanging off the edge of the water and power building with the Trashinator dangling off my leg because he attacked the building with a bunch of shit and sewage. Mind coming to my rescue?”
“I’ll be right there,” he said seriously.
And now, here we are, the Trashinator and I holding on by my last finger, waiting for the Winged Guardian to fly here and save me. Actually, there goes my last finger.
“Oh, FU-“
One of the Winged Guardian’s notorious enemies (because we all know with every super hero comes a super douche) the Trashinator, had taken a main sewage line and shot it into the main Water and Power building ventilators spewing muck, mucus and mayhem throughout the building shutting down power city wide.
Now in our dream dungeon we’re on the government system, government power. I was doing some standard scheduling for his upcoming independent contracts when the buzzer sounded and a live stream of the Trashinator on a rooftop laughing popped up. I panicked! I could call the Guardian’s emergency number and bring him back from his needed vacation or I could pretend I was a superhero myself and SAVE THE DAY! So what do I do? Escape reality, safety and sanity completely.
Grabbing my cell phone and car keys I ran to the elevator, went up to the garage and hijacked the super speed car. Speeding along the streets (in not a very straight pattern I might add- hey, I’d never driven a super car before) watching cars pull out of the way for me and people staring outside their windows hoping to catch a glimpse of the Winged Guardian, I felt accomplished and proud. All my hard work was finally going to show itself in one huge moment.
Those warm tingly feelings lasted a whole 30 seconds before I pulled up to the water and power building now surrounded by on-lookers, police and firemen. I could feel a ripple of relief and joy shoot through the crowd as my car arrived and the police moved the barricades. A stunned silence passed over everyone the moment I stepped out of the car.
As the chief of police came charging towards me I began to hyperventilate. This was real and really stupid.
“What are you doing here?”
“The Guardian is busy. He asked me to check out the scene,” I lied. “What’s the status?”
He rolled his eyes and looked a little shocked that I could demand information but he knew who I was and who I worked for so he complied. “The Trashinator has locked all the doorways except one, the one leading to the service elevator which he has programmed to go straight the roof.”
“How convenient,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing, I’m going up. Can I have a vest, please?”
“You’re going up?”
“Yeah, got a problem with that?”, I asked in my best authoritative voice. The chief merely looked at me like ‘Hey, it’s your funeral’, made a hand signal to some unknown person and two seconds later a policeman was strapping me up with a bullet proof vest and a gun.
As the elevator rose up slowly I began to feel a sudden calm come over me. What’s the worst that could happen? I mean I could die, that was a possibility, a probability really but I was dying for my beliefs, my people. What more of a noble calling could I ask for? The moment the doors opened and a gust of fresh putrid air came at me all that nobility went out the window and was replaced by sheer fear. I crouched down and began crawling behind the only cover I could find: the vent blowing up the shitty air from the Trashinator’s disaster of a creation.
“Hello, hello, who’s there mon friar?”
“Hello Trashinator,” I said in my deepest, manliest voice possible.
“You aren’t the Guardian. Too chicken to come himself I see.”
“Pfft. He’s too busy fighting real criminals to worry about a dirt bag like you.”
“Oh really and who are you? One of the third tiers heroes? Called off the bench to play a few rounds?”
I continued to move around the roof crouching, not knowing where the Trashinator was exactly. I could certainly hear and smell him. The smell kept getting stronger and I wasn’t sure if it was him or the shit air blowing in my face.
“Boo!”
I turned around and there he was. He immediately grabbed me by the collar. “You’re not a hero! Just a lame copy girl!”
“I’m an assistant!” and with that I kicked him right in the balls sending him to the ground. From there I poked him straight into both eyes. As he squealed and squirmed he got closer and closer to the edge of the roof. I kicked and punched with the little energy I had (I didn’t make it to the gym much—work and all). Then on the kick that would have been the Coup-de-gras pushing him over the ledge once and for all, he grabbed the leg I had planted on the ground and pulled. I dropped straight down and he slid over the ledge pulling me with him. I tried to dig my nails in to slow things down which always does a whole lot of good. Finally I reached the edge of the roof with the shit head dangling off my ankle.
What’s a girl to do, hanging here, with a piece of garbage stuck to her? Why make a phone call of course. Somehow I managed to pull my cell phone out of my breast pocket and pull myself up a little on the ledge to dial. But who to call in a time like this? Oh I guess I’ll call my superhero boss and ruin his vacation. Perfect.
