On the express to Lionel-Grioulx a beautiful woman turns her back to me. My cologne is sour sweat with hints of paint thinner. I must disgust her; why not? I do myself. An older lady ends a conversation and I notice the contact is named sexy Marc. There’s hope. Off the bus I start running.
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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