I smoke a cigarette. It’s late for me but early in the city. Empty streets are quiet. I revel now because later, when the itch to leave the apartment is unbearable, I’ll have to deal with the wretched public. The nine to fivers. Weekends are their glory. May providence smite them all.
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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