Ring ring. Ring ring. Ri-
“Alo, my darling.”
“Um, so I’m in a bit of a situation.”
“Oh yes?,” he said teasingly.
“Yeah, um, I’m hanging off the edge of the water and power building with the Trashinator dangling off my leg because he attacked the building with a bunch of shit and sewage. Mind coming to my rescue?”
“I’ll be right there,” he said seriously.
And now, here we are, the Trashinator and I holding on by my last finger, waiting for the Winged Guardian to fly here and save me. Actually, there goes my last finger.
“Oh, FU-“
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Welcome to the World. How may I assist you?- Ch. 2
Chapter II
The first week was pretty standard for an assistant: filing, calling, scheduling. Apparently the government liked to keep close tabs on these masked crusaders. It was like the government was the agent sending the Winged Guarding out on auditions but instead of auditions, as I soon found out, he was going on death defying missions.
“All in a day’s work,” he would say with a huge grin as he tossed me yet another torn costume ready for my loving touch and super strength thread.
As the months wore on and our bond grew stronger I became more entwined and fascinated by the behind the scenes of these secret operations: scouting locations, driving a car that followed him in the night, contacting the authorities and so on. I had the coolest job ever.
So how did I manage to get myself stuck hanging on a ledge when I work for one of the greatest superheroes in the world? Because I’m an idiot. With times being tough people started acting that way, or so they thought, causing trouble, increasing crime. The Guardian and I were having our busiest time together yet. I was sleeping at the office or as the press referred to it as “The Dungeon of Dreams” (Honestly, how do they come up with this stuff?) 3-4 nights a week. Though we were making an impact the crime kept happening. I guess even superheroes need a vacation because one day he declared “I’m going away.”
“Away? For what job? I don’t have anything on the books.”
“No job. For me. The guys at division know. I’ll only be gone for 48 hours. How much can go wrong? This way you’ll get a little break as well, bubby.”
“Right, jut what the world needs, a break from its hero.”
“Come now darling, even doctors get a vacation.”
Even though I pouted and fussed and made up lame excuses as to why he should stay, off he went to god knows where. The first 24 hours were fine without him. The phone barely even rang and even then it was mostly interview appearances.
“Do you really think a super hero has time to stop saving the world to sit on Good Morning America? Really?,” I would say before I hung up the phone. It wasn’t until the night before he was to return home that the shit hit the fan…literally.
The first week was pretty standard for an assistant: filing, calling, scheduling. Apparently the government liked to keep close tabs on these masked crusaders. It was like the government was the agent sending the Winged Guarding out on auditions but instead of auditions, as I soon found out, he was going on death defying missions.
“All in a day’s work,” he would say with a huge grin as he tossed me yet another torn costume ready for my loving touch and super strength thread.
As the months wore on and our bond grew stronger I became more entwined and fascinated by the behind the scenes of these secret operations: scouting locations, driving a car that followed him in the night, contacting the authorities and so on. I had the coolest job ever.
So how did I manage to get myself stuck hanging on a ledge when I work for one of the greatest superheroes in the world? Because I’m an idiot. With times being tough people started acting that way, or so they thought, causing trouble, increasing crime. The Guardian and I were having our busiest time together yet. I was sleeping at the office or as the press referred to it as “The Dungeon of Dreams” (Honestly, how do they come up with this stuff?) 3-4 nights a week. Though we were making an impact the crime kept happening. I guess even superheroes need a vacation because one day he declared “I’m going away.”
“Away? For what job? I don’t have anything on the books.”
“No job. For me. The guys at division know. I’ll only be gone for 48 hours. How much can go wrong? This way you’ll get a little break as well, bubby.”
“Right, jut what the world needs, a break from its hero.”
“Come now darling, even doctors get a vacation.”
Even though I pouted and fussed and made up lame excuses as to why he should stay, off he went to god knows where. The first 24 hours were fine without him. The phone barely even rang and even then it was mostly interview appearances.
“Do you really think a super hero has time to stop saving the world to sit on Good Morning America? Really?,” I would say before I hung up the phone. It wasn’t until the night before he was to return home that the shit hit the fan…literally.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Welcome to the World. How may I assist you?- Ch. 1
Chapter I
As each finger slid off the edge of the building I couldn’t help but think “I really wish I gotten my hair colored yesterday when I had the chance”. I mean, here I was, about to plummet hundreds of feet to my death and all I could think about was how people would find me with my roots receding away from the frown lines permanently etched into my forehead.
