fucking bombs

I just met the sweetest little man. He brought me a pizza. I'm chained to my desk until this presentation I've been working on is done, and the pizza from their place is good.

Anyway, he barely had any fingers. And he had a big ol' muff chin. Definitely a muslim. I was talking to him and he said had his fingers blown off in an explosion. He has scars on his face as well. And you know...he was happy as could be to be here in the jingoistic US delivering pizzas to drunk people working on presentations.

I was really touched by this little man. I don't know, it was something about his frailness, his disfigurement, and his obvious happiness. I found out about his fingers when I went to pay him for the pizza. Then I took a good look at his face and saw the other scars. He was very shy about telling me what happened. I made up 99% of the story I have in my head about him from the 1% he told me.

You can see where the thousand mile stare is starting to fade from his eyes. I gave him a nectarine (had to go to the market around the corner to get more this evening since I accidentally left my other ones at my hotel in West Virginia) and he got even more shiny as a person. For the record, I gave him a real tip too.

This meeting with this pizza man was, I think, a bitch slap back to reality. Why is everyone here on the east coast so miserable?

Perhaps I have not done justice to this man. In any case, I am grateful I ordered a pizza tonight. I am grateful that I met this little man with no fingers.