If you don’t eat it the salad, it doesn’t matter, because you have been chosen and he will still come talk to you since your compliance in the whole matter is largely unnecessary.
In big cities, it’s not uncommon for a man to just run up to you in the street and say, “ century nobleman.
I had female friends who had no idea they were apparently someone’s girlfriend.
And when I say “provide,” I don’t even necessarily mean in a monetary sense as much as in a paternal one.
This sense that they are obligated to look out for you, not because you’re weaker or feeble-minded, but because you — as the fountain from which life springs forth — are precious and valuable.
All of which is to say, I am dual in every way, and my plethora of multicolored passports is a worthy symbol of the cultural mish-mash of my personality. The first thing that you’ll notice when you get to Russia is that the women are astoundingly beautiful and immaculately presented.
They will sashay past you with their wobbly stilettos (which are worn even over blocks of ice) and designer bags (which carry a full pharmacy complete with a mini shoe polish and handwipes) and, if you tell them you pluck your own eyebrows and only get a facial once a month, will look at you as though you have just clawed your way out of a swamp.
While all men like a challenge, the average American man tends to stop pursuit once you indicate that you are repulsed by his presence.