While waiting for the boss to come get high I watch the men across the street. Their leader stands topless in the sun. Beer can in hand. A prostitute I haven’t seen before at his side. Behind him in the frame a long haired male makes rabbit punches in the snowbank as his buddy cheers him on. It looks like spring has sprung.
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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