I have licked clean the remnants of mush out of the tin bowls of the work camp cafeteria, gazing up at the sky surrounded by barbed wire, loaded guns, and typhus afflictions; my nostrils filled with the stench of smoke mixed with burnt bodies – the bodies of my kin – doomed to serve out a prison sentence of a length I do not know.

Through reading many pages of the literature of suffering, I have set my imagination to the task of putting myself in the shoes of those men and women whose stomachs would digest the rubber soles of their shoes just to survive another day.

Yet I am waiting in a long line at Better Buzz coffee, thinking that I should have just gone to Starbucks since it’s always so busy here no matter what day or time. Why is this place always so crowded? I mean the coffee’s great but. I really hope no one takes that seat. I only have about 2 hours to write this before I pick up my girlfriend from work. I don’t want to have to write this later. I hope there’s still a seat open next to an outlet so I can plug in my laptop and write about how, despite all I’ve read about the bloodiest century in human history, I am still ungrateful.

I’ve been to Auschwitz and the Gulag and I have seen women and children die.

Yet I am waiting in line and I am ungrateful.

I wonder how bad everyone else has it?

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