Last day of the week though my body already punched out. It has no intention of riding a bike across town for the privilege of printing shirts all day. Its plan is to head upstairs after a cigarette and type, fill itself with coffee and smoke pot until sleep comes calling. But the literary life escapes me.
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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