As I headed for the office this fine September morn, I passed two ladies clutching magazines deep in conversation. What I overheard made me slow down from my normal stride and putter along looking in store windows and examining apparently fascinating slicks of dubious fluids on the sidewalk.
"So apparently he was wracked by the tortures of self-abuse."
"No."
"Yes. It ruined his life, he said."
"Really."
"Couldn't work, abandoned his girlfriend, lost interest in sport."
"No."
"Yes."
"That's terrible."
"I know."
"So what did you say?"
"Well, I told him that it was lucky I had called on him."
"How true!"
"And then I said that while God viewed self-abuse as a sin, for his own good he should try and seek help, and that there would be salvation in the Lord, who forgives all and welcomes all."
"Well said. What did he say?"
"He said he'd think about it."
It was Watchtower magazine. I hurried on towards the office.
he "lost interest in sport"? in Astoria? that shows some precocity!
It was downtown Manhattan...but I see your point!
The world is a scary place. What am I to do if you take self abuse away from me? Who needs sport anyway.