I should’ve stayed in bed but I’ve come this far. All that’s left is to jog a few blocks, stand before the printing press and push ink. No problem. The gruelling manual labour will soothe the stabbing pain in my neck. A working man’s massage.
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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