it is exhausting being nice. and i don't mean that it is exhausting being perfect, or near perfect, or on the postive side of the line of a parabola that approaches perfection and imperfection as it approaches positive and negative infinity respectively, because i would have no idea what that felt like. it is exhausting because no matter how much you put out there, you don't seem to see much, if any, of it in return.

i often wonder what goes through people's heads if they don't believe in being nice. what do they think about when faced with such a choice. i know when i choose incorrectly [often] it isn't enjoyable for me either. i can't imagine having no internal dialogue, no conscience. what do they do instead? i honestly don't even have a clue.

i know what i do though, i share this story, perhaps for the second time, though i couldn't find that i've written it down before, so here goes.

quite some time ago, a friend and i were at the library. i don't remember if we were hashing out ideas or killing time or looking something up or what, but we were there, and i'm pretty sure we were trying to think of what to do next, as i can only imagine the events occurred because of boredom.

we were sitting in these padded, upholstered chairs, when i decided i'd see what treasure i could find stowed in the crack of the cushions. don't ask, because i can't tell you. i'm glad i didn't come back with a bloody stump, or used syringe or some other sort of used article soaked in bodily fluid and death [surely]. but what i got wasn't far off. want to guess? a chicken bone. it was from a drumstick, and it was the cleanest chickenbone i've ever had the displeasure to happen upon.

shudder. or laugh. we did both. maybe even wash your hands. i did. disgusting.

[new h#umor to the right]


"but everything looks perfect from far away" -t.p.s.


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