So, here I am. 8 years later. And it feels like not much has changed.
The people I've written about, I still remember.
The emotions don't ever really change or move on.
The hate in my eyes is still strong as ever as I make my way through this city.
A constant state of consternation.
Isn't that ironic?
It just feels better to write, while I sit here in this coffee shop and look around in disgust at what we have become as a society.
A father to my left talks in a baby voice as he makes a drink for his 6 year old daughter. She's definitely at least 6. I don't know kids, though. She could be 12.
I let out a big sigh, loud enough so he can hear. But, since I have headphones in, it might throw him off a little.
Daddy's girls are a concept beyond my own comprehension. I think it's clear at this point there are some underlying daddy issues, but I don't even like giving my dad the credit of all that glory.
