Most men my age have hobbies, fishing or beer or sports. All I can think to do is wander, find a bench and give in to the passage of time. I find this pleasing. Better than baseball or mowing a lawn or sitting in a bar. All of these things, they give me the shivers, so I abstain.
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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