2011 年7月8日 "How's progress?"

He said, as I rubbed my temples on my head with one hand. 

I hated this kind of work, and I hated that this is the most common request for work in this field. Naturally I'm good at it, and naturally I have no desire to prove any of my findings to him, even though I am usually right regardless.

The proposition he offered was easy: assess a situation involving money and the probable connection of mystery woman X. Usually involving a woman who I would never personally "X with" under no circumstances. The man's cowardice to select me was no surprise, nor did it bother me that he was paying. Yet there was no real excitement when dealing with these kinds of situations. There was nothing I could learn. And honestly even with total disregard for caution and safety, the case, if you can even call it that, could be solved with reasonable ease.

But dealing with the women. That's another story. I've never been any good with women, so I usually follow the money grudgingly. The former rarely surprises me, and almost always disappoints. One of the key elements in investigating people, especially women, is assessing the true nature of a person. 

For one, most people are extremely selfish, and those who appear in such a way are concealing it for posterity. Two, vanity from pride reveals weakness almost immediately, unless concealed through a complex structure via one. And three, people are never honest because they do not want to compromise the prior two.

That's why disappointment is almost natural for me. I should have known when I was younger that this kind of work generally deals with most people. And while I've had less than I can count on one hand, Satan himself bestowed upon me with the knowledge and experience of having the other people. Even if I tried not to romanticize this feeling, I know I am right when I say this bestowed blessing is actually a curse, for which I sparingly tolerate; moreover, it doesn't really matter who gave such to me. Yet this feeling of the past lingers. It always lingers, like a ghost that not only accommodates fear, but represents an extreme amount of annoyance. Not even the sirens of the police every two hours from my office window can remove the memories of the other people.

Looking over complied paperwork and gesturing the man to sit, I poured the rest of  General Grant's favorite bourbon into two tumblers. Mulling over the details with my eyes, I thought about what I do for men like him. I watched him trying conceal his discomfort with the cheapness of my prescribed liquor.

Briefly I thought deep enough to forget about him for a moment. I hate being right, or rather I hate being unable to change anything but sincerity of truth.