I am an insurance seller, and I am proud of my work. After all, people always need insurance in their lives, right? This is a basic need. Every time I tell someone about my occupation, the other person will have an expression of "understanding". Everyone knows what the job of selling insurance is, such as food delivery, teachers, secretaries, etc. It's almost the same. Today I opened the door of a family again. The couple was arguing. The man was probably drunk, and the woman opened the door. She saw me a little impatient. People were always impatient when they saw me. Excited people, I will wonder if I have opened the door of a mental hospital. Of course, if people in this place need insurance, I will knock on the door. After all, people always need insurance to live, right? Like everyone else, she didn't listen to me. "Honey, where are you? Who are you talking to?" A man's voice came from inside, he was yelling, and he was smashing something. From the muffled voice, you could also hear the man drinking drunk. There are 13287 people drunk every second in the world. I read this data in the newspaper once. The woman closed the door hastily, before she could even pretend to be polite, her red hair was draped over her shoulders, her lips were thin and red, and her skin was dry and wrinkled, but very white. Selling insurance has to open door after door. You never know what kind of person is behind the next door. I thought it was funny at first, but later I found out that behind the doors are all the same faces. They The shoes are placed at the door of the room, and they look the same, black leather shoes, lace-up. Of course I'd be happier as a woman, for example today, when I turned around and walked away, I felt a little lucky.
There are two kinds of occupations in the world, one is to say what others know what to do, and the other is to say what others do not know. When I was writing the manuscript yesterday, I still thought about it, this damn manuscript, there is no need to write my soul in it, but I still didn’t write a word, and the wallpaper in the study kept falling off when I was writing. That’s why I didn’t write it. , I have scolded the landlord a hundred times in my heart. A person asks you to give him money every month, and he doesn't let you work hard. Even mosquitoes don't suck blood like this. I am a third profession, I am a writer, creator, praise me, the world, every word in the bible is giving me glory, I drink alcohol, don't bathe, and stay at home every day, this does not hinder my greatness and success, Everyone kisses my feet for it. I never lie, writers can't lie, but I just lied, and people's address books usually give me the name "Insurer Funk."
There is no difference between an insurer and a writer. They both sell their products to others. My performance is good, and my boss appreciates me well. His meticulous bow tie is always stuck with sweat from busy work. I would like to see him. Did you sweat in winter, but I worked in his company for ten years, and I don't seem to remember that he was in the company in winter. Some young guys who just joined the company asked me how I got where I am today, and I told him, "Don't put your soul in it." I suspect that people have a problem with their ears, they don't always listen to me, I often Seeing pus in some people's ears, like the glue trail from when the wallpaper in my room fell off, they should all go to the hospital, it's seriously affecting my work. I hate this man's bow tie, it's sticky, he always talks about Jewish issues, he's a scumbag handed down from Hitler, and he has the blood of the devil in his bones. Fortunately, he didn't know that I was Jewish, and I have always kept the secret of my Jewishness well protected. I was thin and small, with black hair, a high bridge of nose, and a smooth forehead, with slightly deep eye sockets, but when I said I wasn't Jewish, they all believed me.
Yesterday that woman, the one with the red hair, that I mentioned at the beginning, I killed her, the husband who was always drinking was not worthy of her, he got all the glory, and wrote articles that made me jealous, to be honest , I'm generally not jealous, but I still killed the red-haired woman because the work wasn't written by her husband, but by her. I love her, she's probably the only one who listens to me attentively, her body is so young and beautiful, it makes me feel quiet when sleeping next to her. It's just that I hate this group of ghostwriters. She also said that those articles will end soon, and they all have routines. Why did she insult me? After I killed her, her head slept in a nice little box wrapped in brown paper.
She's been with me all the time, on my desk, and I've written the best articles I've ever written, and of course she'd written them. Gunshots rang out everywhere in the hotel, and the fire was raging, and finally someone listened to me.
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