Middle Age Folly
Lurching hole-eyed and numb, he wondered if talking might
      help. Maybe he could regain their respect that
way; he could show wisdom as the product of his experience.
      He rehearsed during wretched nights:  “Did you ever 
look into a mirror and see something lower than dog shit?”
      He gripped sheets as fever wrung him, sweat blistering  
his skin.  “I don’t mean that as a metaphor. I mean, really 
      lower than dog shit.”  But he understood that it was
useless to try and get their attention, all those smug bastards.  
      He needed to feel bigger, but he knew he was smaller.  
It was worse than those days in high school, when they  
      kicked his skinny little ass.  This was no way to finish, it 
should happen near the start: the agony that you fight through,
      and laugh about years later.  

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