SuperGurl

I don’t know how you would classify me, city-smarts wise. I consider myself kind of a cosmopolitan hayseed. I grew up in a very large city, in a typically plasticated strip mall slice of suburbia. You’ve seen it. You probably still frequent the drug store or Blockbuster there today.

But it wasn’t bad. When I skipped school, I either went to an art museum or the beach. I think I was equivalently educated on those non-regulated days off from class. There were a lot of them.

Over the years, it became kind of a internal drive to extracate myself from the trappings of the city life. Downsizing my per capita while upsizing my elbow room. I think I have finally reached Nirvana, at least as far as a living situation can go.

I hope this doesn’t sound arrogant, but I have an impact on the men of SuperGurl’s world. It’s kind of oddball too, because I can think of no other arena wherein I have such an impact, but the investment world? They love me.

Maybe it’s the shortage of females? I’m going to guess, 8%? Or maybe it’s similar to my uniform fetish? Men with skirt suit fetish? The possibilities as to the motivators are endless…but one thing I know for certain, the Wall Street man loves SG. No doubt.

And if I could be so bold as to play armchair psychologist for just a minute more, I think that few occupations feel as risky as the one I’ve embarked on. For instance, do you have any idea what minimum amount your next paycheck will be? I don’t. No one in my profession does. It’s a crapshoot everyday.

Perhaps it’s hard for the men of my world to find women that can truly empathize with what they go through. Most of them seem to attract gold diggers, to be quite honest. I don’t know, but time after time, I find myself given the most exquisite sales pitches from some of the most handsome, silver-tongued devils you’ve ever laid ears on.

Seriously. If they are shuttling about to NYC and such, you can pretty much count on their ability to deliver the goods. No impotence issues on Wall Street. Og would be happy, it’s giant scrotumville, for sure. Gold Bond City.

And dang, I’m wordy for a Saturday, but unfortunately, my yard man is here. I’ll have to tell you about the oral in the next segment. Do come back. It’s quite the hazy memory.

And until then, have a great day.

Oh. You think I have it easy? I know you do. I hear the talk around.

But I’m fresh out of give a shit, see. The way I view this deal, most of the caring I’ve done so far has gotten me into the biggest predicaments of my career. Even the occasional sweet grandmotherly figure has been known to try to chunk me under the bus a time or two.

Fucking blue hairs. They don’t have a clue who they’re messing with. If they knew I was just three feet from power suit to super suit, three retardly slow, cane-creeping human feet that is, they’d check their meds before they go all menopausal on me during the daylight hours. Silly humans. I know my looks are deceiving, but work with me here.

Oh, if I could only tell you the latest omen. I’m clocking a lot of flight time in the after hours on this one. You will be riveted, my lovelies. Eventually, I promise. Let me find and insure a safe resolution and then I’ll be sure to share the juicy tenderlines here. Is your mouth watering?

But guess what? I’m late to the office again. I started this post yesterday. Man, the days and nights have no end. I’m off to work (ho hum) and then of course on to real work a little later on.

Be good, or I will come get you.