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Short Sales are like . . .

  • Measured in geological time.
  • Offering all of your money to a brick wall.
  • Really banking on that quarter you tossed in some mall fountain when you were 6
  • The only time you’ll ever ponder: If I make an offer and nobody is around to accept, does it get offered at all?
  • Putting all of your eggs in one basket, then giving that basket to a bank, then waiting patiently for breakfast, then not getting coffee while you wait.
  • Short, the same way fat is like skinny, huge is like tiny, and my dog is like smells good.
  • Being hungover in the middle seat of a cross-country flight (on Southwest, so you are looking at the sorry sap across the way the whole time – maybe it’s worse to be the sorry sap, either way).
  • Being the donkey in a sad line drawing where a stick and carrot is cruelly leading some sorry ass into an eternity of dreams unfulfilled.
  • A surprisingly decent muse for a nifty turn of phrase (this is where, in tennis, I admire my brilliant forehand and ponder celebration dances while my opponent knocks a running backhand by my lazy ass).
  • Wondering if these bullets are the stick, the point a carrot, and if you are, in fact, the Donkey.