I type until the caffeine makes it impossible to sit still, and I begin to feel lightheaded. I know I need to eat but can’t be bothered to help myself. The amount of effort it takes to sustain oneself is often burdensome. I’m fit to starve for the ease with which it’d come. It’s modern, sedentary, and terribly chic.
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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