A line out front the café of people waiting to take a coffee. Small pleasures are all we have left you know. She says lookout as we pass Église Saint-Zotique before I slip in a puddle of vomit. I inspect it as we walk by. Rice and beans in a watery sauce. Mulligan stew fresh from the stomach of a bum too sour to take it. I'm lucky I have someone looking out for me.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
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