The human in me

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As I write this I’m sitting in a neighborhood Starbucks, trying to wrap a book that refuses to wrap with me.

I’m at a table by a window, and nearby sits a man who is here most days. He’s a big guy, brown hair, American flag shirt. And he’s developmentally delayed.

Sometimes he annoys me.

I hate this part of me. Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate. It is an awful part of me. But as I type this, he’s talking to himself, and he’s making squeak noises and my patience is thin and … and … and … I am an asshole.

I am.

A total asshole.

I should be entirely empathetic. I don’t know his life, but it’s surely been 1,000 times more challenging than mine. I don’t know what he sees and how he thinks, but clearly there are deficiencies. So how the hell can I be such a dick, to be even slightly bothered when this man can’t help himself, and is just being who he is. Why aren’t I buying him a drink? Exchanging a word? Why am I sitting here, debating whether to leave and find solace at the nearby McDonald’s?

We’re all human. We all have our moments of weakness.

I wish I didn’t.

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