17 November 2011

November 17, 2011

I drove to work with a pie in my passenger seat. I never realized how uneven car seats are. I used my bag to make a flat surface so the pie wouldn’t run. I went into Starbucks and kept thinking about my pie, kept checking the temperature to make sure it wouldn’t melt.

Janessa and I bought the ingredients at Tom Thumb last night. We tried to avoid the slow check-out guy, but we ended up in his line anyway. These things happen. I think his name is Edgar, except that sounds wrong now. His name tag has black, label-maker letters that say, “Employee since 1996.” I know Edgar is slow because I come here sometimes. Edgar’s eyes don’t quite line up. When he scanned our items, he said, “Pie?” and I hoped he had someone to spend Thanksgiving with.

Which brings me to my point: Feeling sorry for someone isn’t the same thing as being a good person.

The best person in the world is probably Lynn. She lives in Austin and lets dying, homeless people live with her. I don’t think she feels sorry for any of them. She treats them like her little brothers and tells them they’re not being funny when they’re not being funny. Brett and I spent the night at her house and when we left, I felt like her little brother, too.

I think the last thing anyone wants is for someone to feel sorry for them. And here I am, thinking my pity is a gift.

I’m not sure how to end this. The pie was fine.

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