I don't mind being a puppet man.

"You never answered my question, Don." Paul breaks the silence.

"What's that?"

"A woman. What are you looking for in a woman?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." My mind returns slowly to our previous train of thought. "I like to read, so maybe she will too. I don't know exactly. My guess is, I can't imagine her. I mean this system, you know, this crazy system, these chemicals that jolt through our brains and make us love another human, they are a complete mystery, and we can't say what kind of girl we are going to be attracted to, the chemicals decide that, and nobody has figured out the science yet. Who knows what it is? Maybe it is brown hair that makes my chemicals start, or squinty eyes or small breasts or big breasts or her voice or her smell; we just don't know. It makes no sense, you know, and yet we all live by it, and we ask these questions, and we just live within these presuppositions without ever asking where the presuppositions came from. We're just puppets, you know, because of the chemicals."
"Puppets," Paul repeats in a hush. He nods his head a bit and looks into the rearview mirror and adjusts it. "Puppets," he repeats.
"Puppets," I say as Paul comforts himself in his chair and nods his head some more.

"I have to tell you though," he says. "It doesn't bother me."

"What doesn't bother you?" I ask.

"Being a puppet. Girls. Being a puppet man who is attracted to puppet girls. Doesn't bother me for a bit."

I think about it for a second. "Doesn't bother me either, I suppose," I say, smiling.

"Nice puppet girl with a big puppet smile and a dress and that puppet girl smell."

"Those big puppet eyelashes," I add.

"Puppet lots of things," He says with a smirk.

Taken from: A Painted Desert: Light, God and Beauty on the Open Road by Don Miller.