This guy must have a twin employed at my company. He's got that whole "rumpled artistic type" look going with the scruffy beard, tweed sports jacket, skinny, stylish jeans. I've only ever seen him getting coffee at our Starbuck's and he's always with one of the three hot blonds from the 4th floor. He must have some kind of job because he works here, but clearly his heart is in his music/poetry/painting/artistic-endeavor and that makes him ever-so-hot.

He'll break their hearts, turn out to be a loser, knock them up, mooch off them, and still they'll swoon. Women complain endlessly about the male obsession with Playboy models, those vapid chicks with inflated tits, emaciated stomaches, and bony hips, but those same women don't see the contradiction: those models are playing up a fantasy in exactly the same way that cute artist is. And they are both as empty. The high-maintenance model with her Nordstrom shopping sprees and pouty demands for expensive cars is just as much a weight around her man's neck as the whiny artist who will happily live off his sugar-mama's high-stress job so he won't be chained down by "the man." She can do that for him.

The jealous primate in me will smirk in 6 months when he's at Starbuck's with another blond, getting icy looks from the jilted other blond. Careful pretty-boy: women play games that get men fired. Or will that just make you all the more desirable?