Both cats are in the kitchen. One is on the table and another sits by the door mewling. I know it would go a long way in our relationship to open it, and allow him the freedom he meows for. But I know my luck, and this is when an escaped condor swoops down, carrying him off for lunch. I’m sorry.
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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