"It could be... why?"

He dives into his Intrawest Whistler speel. He becomes quiet as my snickers grow to absolute laughter.

"Why are you laughing?"

"eheheh Because I have no money! How the heck did a poor undergrad student get on a lets-sell-them-a-condo telephone list? heehe"

"So let me guess, this is your parents number?"

"ummm no. It's mine."

"Well, how old are you then? 28? 29?"

"ehheeh no."

"How old?"

"21"

"Oh"

"Well then, how about you treat your parents to a weekend at Whistler?? They earn a combined income of over 100 grand right?"

"hehehe umm no."

"OK, well, over 80 then?"

"No."

"Oh."

From there the conversation developed. He said something cheesy, and I commented that isn't that a line from a song? Outkast? He agrees. He then describes how he's 22, black, and an actor. He asks if I have a boyfriend. We discuss the virtues of singledom. He tells me I sound "hot". Then, he tells me how he sliced his hand helping a buddy move the night before.

I'm sitting there at my kitchen table shaking my head. This telemarketer is wanting sympathy for his injuries? WTF?

Twenty minutes later, he's telling me about the ABC's of love: acceptance, belief, and communication.

"Hey, you know your boss will probably play this conversation back at you at your Performance Review, right?"

"Well, if I never talk to you again, good luck in love and in life."

"Call me in 10 years when I'm rich."