She takes me to a Hungarian place in an épicerie. Surrounded by dry goods we both order schnitzel with spätzle. She tells me it’s a popular side in Alsace. Nearby a lone lobster moves lethargically from one end of a tank to the other. I’ve known people who live the same way.
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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