You were the exquisite blonde that walked past the construction site where I am working on Queen Anne Ave. this morning. I have brown hair, green eyes, about 6-foot-2. There are a couple of us that fit that description, so to clarify I was the one who yelled, “Hey, sweet cheeks, shake it, momma,” not the one who said, “Youve got mail,” while pointing at his crotch. Eddie can be so crass. He really lowers the level of discourse, and I think it reflects poorly on the entire crew. Perhaps that is why you didn’t stop when I complimented your buttocks? I feel confident that most women would have. I also want you to know that most of the guys on the site work from a set list of leering comments. No. 1 is simply a standard whistle, followed by clapping and a basic “very nice, very nice.” No. 2 is more complex, and involves cupping the hands under the T-shirt to give the illusion of breasts, while screaming, “Hey sister, whose are bigger, yours or mine” and so on. I, on the other hand, am an auteur and write my own material. It’s painstaking work. Just last week it took me nearly half an hour to decide upon an appropriate metaphor for fellatio. I finally opted for “gargle the wand.” But enough about me. Perhaps I can read you some of my better work over coffee this afternoon?