I don't know what I am writing about anymore.

Sometimes I prey on the sensibility of women just for the hell of it, all I really want are reactions to my undoing. Most relate a good work ethic to good personal qualities, not me. I am not so naive, I look into the mirror everyday and the man who stares back at me tells me this isn't so. At work I strive to accomplish every mission, pushing the standards if I can, outdoing the competition, even when there isn't any. I know the difference between a job well done, and a lackluster effort. I pretend that there is a reward waiting for me at the end of each task, but really making others look bad is rewarding enough. I want to leave my boss with no choice but to accommodate me for my efforts every so often, and with each success I inch closer to rising above him. The satisfaction of starting something from scratch and watching it develop, and eventually materialize into what you've envisioned is a feeling no sex from any woman can deliver. I dream of this in my sleep.

But when the work is done, and the clock strikes end hour, that drive dissipates, and the temptation for wrongdoing replaces, overwhelms all optimism. A tingle crawls up my spine and sends chills throughout my body. My mouth waters, I lick the cracks of my lips for tastes of blood, the copper flavour teases my tongue and I immediately want more. They say work ethic tells a lot about a person, they say my attitude towards work shows that I am an intrusting man of integrity, they want to hang out with me and introduce me to their friends, they might really like me they claim. They are fucking morons. Yeah, I would love to meet your friends, learn about your social network and how I can slowly destroy the bonds which you work so long to build. You, just like your friends are all so pathetically predictable. I think I'll target the prettiest first, they are always the most influential to which all of you relents. This is not my stack of cards, to hell with it. But wait, not all of you are so unsuspecting. Thank goodness, someone is suspecting that I am up to no good, a challenge! We exchange glances, there is no need for either of us to say a word. It's on, I will save you for last, just to make it all the more painful for you to witness the downfall of your friends. It's all a simple matter of letting the stone fall where they may, and watch the puzzle solve itself.
Fuck I'm bored.
I probably won't do these things, why would I? I'm breaking my rule: Never bite the hand that feeds you. Maybe they'll be nice, maybe we'll become friends, heck maybe I'll even like them. Anyway, I heard Bethany is one serious hardbody. Also Philip might be able to get my name higher up the waiting list for the Lawn racquet club.
Forget it, it was satisfying just to play it out in my head, I'm too tired, and I got to go to the gym later. Which only leaves me with enough time to purchase the gifts for the names remaining on my Christmas list before dinner. I'm going to SottoSotto with Andrea Bowman, apparently it's impossible to get a reservation there, and Andrea just happens to be sleeping the Maitre'd. I checked out the menu online during lunch, and I actually am somewhat excited about trying their Duck Confit. I will be wearing a navy blue pin striped Armani peaked lapel one button evening suit, with Bill Blass wing tips, bold striped shirt, pink Hermes necktie, and just to piss Andrea off--Argyle socks. At least that what I plan to wear given that the dumb fucking Asian dry cleaners didn't steal a button off my suit like they did three weeks ago. I'm sure they stole it because the suit was a Ralph Lauren and they have excellent stitching, and because the cleaners were Chinese. They come to our country, steal our business, use up our resources, and robs us of our buttons.
The Patty Winter's show this morning was about mothers of retarded children.