The gallery is packed. Everyone looks the same holding plastic glasses of white wine. The melange of conversation sounds like insects humming. In front of an ill-fitting painting I wonder if someone wasn’t ready for a solo show. A nerdy blonde smiles. It’s good to leave the apartment.
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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