I was on my way to the library. Binder and books pinned to my side by one arm, I pawed at my cheek as the wind blew my hair across my face. I was trying to pick strands out of my mouth, as I passed three young men. Out of the corner of my eye (as I spat hair), I saw one of them jerk his head at me. Watch this!
I ignored him, passing by without a word, still brushing at my lips. Although I kept my stride, we were still close enough that I saw him scoff at me, a derisive look on his face.
The worst part of this exchange is that they always presume I rebuff them out of some sense of self-worth. It is agonizingly far from the truth.
The cruellest insults are those shrouded in flattery. Not only do you have farther to fall, but you become complicit in your own degradation. Such barbs only pierce when you are prouder than you truly deserve, a foolish simpleton willing to believe even the most outrageous lies. Awareness that you are flawed, and the refusal to believe otherwise, shrouds you from the world's jeers.
I could see many girls on the street, all of them prettier, all of them worthier of desire. Longer legs, tinier waists, finer skin. It was a long street to walk; they must've all passed him and all been favoured with his oily greeting. For what reason, I reflected, could he deign to grant me the same token? What might motivate a man to place a weed in an armful of flowers?
I knew. I kept walking.
posted at 3:25:10 pm
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.
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