“A time is coming when men will go mad, and when they see someone who is not mad, they will attack him, saying, ‘You are mad; you are not like us.'” ― St. Anthony the Great
I like it.
Anxiety. Nagging doubts that erode confidence. Too well aware that the competition, stacked nicely and in better view, draws the female eye readily. Positive that the reflected sheen off the plastic bag dispenser casts my pockmarks in a bad light, if that's possible. Oh, god--what if she squeezes me too much upon inspection and I pop out of her hand, falling to the dirty supermarket floor? She'll just leave me at the foot of the display and choose another. It took so long and so many averted gazes by others before one vixen with a predilection for knives gave me a chance. There's no way she'll accept me if she finds a soft spot. I'll never see her lips part in joy or feel them caress my rind.
Wow. Visions of that radio personality WOR who's name scapes me right now. He was the narrator for that classic Christmas movie with the kid with glasses. Now I'm going to have to go and Google this guy. I should know his name. Rats. Excuse me I'll be right back with that name.
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