You want to be like him, but the idea of it is so sad. A part of the world but not really, you would spend 10 hours painting yourself too if it only meant you would be hidden from view.
You feel like you could walk the ten blocks from the bus stop to your office with your eyes closed and it would be the same because you don't see anything anyway. And after work you're at a loss so you trudge to Lucky because the cold air will be good and you're out of 59-cent plain yogurts.
The woman who rings you up has a name tag that says Arlyn and jowls like a bull dog. Her eyes droop at the corners and she calls you Hon and Darlin' and Sweetheart and you feel better because you know she means it. Because you know you can be coddled at the grocery store like the sad little lamb you are when all you really came for are Wasa crackers. Arlyn must treat everyone this way, but at least the world has that.
You know that feeling? When the only thing to do is go home, get in bed, and read Angela's Ashes, because no one has it worse than the McCourt family. Och. Least of all you.