. . .someone is taking pictures around the room. Suddenly someone screams,
“Don’t take my picture. I hate having my picture taken.” Says a person scurrying behind me to hide from the sniper with a camera.
“Yeah, I understand.” I say not understanding this phenomenon. It’s not like cameras aren’t everywhere now-a-days. It’s not like it’s some magical device that will whisk your soul into a vortex of sin and degradation. But I play along. “Many don’t like having their picture taken either. Do you know why?”
“Because it’s an exact document of how truly shitty they looked on that day.”
How come she got so mad at me? It’s not as if I said anything outwardly bad about her.