I smoke a joint. Preparation for the daily purge. Release the valve or I might explode. I please myself with thoughts of New York City in the spring. Two more weeks and I’ll be sleeping on a bus. Last thing I’ll be thinking of is work, which looms. I start to type before it’s too late.
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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