I'm surrounded by men.
For the whole of my life, I'm surrounded by men.
I work with nothing but men. I live with only men. I grew up in a house of men. I'm amazed I haven't killed myself by now.
I breathe, sleep, eat, and bathe in the "evanescent" fumes of testosterone, so much so, and for so long, I'm pretty sure I've grown a prostrate. I've named it Vladimir Gannus Wainwright.
"What's that smell?"
Conceit? Ego? Jealousy? Ah, yes, the aroma of mortal platonic swain. Be happy I imbibe. It's what keeps me in this chair rather than lighting a proverbial match without a devil may care.
I blog 'Channing Tatum' and the text messages commeth, "He's not that hot" the men spike. Oh I beg to differ, sirs. He's hot. Any man who can move like that... HOT!
And beyond...
Are you sure it's gas?
One volatile whiff of ooze (furthermore, what the hell are you doing living next to a gas plant with kids?!) and I'm reminded of the (ob)noxious weary brume of male machismo.
Did I just compare men to gas plants? Yes. Yes I did. If there was a way I could make a living sitting with a bunch of old ladies drinking tea and knitting sweaters, everyone would be getting (intentionally) ugly holiday sweaters for Christmas.
If you're going to crew your business with 99% men, make it 100% and call it a day.
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