As each finger slid off the edge of the building I couldn’t help but think “I really wish I gotten my hair colored yesterday when I had the chance”. I mean, here I was, about to plummet hundreds of feet to my death and all I could think about was how people would find me with my roots receding away from the frown lines permanently etched into my forehead.
When I got into this job almost 5 years ago I knew life and limb was at risk. What I didn’t realize was that so was my time for personal upkeep. As a blushing 23 year old new to the working game I felt nothing could be more important than how I looked; the face, fashion and general poise that I presented to the world. The moment I accepted my job that whole notion immediately became secondary to the work at hand: Saving the world.
The ad said “VIP needs personal assistant to help organize a flurried life of constant flying, negotiating and back breaking hours. Must be a person of great moral fiber with steadfast societal ethics eager to learn and scared of nothing.” Couldn’t have been more vague and more perfect for someone like me, unsure of who I wanted to be and had little experience working.
When I got to the interview I took the elevator on the left as directed and pressed the only button there. Shooting down at what felt like warp speed I knew this was going to be a job unlike any other. When the elevator doors opened there he was. At 6 feet 5 inches he had a strong build and chiseled facial features but his eyes were a soft brown and because he smiled constantly they were generally partially obscured. I could immediately see why the papers said he was able to calm even the most hysterical of women facing death.
“Welcome. I’m so glad you found it all right,” The Winged Guardian said. I closed my mouth as quickly as I could, trying to show professionalism instead of what I was really feeling: utter astonishment. Twenty minutes later I was hired.
“You are very charming. I think we’ll make a great team. Be here tomorrow at 9:00am and we’ll go over everything!” he exclaimed.
I had charmed one of the most charming men in world saving history. This was either amazing news or suicidal.
Friday, March 6, 2009
The Triangle, which line do you follow?
I have been having an emotional crisis which leads to self investigation and discovery. What, prey tell, is my crisis? It's the obsession of the great happy life, the perfect triangle. It can be argued that one is always searching for the best of three things: the perfect significant other, the perfect place to live and the perfect job. Why, when two of those things actually do fit into our idea of perfect do we obsesses over the one thing that isn't quite right?
Can all of those three ever be in perfect tandem anyway? I called one of my girlfriends last night to lament about my current sadness with one leg of the triangle. I know that crying and complaining only makes one a victim and to really find the route to happiness you have to take back control and do something about your situation. It's hard to do so when you are stuck in the situation and everywhere you turn seems bleak and dreary. My girlfriend, commiserating with me told me that she felt that every leg of her triangle was broken, not one of those things she was happy with. It got me thinking that maybe I don't have it so bad.
Then I started to wonder if one of the legs could be more important than the other two. If that is case then maybe, just maybe, if you are truly happy with that one leg that you hold to be the most dear then it can make up for the other leg or other two legs that you aren't truly satisfied with. Then again if that one leg isn't meeting your needs then it can cause the whole thing to come tumbling down, conceivably destroying the other two legs in the process.
So how to fix the problem? Being proactive is an easier proposition that’s said than done, I think. What if you don't have the perfect significant other? How then to go about finding one that truly fits you? Going to a bar can be disastrous. It seems to me that meeting someone you meet at a bar can only lead to a one night stand or maybe an interesting yet casual conversation. If you take that person home that night it seems unlikely that a lasting and respectful relationship can be forged through it though there have been exceptions of course. Dating websites are an entertaining idea though many people find them to be pathetic or a last resort. I don't know what my feelings are on those websites. Going through friends is probably the best option because it's like an off handed reference of sorts. However, if it doesn't work out or their recommendation is no good it can jeopardize your friendship with that person, not to mention the awkward failed attempt at a set up or blind date you have to experience in the process.
Finding a perfect apartment in this market might be the easiest plan. Many people are selling or renting out spaces and a lot of times they are furnished in neighborhoods that would normally run hundreds of dollars more in a different financial climate. The idea of moving out all of your stuff could be pretty daunting and going from apartment to apartment to look for places requires a lot of patience and real estate knowledge. However, with enough research and some time to spare perfection in this leg might be easily attained.
