There was once a man who claimed he had perfected the art of resentment. He insisted on calling it an art. If he had been sitting for minutes at a stoplight and someone pulled up behind him just before the light changed: this was a call and cause for resentment. It wasn't fair! To even the playing field he would sit still on a green light despite the honking and yelling until the green light was changing back to red, and than hurry into the intersection leaving no time for the car behind him to follow. Now that car would have to taste the bitterness of waiting as he had tasted of it, only more so. What satisfaction it brought him! Yes, it made his day, in that it was then that he felt most like Clint Eastwood, a real genuine movie star, escaping if only for a moment the wretched sensation of being and feeling like himself.
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