The Thoughts of a Bad Person

Filthy, shit-filled fingernails.

He cleans his grimy hands with the exterior condensation of an ice cream pint.

A dollar will buy him dinner, but his appearance ravaged any dignity he deserved.

Looking upon him filled me with pity.

Pity? Condolences? Aversion? Yes, aversion.

The threadbare clothes he wore and the putrid smell of piss and shit reminded me of his colleague I once saw dying on a train.

That man had taken multiple seats as his only possessions, aside from his violent dry-heaving of course.

I did the man a favor by allowing him the seats, though I never desired an altercation with him.

Truth be told, I desired only to keep my distance.

But this plague was airborne.

Leeching off what society offered, a parasite, the prime example of a plebeian.

As parasites do, he refused to die in solitude.

The buzz he felt off of any recognition aided in the idea of him having discernible impact.

He spread his disease to retain lasting affect.

Yet, his attempts are trivial. He will vanish as all inconsequential things do.

How duplicitous I must seem.

I berate a public malice dying before my eyes, call him insignificant, without influence.

How contradictory of me; cognizant to boot.

My own delusions stretch further than the man too.

I fantasize of importance; conceding to my own cognitive masturbation.

My tragedy of narcissism? My absence of empathy? My comedy of errors?

Yes, my comedy of errors.