Finally, finding the perfect job is a life long search in any climate but in this economy it seems next to impossible. People who don't have jobs are looking for anything they can get and people who do are too scared to give them up for fear they might never find one again. Those who are in a job they love in this market might be the luckiest people out there. I believe that this leg of the triangle holds a lot of weight because as Americans, capitalist, no less, we spend so many hours of our lives doing our jobs just to thrive and do things that we love outside of those jobs. It can be very rewarding or very grueling. What do you do when you don't have the perfect job or don't know what the perfect job is?
I guess, however that question is a question to relate to all three of these legs? What is perfect? In one of the very first episodes of Sex and the City (yes, Sex and the City) Mr. Big (the main male protagonist) is talking to Cary (the show's narrator) about dating models and how there are so many beautiful women in NYC, how do you know which ones are models? All this invariably leading up to the question of perfection and is beauty the true idea of a perfect mate. Mr. Big quickly negates this thought and says "At the end of the day you just want to be with the one who makes you laugh." And while it might be hard to see how this can apply to all these legs I think it is an important thought. At the end of the day we just want to laugh and be happy so do whatever it takes to make that triangle as straight and complete as you can.
Can all of those three ever be in perfect tandem anyway? I called one of my girlfriends last night to lament about my current sadness with one leg of the triangle. I know that crying and complaining only makes one a victim and to really find the route to happiness you have to take back control and do something about your situation. It's hard to do so when you are stuck in the situation and everywhere you turn seems bleak and dreary. My girlfriend, commiserating with me told me that she felt that every leg of her triangle was broken, not one of those things she was happy with. It got me thinking that maybe I don't have it so bad.
Then I started to wonder if one of the legs could be more important than the other two. If that is case then maybe, just maybe, if you are truly happy with that one leg that you hold to be the most dear then it can make up for the other leg or other two legs that you aren't truly satisfied with. Then again if that one leg isn't meeting your needs then it can cause the whole thing to come tumbling down, conceivably destroying the other two legs in the process.
So how to fix the problem? Being proactive is an easier proposition that’s said than done, I think. What if you don't have the perfect significant other? How then to go about finding one that truly fits you? Going to a bar can be disastrous. It seems to me that meeting someone you meet at a bar can only lead to a one night stand or maybe an interesting yet casual conversation. If you take that person home that night it seems unlikely that a lasting and respectful relationship can be forged through it though there have been exceptions of course. Dating websites are an entertaining idea though many people find them to be pathetic or a last resort. I don't know what my feelings are on those websites. Going through friends is probably the best option because it's like an off handed reference of sorts. However, if it doesn't work out or their recommendation is no good it can jeopardize your friendship with that person, not to mention the awkward failed attempt at a set up or blind date you have to experience in the process.
Finding a perfect apartment in this market might be the easiest plan. Many people are selling or renting out spaces and a lot of times they are furnished in neighborhoods that would normally run hundreds of dollars more in a different financial climate. The idea of moving out all of your stuff could be pretty daunting and going from apartment to apartment to look for places requires a lot of patience and real estate knowledge. However, with enough research and some time to spare perfection in this leg might be easily attained.
Finally, finding the perfect job is a life long search in any climate but in this economy it seems next to impossible. People who don't have jobs are looking for anything they can get and people who do are too scared to give them up for fear they might never find one again. Those who are in a job they love in this market might be the luckiest people out there. I believe that this leg of the triangle holds a lot of weight because as Americans, capitalist, no less, we spend so many hours of our lives doing our jobs just to thrive and do things that we love outside of those jobs. It can be very rewarding or very grueling. What do you do when you don't have the perfect job or don't know what the perfect job is?
I guess, however that question is a question to relate to all three of these legs? What is perfect? In one of the very first episodes of Sex and the City (yes, Sex and the City) Mr. Big (the main male protagonist) is talking to Cary (the show's narrator) about dating models and how there are so many beautiful women in NYC, how do you know which ones are models? All this invariably leading up to the question of perfection and is beauty the true idea of a perfect mate. Mr. Big quickly negates this thought and says "At the end of the day you just want to be with the one who makes you laugh." And while it might be hard to see how this can apply to all these legs I think it is an important thought. At the end of the day we just want to laugh and be happy so do whatever it takes to make that triangle as straight and complete as you can.
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