I look out the window. Nothing but wind swept snow on concrete. It has the air of a film set. A dystopian apocalypse and I’m the last one standing. Easy to believe if not for the guy downstairs. His pained groans of existence echo through the toilet. I shudder. They remind me I’ve got it good.
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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