Look, I don’t come down to where you work and impede your progress in your well-paid, socially valorized job that, from the looks of it, you’re probably highly skilled at and integral to.
Hey, buddy, is that your wife or a Sorbonne-educated trilingual supermodel who’s so far out my league both aesthetically and intellectually that if we were somehow together, everyone’s first instinct would be to say out loud, “The only rational explanation is that he’s a billionaire,” but, in your case, you two actually seem like a complementary fit and are glowing with a sort of profound contentment and love for each other?
What do I do for a living? I find men for your sister. Because she’s an internationally respected urologist who needs males 25-65 years old for a groundbreaking prostate study and I’m rounding up test subjects for her to complete my court-mandated community service requirement.
Where are you from? New Jersey? Well, that explains it. I can tell from your accent and clothing that you reside in an affluent yet unpretentious suburb, the kind of place with good public schools and a strong sense of community, where you and your spouse understand that this is where you should spend the rest of your lives, because it’s basically paradise. If it’s not an imposition, can I come over sometime for coffee or something?
Ah, I remember when I had my first beer, too … God, I envy you your youth. When you’re saddled with a 30-year mortgage, and a paunch, and three sullen children who resent your every comment at dinnertime, you realize true happiness was being twenty-one with no responsibilities and all your dreams about acting in feature films yet to capsize, and … just don’t grow up, promise me that. Please … just don’t turn into me.