I’m sitting in a coffee shop at 7:53 a.m. and I’m minding my own business but I hear barely audible chatter and laughter from the baristas behind the bar and I can only think that there’s something about the way I’m sitting here on my computer writing that’s making them laugh at me.
I wonder if I look OK, if the way my hoodie sits on my shoulders looks funny or if I said something and sounded weird or if the way I’m typing with only the middle fingers on both of my hands warrants some kind of ridicule.
The truth is, I know they’re not laughing at me but every waking hour of every day I’m plagued by the notion that I’m an object of ostracism.
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