L has there interplanetary shames, which follow you until death. You know, the kind of shame that your friends take a great pleasure to tell in evening in front of you and who oblige you to laugh stupidly to save the face. And then there are shames a little less serious, but which rotted you nevertheless the life. As yesterday, for example. The chairman of the box in person convenes me in his office to take stock of this first week. Ca starts well, with supers compliments on my job, my first results, the relations with the others... but some thing clochait. Ca felt in its glance a little fuyan. It did nothing but apply the technique of management n°3, subparagraph B, namely: "when you want to reproach something to somebody, starts with qualities to finish by the defects". And indeed, that did not loupé. A few minutes after it affirmed once again at which point I was a recruit perfect and impeccable and incredible and amazing (I add some a little, there, I admit) - it leans towards me of a tone of conspirator and asks me: "which cut you your costume?" I remain a little perplexed, whereas it connects: "is the choice of the ties, it you or your girlfriend? Not because I do not want to criticize, but that does not correspond at all to the image which one wants to give. The puppies, it is a little... and I have anything against the flowers, hein, but in the event that does not go. And then I return to the cut of your suit, it is well too short " Good, I box without stumbling. It is true that I was equipped a little like a shit, but good, usually my frank smile and my sparkling eyes make it possible to make pass the pill. There, not. Marrez you, band of dumbs, these is criticisms that you had made the last time on my direction of the colors. Blow, it tightens me a credit card and a chart of store. "Go there, known as that you come from my share, you buy one or two costumes, some shirts, one will make pass that in entertainment expenses. But I want the sober one, class, I want you in fashion plate." And here you there not that I thus have just lost my Saturday afternoon in a shop attended quasi exclusively by lawyers fiscalists pétés of thunes, to look at costumes anthracites of an eye in gimlet all while making me palpate the bottom by a salesman. With final, the relookage free, therefore, but humiliation in front of the chairman nevertheless. To intend itself to say that one gets dressed like a bag, it is not super pleasant to hear. I comforted myself by taking the most expensive tricks within the limit of the budget which I had, so much worse for him. Two suits, four shirts, four ties, without counting the passage in the tailor, encourage to me to raise an essential question: but which pleasure can you find well there, the girls? One wastes an insane time, it makes hot, one habille/déshabille 10 times in 10 minutes, one breaks the mouth in asian porn in the fitting room, one pushes back the advances of the guy, one pushes back the advances of the girl, one changes shop, one désape in front of the tailor, one is made palpate the calves, one passes to the case, one sets out again with several piled up bags.... where is happiness, in it? I HATE the shops. With what he said to me, I am equipped for the winter. With what it paid me, I am equipped for the summer. With final, he is well this chairman.

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love ya
-Brooke