Others look forward to the weekend. Me too. It’s time to write. To forget capitalism. To give my blood and sweat into what I was born to do. But when smoking is my only reason to leave the apartment I’m faced with reality. I got what I asked for.
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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