Two junkies beg out front of a diner. The cook opens a small window and passes them a container of hot fries. They stuff their mouths with delight, I smile, all is not lost, there’s still some heart left in the world. They devour their meal on the sidewalk. I have enough money to go inside.
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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