As I’m about to order I check my pockets. Muttering what a retard I tell the barista I forgot my money. I turn around and hear him say hey hey hey…come back…what’ll you have? I ask if he won’t get in trouble, vow to pay next time. He smiles when he says don’t worry. It’s nice to know not everyone’s rotten.
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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